Mistress of the Gods Read online

  “Therefore I have decided that we shall not conduct this war as our usual sport, riding down the fleeing Spakka and betting on our conquests. If we do that, we shall lose; lose our homes, lose our women, lose our lives. So I am doing something which I know is unprecedented. I appoint General Roberts as Marshal.”

  The tent erupted with angry, shouting Galicians, all on their feet and screaming. The northern lords did not move, a few grim smiles appearing, while the Fearaigh contingent nodded in contemplative silence and studied the general. Asmara noticed Lord Sol chewing his moustache, alone among the Galicians in staying seated, while his shrewd old eyes missed nothing.

  The Galicians fell silent one by one, not because they were being ignored but because they realised who arose to speak and waited for silence. Asmara gripped the sides of her stool, thinking the situation must be worse than she foresaw if Count Rotherstone came out from under his rock.

  “We note Your Grace lacks confidence in his ability to prosecute this war to a successful conclusion, and applaud you on your good sense in recognising this fact. However, your choice of a commoner, an unbeliever at that, demonstrates to all your flawed thinking and incompetence, which goes far beyond a petty war in the northern states.”

  His voice dropped to a sibilant hiss, and Asmara gripped her sword in incredulity. The man intended to challenge the king here and now. She reviewed the numbers in her head and frowned. If the Galicians sided with him, likely now, he might take the floor and sway enough to leave the field, causing the loss of not just Hardenwall but Harrhein to boot. The king would not survive such a loss.

  Count Rotherstone drew himself to his full height, drawing in a deep breath as he prepared to deliver his master-stroke.

  “Rotherstone,” interrupted the general, “your troops are late, which demonstrates your inability to command men and as such you are not competent to speak in this company. Further, I have today sent a rider with instructions to your men as to where they must be tonight and their position on the field of battle tomorrow. In each location there is a rider to inform me on their arrival. In the event of their failing to reach a way point, they are informed that their commander will be hanged forthwith for dereliction of duty in the face of the enemy. That is you, Rotherstone, so hope your men are able to miraculously improve. In the meantime, you are confined to quarters. Guards”

  Rotherstone found himself unable to speak, caught out by this development. He cast around for support, finding himself unable to catch the eyes of his supporters, which were fixed on the tent flap and the sounds of a brief struggle outside. A hulking sergeant pushed through the flap followed by four equally large soldiers. The sergeant gripped his sheathed sword with visibly skinned knuckles and wore a satisfied smile.

  “Ah, Blackstock. Arraign this gentleman in a suitable tent in the lines of the Guards. No visitors without a written warrant signed by myself.”

  The count spluttered, about to find his voice when Blackstock’s meaty hand closed around his wrist where it rested on his pommel, grinding the bones together and changing his protest to a cry of pain.

  “Come along, sir, there’s a good count.”

  A number of his friends, standing nearby, started to move towards them and the four soldiers moved to form an aisle for the sergeant to lead the count down. Two of the nobles sat abruptly as they came into contact with the soldiers, one holding his mangled foot where a soldier accidentally stood on it. Princess Asmara’s keen eye noted most of the nobles appeared to await something from outside, and guessed the general, now marshal, had predicted the coup and positioned men to neutralise it.

  The marshal continued without turning a hair. “Now, Gentlemen, we shall proceed to the briefing as the Spakka are arrayed for battle and we shall meet them on the morrow, on the Harden Plain. All horse to be kept in the lines, we shall meet them on foot, for they have traps and staves to counter our horse, even the Heavies. We shall meet them in time honoured style, Harrhein in the centre around the Royal Standard, Galicia on the right, Fearaigh on the left.

  “The Spakka will advance upon us and their lines will overlap us. I shall deploy Heavy Horse on each wing to ensure they do not. Without their staves, they will not advance on the Horse.

  “Gentlemen, you may array your men as you see fit, but I suggest you keep your veterans in the third rank and ensure you each have a reserve to resist the pressure. I shall retain the Guards and the Pathfinders behind the king as the main reserve from which you will be supported in need.”

  “Doesn’t sound very different from what the king would do,” said Lord Sol, a keen eye scrutinising Marshal Roberts.

  “Indeed, my Lord, as I would wish them to think. The wrinkles will appear in due course. For example, I wish you to retain five hundred of your best riders, for a reserve. Please command them personally, my Lord, and I shall provide you a rider trained in our strategy.”

  Lord Sol’s keen grey eyes twinkled. “Ah, young Ricky, I’ll be bound. Damn pup coming along well, I take it? Excellent, excellent, sounds like I shall have some fun after all.”

  “My Lord knows me too well,” smiled the general.

  “Was a Pathfinder myself, don’t forget. Know how you rascals think. Tally ho, boys, that’s enough, let’s go sharpen some blades.” Lord Sol turned to leave the tent, calling to his nobles as he went. “Gentlemen, please give me half an hour to prepare and I shall be ready with your orders for the battle tomorrow. Come to my tent.”

  The Duke of Fearaigh stood, pushing forward before speaking to Marshall Roberts in his deep burr.

  “Congratulations, Marshall, on your appointment. So, will you spring another surprise and appoint one of my hunters as commander of the Fearaigh troops?” He grinned to show he jested.

  “I considered the matter, Martin,” said Marshall Roberts, also smiling. The two were old friends. “Despite the distinct advantages of young David, I thought we should give you another go. Just hold for me, okay? You will get a lot of pressure, but you must not break. I cannot afford to support you, as I need the reserve elsewhere.”

  The Duke looked at him sharply, before nodding in thought. “I shall prepare my men for that end,” he said. “Never fear, we shall hold and allow you to get up to mischief.” He left the tent, waving to his nobles to follow him.

  Lord Sarl gathered the northern and Praesidium nobles together and left without speaking, as he mulled over his command, eyeing the king as he left. Once outside the tent, his voice could be heard. “Lansdowne, I hope you have the Trotter twins with you? And Dawlish, your blacksmith, the one they call the Bear. I shall want them either side of the King. They’re here? Good. Come along now, let’s go back to the mess tent and have a drink before I decide how to set you out.” His voice faded away as his nobles demanded specific positions for themselves and their retinue.

  Asmara wondered at the excitement, building steadily, and the nobles rushing off with smiles plastered over their faces. She realised Colonel Donnell studied her and turned to him, but he spoke before she could.

  “So, what have you learnt?”

  “That men are crazy. Surely they know they don’t have a chance? They can’t fight the Spakka, not in a shield wall.”

  “You are quite right, but these men, apart from the northerners and the regulars, have never fought them and don’t believe the stories. The general, ah, marshal, is sacrificing them to win the war. They will break within half an hour, probably fifteen minutes.”

  “No battle has ever been won after your shield wall breaks. You must have some plan, but there is all history to say it won’t work.”

  “Nobody has ever tried this. But we need a proper shield wall which will break. It must be realistic. I expect it to give under the Galicians, and this will relieve the pressure elsewhere as the Spakka rear flood to the break. This will allow our experienced northerners and the regular army to form squares. Indeed, the Pathfinde
rs and Guards will be in reserve, and formed into squares behind the Galicians.”

  “So that’s why you want Lord Sol in the rear, and that’s why you had Ricky off for cavalry training.”

  “Prince Richard of Galicia is the perfect choice, I think. Yes, it will be tricky getting the cavalry to ride down the lines without taking our squares, but I am confident Lord Sol, Prince Richard and his men will lead the Galician Heavy Brigade down the lines.”

  “Only five hundred men. Not nearly enough.”

  “Indeed it isn’t. Which is why we were rather pleased with a young man who came up from Fearaigh with a new idea. He brought five hundred riders with him that he has trained in a new style of cavalry. We are most impressed. The Spakka won’t know what hits them.”

  The general joined them.

  “You told her about Lionel? Yes? Good. Right, Princess, this young man is up in the high wold, out of sight. Don’t want the Spakka getting any ideas. I want you to go up and join him and his brigade. These lads have no idea about soldiering, tactics or strategy. None of them are nobles, led by a couple of brothers, father is a damn lawyer. I want you to join them, as their tactician. You will get on well with them, no respect for anybody.”

  Asmara wasn’t sure if he was talking about her or the boys. “What are the orders, sir?”

  “These lads are fast, Asmara, light cavalry with long lances. There’s never been anything like them. Call themselves lancers. Light horse. As the shield wall breaks apart, the Spakka will flood round the back to get in the break. You’ve seen them do it on a small scale. That’s the moment to hit them, hard and fast, in and out without taking a hit. Precision strikes. These boys are accurate with their lances, will come in and skewer a running Spakka through the laces of his armour. Their job is to stop the flood. Take the Spakka in the rear. Your job is to make sure they do it, as we have no idea of their level of training. Pull them out if you need to, or sacrifice them to win the battle.”

  Freedom

  Susan rode her palfrey down a natural archway of soaring beeches, the tallest she could remember. She smiled at the squirrels chasing each other along the branches, great tufted red ears quivering in fury. Birdsong echoed everywhere, a dozen melodies, few of which she recognised bar the churring of the ubiquitous chaffinch. A jay kept an eye on her from a branch, flapping fast to the next tree whenever she came too close. He stayed in front of her for half a league before losing interest.

  The archway emptied in to a natural amphitheatre, towering pines to the north and knee high grasses twinkling with wild flowers. Deer raised their heads to look at her, mouths full of long grasses, while a snort to her right brought her attention to a massive cow with horns wider than she could reach. It regarded her for a long minute, lower jaw working ceaselessly, before returning to graze, its long tail twitching at flies. It turned away from her, huge shoulders moving easily, and revealed massive, pendulous testicles proclaiming his sex.

  Susan guessed he was an aurochs, and wondered why he didn’t charge. She thought they were all gone, a figure of legend. Perhaps he was alone, without wives and she felt a pang of sadness at her own loneliness. It was five days since she last saw a person, a farmer’s wife who clucked over the boy too young to be travelling and gave her a fruit pie to take on her way.

  The ancient scroll hidden in the palace library described the archway in amazing detail, albeit saying the trees were smaller, and giving an accurate description of the amphitheatre, though there was no mention of deer let alone aurochs. Convinced the king would find her anywhere in Harrhein, especially with the Pathfinders looking for their missing mascot, Susan wished to study herbs and medicine under Maelbelenus, an Elven scholar whose fame reached as far as Praesidium and to whom the Church sent occasional scholars. Following the instructions, she sighted on the far blue mountains, selecting as her lodestone a sparkling, snow covered peak, shaped like a broken spear point, stabbing into the sky. The palfrey didn’t want to go, the grass beckoned her and Susan understood. Although early, she paused by a babbling brook, dismounted and removed the saddle. The palfrey rolled in ecstasy, before settling down to feed in earnest.

  Susan built a tiny fire, pleased with her Pathfinder-learnt ability to strike a spark from her flint and get it to take in the bracket mushroom collected from the forest. This mushroom grew on tree trunks, and inside the old, hard, white caps were fibres that made the perfect kindling for a fire. There wasn’t much fuel, some small dried bushes, but enough to heat water for tea, which she drank with some dried biscuits and the travelling food of the Pathfinders, a dried mixture of grains and fruit. She used her knife to cut a small piece off a stick of jerky, and chewed it in peace, wondering how close an inquisitive deer would come.

  The doe closed to the other side of the stream before the wind changed and she huffed before jumping backwards, all four feet together, and trotted away. Susan smiled and used her knife to cut the long grass by the stream, packing it together to form a mattress. She hated sleeping on the cold ground. As she arranged it with care, checking for rocks, sticks, roots and stones, a hard push sent her flying forwards to land on the mattress, inelegant and legs apart, her face buried in a bush. Struggling, she pulled her knees together causing her bottom to rise into the air and another push, softer, went right in her crotch.

  “Will you behave,” she said in annoyance, turning with her bottom down and coming face to face with the palfrey which nuzzled her face. “I’m running out of treats, what will you do when they are all gone?” She laughed as the velvet nose tickled her face and kissed the palfrey before pulling a wizened apple out of the saddle bag.

  She made her bed, a blanket to roll into and a tightly woven cotton sheet infused with wax, almost waterproof, to go over the top. She could make a lean-to with her saddle and a few branches, but the red suffusing the clouds persuaded her the only water would be the morning dew.

  After a brief dash downstream to pass water and rinse herself, she wrapped herself in the blanket and placed her head on the saddle bags. The horse surprised her by going down on her knees and lying down beside her. She whacked her on the rump with her hand and said, “You’re not going to roll on me, are you Irina? And if you fart, I will be really upset with you.” The palfrey so enjoyed being ridden, Susan found the name perfect. She had watched King Richard having sex with Irina, Lady Sarl, her best friend, in the palace gardens. Her subsequent revenge needed months of planning but didn’t unfold in quite the satisfying manner she envisioned.

  The horse put her ears back, shivered with a ripple that went up and down her neck, and snorted. Susan lay back to watch the stars appear. She wished Timmy was with her, holding her in his arms. Sir Timothy Brown, her tutor in finance as she ran the Kingdom, had assisted her dash for freedom from the king’s violent temper in exchange for her love. Despite her fears, he proved an amazing lover, gentle and understanding, awakening in her unexpected desires and pleasure.

  After a first night in an inn, she had met him in the house and stayed three days. In between lovemaking, she planned her escape, knowing she must do something unexpected. Once he realised she had run away, she knew the king would send the Pathfinders after her, and their ability to track was legendary. Timmy wanted her to stay, ready to take any risk to protect her. She refused to tell him her plans to protect him, but they did plot the course of the new company. He swore to protect her investment, those monies they could recoup from the sale of futures after their bank was closed by the king to finance his war. She would be wealthy when she returned to him. Leaving him thinking she was off to Galicia, she put on her favourite disguise and found a small inn for transients, refused the advances of the owner, which surprised her as she dressed as a boy with her hair up. It dawned on her that he did not think she was a girl and eased her worries with a firmly raised knee. As he writhed on the floor of the common room holding his mashed testicles, she assured him she was a Pathfinder brat and this was
just a taster. Nobody bothered her after that, nor did any of the half dozen patrons seem surprised or bothered.

  Cutting her glorious hair brought memories of the hours brushing it, a hundred strokes a night and she gritted her teeth before bagging it for later disposal. The dye needed to set for half an hour, which she spent gazing out of the window reviewing her plans and refusing to think on the past. She discarded returnign to Galicia or staying in Praesidium with the actors, knowing they would be the first places her seekers would search. She considered the Church, knowing she could hide in a nunnery, but grimaced at the thought of days of prayer. No, her first thought was the best, albeit full of unkowns but that made the challenge more fun and intriguing.

  First light found her striding down the street, bare headed, just another boy seeking to make his fortune. The first horse coper tried to cheat her and she overpaid the second for the palfrey, but she had fallen in love with the horse.

  She left town on the Galicia road, before cutting off towards Ricklaw’s Port. From there she took the well-used road towards Bardton, waving to the cattle herds coming the other way. It might have taken a week, but she felt not even Grey Fox could find her trail - the Pathfinder half-Elf who had led the revenge party on her rapist, Prince Fabian, and later trained the princess in winter survival.

  A snort woke her and she found the aurochs observing her from across the brook. The palfrey grazed a few paces away, unbothered, so she continued her normal routine. The fascination of the aurochs with her making her toilet did unnerve her. She packed her saddle bags, rolled up her bed and spent ten minutes casting the mattress into the brook, making sure it didn’t clump in the reeds.

  Happy her camping ground would not be found, she rode off.

  Without a trail to follow across the meadows, she slowed as she neared the trees, searching for a route. As she closed to a hundred paces, she lost sight of her peak and started to worry. How would she manage to keep on course in the forest? Choosing a direction at random, she turned right and followed the forest edge till she found a well-marked deer trail.