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YOUNG DAMIEN: The Making of a Spymaster

Anno Regni Gloriana Regina Aureae I

First Night

Bellarmée

She saw the boy before he did; a matter of viewpoint, not lack of vigilance on his part. He was on her off side and a pace behind, and the boy on her near side and ahead. When she slowed her horse and stopped, Bellarmée rode up ahead of her to see why, and to guard, if need be.

“Your Majesty?” he asked, and then saw what she was looking at. The young Queen raised her hand, silencing him.

“Boy?” she called, her voice gentle and coaxing. “Come out, let me see you.”

The boy was fairly well hidden, just wanting to see the Queen’s Progress through his village, like all the others, but shy, almost feral. But his matted black curls showed strongly against the stained stucco of the building, and the brush where he had concealed himself was dry and dead. Had it been in leaf, he would have been well hidden indeed.

At the Queen’s call, the boy shrank back against the building, but after a moment he moved, eeling forward through the brush to stand shyly staring up at her, wide-eyed.

At first, Bellarmée thought the boy about five or six, but seeing him out in the open he revised his idea upwards. A scrawny boy, maybe seven, but small for his age, likely due to scant fare and neglect. Wiry and agile, thin but not emaciated. And in dire need of a bath; neglect, indeed. Tendrilled hair black as night, save where it was gray with dust, and tangled as a bird’s nest. But those awe-struck eyes were a blue pale as water; clear and innocent, no matter how besmirched their setting.

“My name is Gloriane,” the Queen said. “What is your name?” But at the question those eyes flickered away; down and aside, as if shamed. But the boy couldn’t help it; his gaze came shyly back up to hers, though his face had gone solemn, as if afraid he might have earned a blow. A slow anger kindled in Bellarmée, that a child should fear like that.

Queen Gloriane leaned down further in the saddle, her head tilted. “Come, boy,” she said. “What do they call you?”

The boy looked aside again, then up at her from under his brows. “Damn-ye,” he answered softly, with a hesitant hunch of one shoulder, as if wondering when the blow was coming. Because he knew it always would. Bellarmée’s anger rose higher, and his fingers twitched on the reins. When his horse stepped out in response, the boy’s eyes flicked to his for the barest instant, then back to the Queen’s.

Gloriane’s head twitched back, and Bellarmée could see her smile dim for a moment, but then it shone out brighter than before. “Damien,” she said, twisting the epithet into a name. “A good strong name for a sturdy lad.” Then she kneed her horse closer to him, and took a ring off her finger. She leaned down further, and handed the ring down to him. He hesitated, and then seemed to realize she really meant to give it to him. Bellarmée thought for a moment he might snatch it and run, like a grubby street urchin, but he took it as if it were a gift more precious than its actual worth. And his eyes went even wider, if that were possible…

Then the Queen nodded to the boy, lifted the reins, and rode on. But Bellarmée reined back and watched the boy as the other riders passed. Watched as he stared after the Golden Queen with worship in his eyes. And though Bellarmée rode on with the others, he looked back and saw the boy running after them. And was still running each time he cast a glance that way, though falling further behind.

When they made camp that night, Bellarmée pitched his tent at the edge of the fire ring, furthest back along the road, and he served himself a second helping of stew that night. He took a few bites, then as if he’d decided it was too much he set the plate down and rose to take his bed.

The plate was clean in the morning.

* * *

The next morning they broke camp and rode on, and when Bellarmée looked back, there was the boy, running for all he was worth. Bellarmée rode up next to his Queen.

“The boy is following us again.”

She looked aside at him. “Boy?” she asked. “What boy?”

Bellarmée smiled crookedly. “The one from the last village. The one you gave the ring to.”

Gloriane smiled at the memory, then frowned. “Why is he following us?”

Again the crooked smile. “I believe he is enamored of you, your Majesty.”

“What? No!” She turned in the saddle to look back, and then shifted to look at him straight on. “What should we do? Should we chase him away?”

Now it was Bellarmée’s turn to frown, and darkly. “No, I wouldn’t.” He looked across at her. “You must have seen the signs of neglect. You may not have recognized the signs of abuse.” And he answered as she looked the question. “He flinched when you asked his name.” When she shook her head, he went on. “He may not even have one.”

“Not…?”

“Those curls. He may be half Brekken. If his mother was raped, they may have cast her out when they realized she was pregnant. No father, no name, no protector…” he shook his head, angry. “And what they called him cinches it. ‘Damn-ye.’” He spat in disgust. “Some of these border villages are quite… backward. His mother may not even be alive. He’ll have had no protector. The villagers may have used him if they needed hard labor, or used him for—well,” He broke it off.

“Use him for?” she asked, then went white, appalled, as he just looked back at her. “No,” she said, furious. “We must do something!”

Bellarmée nodded, looking back but not seeing the boy at the moment. “He may have given up and gone back. It is all he has known, and he may choose that. But—somehow, I doubt he will.” He shook his head, frowning. “I left him a plate last night.” He smiled that crooked smile. “He licked it clean. I’ll do it again tonight. If it’s gone in the morning, I’ll pick him up. I can always use some help, and who knows? If he has any wits at all, I may train him for the Information Service.”

* * *

The boy had common sense, Bellarmée had to give him that. It took him half the day to see it, though. Instead of running the long way, along the road, if the boy realized that the road curved, he cut across country if he could, shaving off a little distance and catching up with them somewhat. Intrigued, Bellarmée dropped back even with the last riders of the group, and confirmed that was, in fact, what the boy was doing.

Wit, indeed. This promised to be interesting.

* * *

At the end of the day, Bellarmée did as he said he would; set up camp again toward their back trail, and left another plate of food before turning in.

The plate was empty again in the morning, and Bellarmée had heard not a sound. Stealthy little scamp.

* * *

That third day, Bellarmée left the entourage and rode off into cover. After a while, he heard the pounding of feet along the dusty road, and sure enough there was the dirty little boy, head down, running hard.

Bellarmée drove his heels into his horse’s side, and the gallant beast lunged forward into a full gallop from a dead start. He had nearly caught up when the boy heard him and tried to dodge, but the horse was a canny hunter and swerved with him. Bellarmée leaned down from the saddle and snatched the boy up by his ragged shirt; the boy swung and fought and kicked, to no avail. He was caught.

Bellarmée swung him up and set the boy down in front of him on the saddle. “Stop fighting, boy! I’m not going to hurt you. This may be the best thing that’s ever happened to you, so settle down!” At his words, the boy froze, ducking his head slightly. But then his shoulders relaxed, and he looked around, his curiosity overcoming his fear of punishment. “There,” Bellarmée said, “Isn’t that much better, riding instead of running?” The boy turned his head and shoulders to look back and up, wide-eyed, but then nodded. Bellarmée thought he saw a spark of mischief in those pale blue eyes, and he gave the boy a crooked smile.

The smile the boy gave back lit up his eyes, and did something inside Bellarmée’s chest.

It must have done something to his face as well, because the boy’s smile slid, and his eyes went wide again, and his shoulders tightened. “No, boy!” Bellarmée said, “It’s alright. You just surprised me.” And he deliberately grinned down at the boy. “Let’s ride!” Then he pressed the horse into a rocking canter, bypassing the other riders on his way up to the fore—and the Queen.

* * *

That night, Bellarmée had two bowls of stew made up, and gave one to the boy as they sat outside the fire ring. The others in the entourage were boisterous, more so than usual, as this would be the last night camping on the road. Tomorrow was a small town, with an inn, and beds, and tables, and food they didn’t have to cook for themselves.

‘And baths,’ Bellarmée thought. ‘Stars, but the boy needs a bath!’ He wondered how much of a fight that would be, washing off how many years of grime… And the boy’s hair would need to be cut; there was no comb strong enough to survive that matted mane.

He handed the bowl to the boy, and saw him dig his fingers in almost before the bowl was in his hands. “Wait, boy!” And he almost growled as the boy flinched, his shoulders hunching. But he smiled down at the boy and handed him a spoon as he knelt and then sat next to him on the ground. The boy looked at the spoon, and then at Bellarmée, who showed him how to hold it and then used his to dig into his own bowl and take a bite.

The boy watched him do this twice, and after a moment looked at the spoon in his hand, frowning ferociously. Then he dug the spoon into the stew and left the spoon standing there for another moment as he stared at his hand. Finally he picked up the spoon again in a fair but awkward approximation of Bellarmée’s grip, and managed to get a mouthful of stew. He looked up at Bellarmée under his brows to see his expression. Bellarmée nodded and smiled to let him know it was alright. Bellarmée showed him his hand again, to see how he held the spoon, and the boy looked back and forth from Bellarmée’s hand to his own, finally adjusting his fingers one at a time.

“Good, boy! That’s right. Now you can eat like a proper young man.”

And there was that smile again, the one that caught in Bellarmée’s chest… ‘Damn,’ he thought. ‘the slightest bit of approval… or the slightest frown.’ He would have to go wary with this one.

* * *

“You’re angry, Bellarmée—why?”

He realized then what he was doing; how tight his muscles were, how that communicated to the horse, making it skittish, and how that fed back to him and made him more irritable. He shook his head at her, and raised a hand to stroke the horse’s neck, soothing it. He shook his head again, and sighed. “Because I was right about the boy.”

“Right about what?” Gloriane walked her horse over to where he stood.

Bellarmée clenched his jaw hard, and when he spoke it came out as a growl. “About what they did. How they—used him.” He looked up at her, and she saw how tight his control was, to keep his hand gentle on the horse’s neck while his eyes promised hell.

“Tell me,” she said gently.

“I’ll tell you I’d like to go back and burn that damned village to the ground!” He growled, then handed her the reins and walked off a few yards to stand with his back to her. She let him go, knowing he had to take a moment to calm himself. When he spoke again, he didn’t turn back, and his voice was quiet. “You’ve seen that smile of his,” he said. “Like sunlight.” She nodded, though he couldn’t see. “I’d made up a bedroll for him, put it in the tent. But when I told him to go inside, he saw both bedrolls there. And it was like—” He turned back partway, looking half over his shoulder at her, and made a vague gesture with one hand before turning around and looking at her. “It was like all the light went out of him.” Again he made that vague, helpless gesture. “Gloriane—he would have.” His voice choked for a moment. “He thought that was what I meant, and he would have anyway, just to get a kind word and a meal.”

“Gods, Gérarde…” Her voice went faint. Then she cleared her throat and went on. “What did you do?”

“I told him no, that the tent was for him.” He started back to her, calmer for the moment. “I smiled at him, and I pulled my bedroll out and laid it out outside.” He waved off her protest. “I’ve slept cold and damp before, for far less reason.” He shook his head and came back to her, took back the reins. “He didn’t know what to make of that. I told him to go to bed, and he did.”

“Where is he now?”

Bellarmée gave a short laugh and shook his head. “He’s packing up the camp. He crawled out of the tent and watched the others around us for a bit, then turned around and did the same.” He shook his head again, diverted to a better mood. “He’s got a wit, that one!”

“So you’ll be keeping him?”

Bellarmée laughed again, a real laugh this time. “You say that like he’s a stray pup! But yes, I’ll not let this one get away. There’s something about him… something special.”

“What are you calling him?”

“Damien, of course! That’s the name you gave him, isn’t it? I’m certainly not calling him ‘Damn-ye’!”

* * *

Bellarmée was right again, about the boy. The moment he saw the bathing room at the inn, he turned to bolt. Bellarmée snatched him off his feet, but it was like holding a wildcat. For all he was so small, the boy was wiry and strong.

“Wait, let me try,” Gloriane said quickly. “Damien!”

The boy froze, just outright froze, and then turned to her, wide-eyed.

“Yes, Damien, I’m talking to you.” She put out her arm, showing him her hands, so very white and delicate, then gestured toward his. Confused, he held out his arm, and looked from his grimy one to hers, and then up at her face. “Do you see how clean we all are?”

“Cl-clean?” his voice was hesitant.

“Yes, clean,” she said. “We like being clean. We like those around us to be clean, too.” Her tone became coaxing. “It would be good if you were clean, too. We would like that. I’m sure you would, too, if you tried it. Won’t you try?”

He didn’t look convinced, and he glanced up at her with his face half turned away. But he relaxed and stopped resisting. “Try,” he said, his voice not much more than a whisper.

“That’s good, Damien! That’s very good.” She looked over at Bellarmée, and he groaned at the glint of mischief in her eyes. “What?” she said innocently. “You said he learns by imitation. Perhaps you could provide an example?”

“I just had a—oh, alright.” Bellarmée grumbled half-heartedly, but then looked over at the boy and gestured to the door. “Come along, boy, let’s both of us get clean.” And to the bath attendants, “Two tubs, mind!”

A bit later there was another altercation when they tried to cut his hair. It was filthy, it was matted, and Bellarmée wasn’t completely convinced there wasn’t a family of mice living in it. But he thought they could salvage a fair amount of length, so he snapped his fingers to get the boy’s attention, and then he ruffled his fingers through his own long hair. When the boy tried to do the same, he couldn’t even get his fingers in. He looked so crestfallen that Bellarmée had to bring up a handful of water to wash his face to cover his expression. But the boy let the bath attendants cut out the worst of the mats, and ended up with clean, glossy, black tendrils almost to his shoulders.

There was no salvaging his clothes. Bellarmée sent one of the attendants out to fetch clean garments, and paid for them out of his own purse. The man was wise enough to buy clothes larger than necessary, pointing out the boy was old enough to be due for those sudden jumps in growth, and this way he might get a few months’ wear in.

Best, though, was when Bellarmée brought the boy in to show him off to the Queen. Gloriane was speaking with the owner of the inn and, catching sight of him over the man’s shoulder, broke off what she was saying.

“What a handsome lad you are now, Damien!” She looked up at Bellarmée with a brilliant smile. “He’ll be breaking hearts in a few years, mark my words!”

Bellarmée nudged the boy’s shoulder to get his attention. “Her Majesty said you were handsome, boy. That’s called a compliment. When someone compliments you, you should thank them for it.”

To their astonishment, Damien laid his hand over his heart and bowed his head, then looked up at Gloriane shyly. “Thank you, your Ma’sty, most kind f’you t’ say.”

“Well, someone has taught you gracious manners!” Gloriane said, delighted. “Who was that?”

Damien shut down. His face just—closed, his eyes shuttered. “Mama,” he whispered, looking down.

Gloriane stepped forward and crouched in front of him, reaching out and touching his hand. “I am so very sorry, Damien. Was she ill?”

He drew his hand away from hers slightly, and shook his head. “Arbro beat her. I couldn’t stop him. She told me run, so I ran.” Then he looked up at her, and his pale eyes blazed like a lightning strike. “He said I did it, but I didn’t!”

“I believe you, Damien,” she said. “I believe you.” And then she looked up over the boy’s head into Bellarmée’s eyes and the same fire shone there as well.

Bellarmée nodded and spun on his heel, and stalked out of the room.

* * *

Bellarmée sometimes thought that talking to Damien was like following a serpent; the boy’s mind took such twists and turns that he never knew quite how to respond.

“Douthan Arbro is dead,” he told the boy as they rode the next afternoon. The boy turned to look up at him over his shoulder.

“Why?” the boy asked. “What happened?”

“He was executed for the murder of your mother.”

But the boy looked away, troubled. “Why?” he asked again, then added something Bellarmée would never have thought to hear. “Now two people are dead.”

Bellarmée cocked his head, puzzled by the boy’s response. “I thought you would be glad to hear that she has been avenged.”

“Will that bring her back?”

To that, Bellarmée found that he had no answer.

* * *

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Best. Advice. Ever.

Daily writing prompt
What’s the most profound piece of advice you’ve been given? Did you take it?
View all responses

The most profound, useful, and freeing advice I’ve ever found was from Neil Gaiman:
“In your first draft, write down everything that happens in your story. Then in your second draft, make it look like you knew what you were doing all along.

Yes, I’ve taken it and run with it like a cat that stole the fish right off your plate! It’s allowed me to stop obsessing about what Act I’m in, what scene goes where, does this belong in the story at all or is it too much… Now I can just write everything that happened, and let God — er, me — sort it out later.

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SPYMASTER: the Left Hand of the Queen — a soundtrack

It’s been quite a while since I posted anything. Life has been… challenging.
But I’ve never stopped working on this. Damien has been embedded in my life too long to let me go.
I did have to back off for a bit, but when I came back I reread it all to get the vibe back. And I realized I had missed some opportunities. So there has been revision going on, which will make it somewhat longer but definitely better. More richness to the story, more depth to the characters– and more problems for Damien. But also, some help from a few unexpected sources. And, of course, more of what I call “writing-adjacent.” You know, research, organizing…and, you know, stuff like this.
One of the things that keep me going is finding music that fits what I’m doing, and the biggest part of that has been my discovery of Two Steps From Hell. Thomas Bergerson and company just FIT. A number of their pieces have come together to create the soundtrack I use while writing. I’ve posted one piece already – Rise Above, that embodies Damien’s frantic ride from Brekke back to Bonne Terre in his desperate attempt to warn his beloved Queen Gloriane and avert disaster. I’ll include the link again, because it is part and parcel of the whole. And a little bit of HALO, as well.
I have set up a playlist on Youtube that is the entire soundtrack, but I’ll also include individual links and “liner notes.”

Complete Playlist for SPYMASTER: the Left Hand of the Queen:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8VGI7PX8mic&list=PLE0IXB5epSCE8sgPQIHp-KFmdKx6CR2ge

Links and Liner Notes
Track Title Artist Album Title SPYMASTER Scene Notes
Rise Above 2SFH Battlecry Damien’s run from Brekke to Bonne Terre
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8VGI7PX8mic
Wolf King 2SFH Battlecry Gilliane mourns / Escape from Bonne Terre
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xdKNAlylXsg
Red Tower 2SFH Battlecry Flight to the Mendei
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TPI275jJOfw
Mountains from Water 2SFH Archangel Mother Bird (Damien captured)
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BLTGxFql8sw
Air Traffic Control HALO HALO 3 From Mother Bird to the Mendei
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ycf86NzKgcc
Spirit of Fire HALO HALO Wars Fall of Dorre Arantxa
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qrabM3o2YuM
Flight of the Silverbird 2SFH Battlecry Hellebarde becomes the Spirit of Arantxa
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=n-Dh3ftkRAs
Spellcaster 2SFH Battlecry the Overwatch Uprising
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=j8ZYUCUbGo4
Blackout Suite 2SFH Battlecry the Second Brekken War
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wEkGGv6DemA
Release Me 2SFH Battlecry the Overwatch Hymn
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8D26vYP1Nxc
Freedom Ship 2SFH Battlecry Aftermath and Endgame
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=w8GwTV1TAns
Men of Honor 2SFH Miracles Martagnese National Anthem
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=q05kRk_-ofE
Strength of an Empire 2SFH 2 Steps from Heaven Ysaut-Gilliane’s Coronation Hymn
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Vqiv8qpY780
Compass 2SFH Miracles Damien and Cecile
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hzm4OVGQa_8
Wild Heart 2SFH Unleashed Damien – Peace at Last
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XHQhXhAEF_8
Believe 2SFH Dragon Martagne’s Hope
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XHQhXhAEF_8

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Panic at the Lucky Dog

It’s been a while since I last posted, so I thought this would be a good scene to catch up.

Setting the Stage: The invading Brekken soldiers have been watching the Lucky Dog Tavern where Damien is finally meeting with several agents of the Information Service. The Brekken soldiers enter and want to search the premises — and believe it or not, they’re not looking for him!

L’Arrac, the tavernkeeper (also a good guy), has set up a code phrase as a warning to Damien and his agents: L’Arrac sends his son into the back room to bring out two bottles of (fictitious) aged Briseur wine as a delaying tactic and warning. (‘Briseur’ is a French word meaning ‘Breaker’ – the slang term the Piedmontése are using to refer to the Brekken.) Alarums and excursions and shenanigans ensue while the good guys make their getaway. This is what happens next.

* * *

Back in the taproom, L’Arrac took the bottles Giollo had brought and wiped them down, then took out a screw and opened one of the bottles, setting it aside to breathe. “What’s all this about, then? Who’re ye lookin’ for, an’ why here?”

“We have be watch you shop,” the Serjent answered. “Two men we watch for, dey come in your shop. Dey no come out. Where dey go?”

“Two men—wait!” L’Arrac turned red with indignation. “Ye been watching my shop? My shop?” He pounded the bar with a heavy fist. “I am an honest man! I serve Piedmontése. I serve Martagnése. I serve Kerenjí, I serve Brekken. I serve sailors, an’ fishermen, an’ workmen, an’ shopkeepers, an’ soldiers! What d’ye think I am?” He threw up his hands. “Mebbe I should stop serving Brekken, then! What men were ye watchin’? Ye saw ‘em come in, an’ didn’t see ‘em come out? Ye must not been watchin’ very well!”

The Serjent’s face went just as red. “My men, we watch good. Two men go in, dey no come out. Where dey go?”

“I don’t know! What two men? Today?”

“Yes, today! When you t’ink?” The Serjent slapped the counter with his hand. “Tall man, wit’ yellow hair. Od’er man big, like—” He puffed out his chest and made his shoulders wide. “Where go?”

L’Arrac pointed out the front door. “Right back outside! They were already drunk and tried to pick a fight with my boy! My boy! He’s only twelve, who wants to fight with a boy? I threw them out!”

“T’roo?” The Serjent looked confused. “What is t’roo? True, like tell trut’? Not lie?”

L’Arrac couldn’t help the laugh. “Not true, threw. Like throw, like—” he looked around for something, and picked up the towel he used to wipe the counter. He balled it up and threw it across the room. “Throw! Throw! I throw them out!” He finally fell back on what was rapidly becoming a pidgin speech the shopkeepers had started to use with the Brekken. “Make go out door! Make go away! They not here, ye see they not here! Ye looked in all the rooms, the yard, the stable. They. Not. Here! Now you go away! And ye stop watchin’ my shop!”

He stood there for a moment, his chest heaving as he tried to catch his temper. “The hells,” he muttered. “Look. Ye looked all through my shop and yard. Ye ‘frighted my son. Ye terrified my horse-boy. Ye put hands on all of us. There’s no one here but us! Damn ye, look around, my taproom’s empty, ye scairt everyone else away!” He turned and picked up the bottle on the back counter, pulled down two glasses and poured a finger in each—and froze for a moment as the unmistakable tang of vinegar reached his nostrils. He set the bottle down and closed his eyes hard, then picked up the glasses and turned back to the Serjent.

“Look. Here is the Briseur red, it’s my best strong wine. We drink together, friends.” He handed one to the Serjent, and raised the glass to him. “Alla sandé!” He took a breath and threw back the drink in one swallow, then breathed out hard between his teeth.

The Serjent looked at him and raised the glass. “Prozit!” He tossed back the drink, gagged, choked, and coughed, his eyes tearing. “God!” he managed to say, his voice hoarse. He set the glass down hard and pounded the bar twice with his fist. He saw L’Arrac looking at him in concern, and finally said, hoarsely, “Is good. Is strong!” He coughed once more and cleared his throat. “T’ank. We go now. Good.” He waved his men out and followed them, slamming the door behind him.

L’Arrac turned to the back counter and took down another bottle from a high shelf, and another glass. He poured two fingers and took it fast and hard, slamming the glass on the counter and standing there with eyes closed while the fumes cleared his head. Then he moved over and pulled a mug of ale, went to sit down at the nearest table and drank it down. He took a long breath, hiccupped and then belched. And started to laugh.

* * *

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Muse and Music – vision and inspiration

This link is to a YouTube video from 2 Steps From Hell. I do not own this, and if this is not permitted I will remove the link immediately.

2 Steps From Hell – Rise Above
https://l.facebook.com/l.php?u=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.youtube.com%2Fwatch%3Fv%3D8VGI7PX8mic%26fbclid%3DIwAR3vALpGHnDe88VTQEYVuA8oVamnJ3NnQMBmna19vXU2cWqFO3gI0IasOZs&h=AT0s7FD5XMERO35scNb-Zz1NOAu8oeCRyJ3CgvOUNAavjDiXS7TZm02QLP9J-u4HhYc3D4bxTi7yyYHTAYsQ2apORg6puPTqu0fQJQDcf3Ae8H1YH14BkRFaJxUxpjP5OF1xew

Music is inextricably linked in my mind to writing. In fact, to every aspect of my creative endeavors. This piece has embedded itself in my mind, because in every part it mirrors Damien’s desperate ride back to Bonne Terre to warn his Queen of the impending attack. The images came of themselves; when I heard the piece for the first time I was just listening to 2 Steps From Hell, not even thinking of Spymaster.

It begins with Damien riding down out of the Breiche mountains, wearing a sheepskin coat and hat, then crossing the plains. The music changes, and he is making his way through the crowded streets of Brekkestad. He meets with his friend and contact, Marczyn, who hands him a pack of papers. Damien leafs through them, and stops on one.

Damien took the handful of papers from his contact and scanned through them. His hands froze on one, and he read it again, his breath caught in his throat. “You’re sure this is genuine, Marczyn?” he asked hoarsely.

The other man looked, and nodded. “I copied it myself. Is it important?”

“Yes—desperately…” Damien said in a fading whisper, then took a sharp breath. “I need a fresh horse.”

“Take mine,” Marczyn said, and gestured across the way to where a horse was tethered.

Damien was already crossing the allée, shoving the papers into his scrip. He mounted up and turned the horse, then tossed a purse to his friend, speaking urgently. “Marczyn, don’t go back there. Take your family and go somewhere safe.”

“But—why?”

Damien reined back, and Marczyn saw his eyes were wide and dark with horror. Then he put heels to the horse, and it leaped away. But his answer burned in Marczyn’s mind long after— “They are going to start a war!”

You hear the slash of the reins as Damien charges away, and then his mad race across the plains and into the mountains, Queen Gloriane’s voice and memory foremost in his mind.

He reaches the Palais du Monde at Bonne Terre, throws the horse’s reins to the groom standing there, and dashes for the stairs, scrambling desperate and breathless up level after level to get to his Queen.

He arrives at the Grande Concours and calls to her; she turns, sees the desperate horror on his face, and turns back for an instant and realizes what is about to happen. She turns back, points down the stairs behind him, and screams her daughter’s name—and the Brekken airships open fire.

It’s all there. All of it. It fits. And it gives me chills every time I hear it, because I SEE it, clear and vivid.

by

Contretemps and Change of Heart

A long piece this time, to make up for the long break between. A little more of each character, as well.

Damien is returning from foraging for food for the travelers, to find the ladies under attack by a Brekken patrol. Cécile has killed one soldier, but Ysaut, the disguised young Queen, lies unconscious on the ground. Damien charges in and kills the other three soldiers in a whirlwind fight, where he himself is injured.

Eadmond, instead of guarding the ladies as ordered, had followed Damien instead, mistrusting him. That mistrust appeared to be justified when another patrol met Damien and spoke in friendly fashion. Damien handed over some papers, which the patrol’s sergeant looks over. Eadmond, distracted, does not see them handed back, and assumes Damien has betrayed them all.

Contretemps

He spent the next quarter hour cleaning up after the fight; first searching the soldiers’ bodies, then dragging them off away from the camp, and finally throwing dirt over the spilled blood. Next he belatedly caught his horse and unloaded the provisions they so sorely needed. By that time, Cécile had led Melina back and settled her between Ysaut and herself. Melina’s storm of emotion had passed, and when Damien had finished, she called to him.

Damien came over and knelt before her, bowing his head in profound respect and abject apology. “M’sera, m’selles, I am so sorry this has happened to you all. I—”

“M’ser Damien, no!” Melina’s voice was soft, but steady. “You have nothing for which you should apologize. You could not have known Eadmond would desert us. You were away seeing to our needs before your own.” She reached out and took his hand in hers. “I wanted to thank you. Without your intervention our case would have been so much worse. I am grateful.”

He had no words to reply to this, and in the end simply bowed his head over their joined hands in acknowledgement. And then his head came up sharply as he heard hoofbeats approaching. He was rising and turning, his knife already in his hand when Eadmond thundered into the camp.

“You bastard!” Eadmond shouted as he flung himself off the horse and onto Damien. They hit the ground together, rolling, entangled like two cats fighting in the streets. Eadmond struck at Damien with no finesse, no sense of how to fight; his blows full of rage but with no skill behind them.

Damien, in contrast, knew how and where to place his fists for the most effect. The moment he realized who he was fighting, he flipped the blade in his hand, only using the hilt to give his blows more weight. But when one of Eadmond’s blows caught the wound in his side, something snapped in Damien’s mind like a flash of white-hot lightning. He brought his knee up hard between the younger man’s legs, buried his fingers in Eadmond’s hair and slammed his head against the ground. Eadmond went limp, stunned, as Damien brought his knife up for a killing blow.

“Damien!” Gilliane’s shout froze him in place. Gilliane, not Ysaut; the snap of command in her voice the unmistakable twin of her Mother’s. For an eternal moment he held there, still and breathless—and then he breathed, and let Eadmond go. The knife was gone again, the moment’s madness past.

For another long moment Damien knelt straddling Eadmond, chest heaving with hard breaths as he fought for calm, and then he climbed to his feet and stood staring down at the younger man. One more hard breath, and he turned and crossed the clearing to kneel before Ysaut, head bowed. “My apologies, your Majesty,” he said. “I—”

“No, Damien,” Ysaut said, her words cutting across his. “No more apologies. Never apologize for protecting us, even if it is only against misguided young fools.”

Damien dropped his head lower, and then nodded acknowledgement. “Your pardon, m’sera,” he said, “I should see to him.”

“Go.”

Damien rose and crossed the clearing again, stopping to pull rope from his gear. Then he went to Eadmond, who was still lying on the ground, groggy from the blow. Damien wound his hand in the man’s collar and dragged him over to a tree, where he tied Eadmond’s hands behind his back, wound the rest of the rope around his chest and the tree, and then tied it off.

Halfway through, Eadmond began to struggle, and Damien put his hand to the man’s throat. “Be still,” he hissed, “Or I’ll put the rope around your neck! Where did you go?” But he ignored Eadmond’s struggles and finished tying him to the tree, and then simply stood and walked away.

Cécile was there as Damien rose, staring down at Eadmond, shaking in fury. She flung out her hand, pointing to where Ysaut still held Melina to her side. “Look at them,” she said, her voice hard with anger. “Look at us! This was your doing. We were attacked because you left us unguarded! What if those men hadn’t been here for their own pleasure? What if they had recognized Gilliane and were taking her captive? What then? You are endangering your Queen at every turn with your insistence that Damien is an enemy, when it is you, you, every time!”

Eadmond stared up at her, gaping. “Men?” he said, “What men?”

And then behind her, Damien staggered and went to one knee, at last yielding to the wound in his side and the strain and grief of the past days as the adrenaline and determination that had sustained him this far finally ran out. He lost consciousness to the sound of all three women calling his name.

He came to propped against a tree as Cécile stitched up the wound. It was a long cut, but not deep; fortunately, the soldier’s knife had hit his rib and slid along it instead of going in. But it had bled more badly than he had realized.

“Ah, you’re awake again,” Cécile said, glancing up at him and then looking back at what she was doing. “I’m afraid your shirt may be ruined. I’m a fair hand with needle, thread, and flesh,” she said with a slight smile. “With linen, not as much. Serviceable patches only. But a fine seam? For that you want Melina. She could run her own atelier and make a fine living. There,” she said finally, cutting the thread and cleaning up.

Damien inspected her handiwork as she wrapped a bandage about his ribs. “How did you come to learn all this?” he asked, gesturing at the medical kit and her pack of ‘necessities.’

She laughed softly, putting it all away neatly. “Seven rowdy older brothers,” she said, “and a pressing need to hunt to keep them fed.”

“And the wit to think of it all, and plan for future need?” he asked. “The henna was especially inspired.”

Cécile laughed again, “The wit I got from my Mother, and her training to think ahead. The henna, well, that comes of helping her keep her youthful looks by hiding the silver in her hair. My father loves to play his fingers in it, and has no clue what she does to keep him happy.” A merry laugh bubbled out of her. “I think!” Then she sobered, and met his eyes, holding his gaze steadily. “And now, m’ser, you will rest.” She raised her hand against his protest, and her voice went stern. “M’ser, you will rest! How long did you ride from Brekke? You said yourself, one hour only, to rest your horse. And another three days from the Capitol to here, and kept watch on us through all the nights, and when have you slept? It’s a wonder you’re not hallucinating! You need rest, you cannot function like this.”

“How can I dare rest?” There was such pain in his voice that Cécile wanted to weep. “I rested one hour, and look what happened! Think what would happen if I rested a day!”

Now her voice went sharp, to break his thought. “Damien, stop that!” Then she went on quietly, but none the less intent. “That is your exhaustion speaking, you cannot think like that. Had you not rested your horse, you would have killed it under you, and then what? You would have had to walk from Brekke, and then you would not have reached Martagne until everything was over. We would all be dead, because you would not have been there to rescue us.

“Your body is not a horse you can kill under you, and you walk off and find another! If you die of a bullet, or a knife, or exhaustion, you are just as dead, and what if Gilliane dies because you are too exhausted to make good decisions?” She reached out and laid her hands over his. “Damien, you are overwrought, you are grieving. Your judgment is suffering, and those words are the proof of it. Rest. You are not alone anymore! I will keep watch for you. I will keep watch for us all.”

There was a long pause as Damien sat there, his hands knotted together under hers, and then at last the tension went out of him all at once, and he bowed his head. Then, very quietly, he said, “M’sera Cécile, I am very glad you are here to show me my folly. You are wise beyond your years.” He took a great breath and held it long, then let it out slowly. “You are right, of course. I am a man obsessed, and that is no good thing. Obsession, and exhaustion…”

“And care, and perhaps too great a heart.” She gave him a gentle smile, and patted his hands. “Come, give over. Rest. Sleep.” And then she added with a hint of mischief, “Or need I tell Ysaut on you?”

Damien threw his hands up in mock defeat. “Touché, m’selle, I surrender! I shall rest.” But then he took her hand in his, and bowed his head over it, then looked up and met her eyes. “But it is you who have too great a heart, m’selle. And for that, I am profoundly grateful.”

* * *

Damien slept fitfully for a few hours, but then woke again, restless from the pain of his wound. He rose and built up the fire, then set up a meal from the dead soldiers’ packs and the supplies he had bought earlier. Then, when it was ready he served the ladies and himself. Only when they were all finished did he even look over to where Eadmond slept, bound near the horses.

At last he rose and went over to him and reached down, shaking him awake before standing up and backing away. “Are you really a soldier?” he asked, his voice harsh with scorn. “Or merely a dressed-up toy? Whoever trained you should be shot.” He turned away for a moment, holding hard to his temper. “I told you to stay here on guard. You abandoned helpless women for no good reason, you ignored the direct orders of your Queen! What were you thinking? Where did you go?”

Eadmond spat at him, his face twisting with hate. “I take no orders from a spy!”

“Don’t be a fool, Eadmond!” Cécile called out from where she sat across the clearing. “Damien Ring has been the Queen’s man since before you were born! He is no Brekken spy!”

“You call me a spy, then, toy soldier?” Damien spoke at the same time. “Well, so I am! Nor have I ever said otherwise. I was spymaster to Queen Gloriane until her death, and by default now I am spymaster to Queen Gilliane. Unless she releases me, in which case I shall yet be her faithful hound and follow at her heels, and fly at the throats of all her enemies. Even you, d’Almena. Even you.

“But wait—you think I am a spy for the Brekken. What do you think I would do for them? What, exactly, do you imagine a spy is good at? What would you say?” He started ticking them off on his fingers, one by one, in savage mockery. “Lies, treachery, deception. Secrets. Intrigue.” He paused a moment, then, quietly, closing those fingers into a fist. “Murder.”

Damien nodded at that, and took a breath that went down to his toes before letting it out and going on more moderately. “Yes, that, too. I am good at all those things and more. And all of those skills I lay at the foot of my Queen, for her and her alone. I play whatever part I must to do what needs to be done.” He looked down at Eadmond and shook his head and then went on bitterly. “As for what I would do for the Brekken? Had I a fast horse and a thousand knives I would cut the throats of every Brekken ever born for what they did to Gloriane. And I would butcher any man who dares lay a hand on her daughter.”

And then he leaned down toward the man at his feet and spoke in whispered tones so cold and deadly that Eadmond winced away. “And you, little toy soldier? You live at her sufferance only. If ever again you desert your Queen for any reason, I will hunt you down and flay you alive, and stake your bleeding body at the crossroads, and weep not a tear at your demise.”

“Brave little man, threatening someone bound at your feet,” Eadmond snarled back. “You weren’t so brave on the Concours!”

Damien straightened abruptly, and behind him Cécile and Ysaut shot to their feet. “What did you say?”

“I said you’re a coward! Your Queen was under attack by the Brekken, and you ran!”

“I followed orders,” Damien snapped back savagely. “Something you seem utterly unable to do.”

“You just left her there!”

Damien took one step back, white and shaking, barely holding his control. “I saw her die!” he said, his voice in rags. “I saw her cut in two by the Brekken bullets. I saw her b—” He cut himself off before he said it, before the image came up in his eyes again, before he spoke the unspeakable in front of her daughter. “No.” he said, deep and harsh in his throat, then in deadly calm, “No. I need not justify myself to you, m’ser. You have not the right to question my actions. I answer only to the Queen.”

“You, answer to the Queen?” Eadmond shot back angrily. “Then who is Charles Banford?”

Damien lost his breath in shock for a moment. “Where did you hear that name?”

“I heard it from your own lips! I saw you when you handed your report to those Brekken soldiers!” Eadmond fought against his bonds, his face filled with anger and hatred. “What did you give him? A letter telling where you were taking the Princess Gilliane?” He spat at Damien in revulsion. “Who better to spy for them than a half-Brekken bastard!”

Ysaut had moved up behind Damien throughout this, and now she stepped up and past him to stare coldly down at Eadmond, every inch the Queen she would need to become. “Charles Banford is the name m’ser Damien uses on his missions to Brekke. Missions undertaken solely on my Mother’s orders these past seventeen years, to seek intelligence to protect Martagne. And like my Mother, I have full faith and confidence in Damien—as I have not yet in you. Will you remain the willful, foolish boy-child you have been acting until now? Or will you rise and become the Queen’s Guardsman whose uniform you wore?” She lifted a hand when he made to speak. “Think very hard on this tonight, Eadmond d’Almena. I will have your answer in the morning.” She turned on her heel and stalked off , pausing a moment to touch Damien’s sleeve. “Attend me, m’ser,” she said. Damien turned on the instant and followed her away.

Behind them, Melina stood breathless in shock, while Cécile gazed after Ysaut and nodded thoughtfully.

* * *

Change Of Heart

In the morning Gilliane sent Damien to let Eadmond out of his bonds and bring him to her. Once freed, Eadmond went and knelt before Gilliane, head bowed. He spoke in a low voice, quite different from the haughty tones he had used before. “Your Majesty, I have no right to ask, but I beg you to hear me.”

Gilliane considered him for a moment. “Go on,” she murmured.

“I am sorry for the trouble I caused for you, and for everyone. I, I am,” He shook his head and began again, still not daring to look up at her. “I am Piedmontése, from the south provinces. This was my first time in the Capitol. I was just promoted, and I was so, so proud to be assigned to be your escort for the celebration. I was, I was full of myself, and it made me foolish. And then things—happened, things went so horribly wrong. And that man, Damien, came, a nameless wretch covered in sweat and road dust, and you turned to him for protection instead of to me. I was angry, and I was, I was—”

“You were jealous.”

Eadmond nodded. “Jealous, aye. That. And then he started giving orders, and you all obeyed without question, and who was this man that could command a royal Princess? And his orders made no sense, I didn’t understand.” Finally Eadmond raised his head, and gestured helplessly. “And then he killed that man, for no reason, just because he was in the hallway—”

Gilliane answered the implied question. “That man was a known Brekken spy. One whom we tolerated, because he could be used in return. But in that place, at that time? He was there looking for me. To kill me.”

Eadmond looked up, shocked, seeing the absolute knowledge in her eyes. Behind her Damien and the others moved in closer.

“The papers he had on his person were orders from his Brekken masters.” Damien’s voice was quiet and precise. “Orders to make sure that Gilliane was on the dais with her parents for the airship review. Or failing that, to find her and kill her himself. Proof of the Brekken’s treachery, detailing the date and time of the attack, and how it would be accomplished.” Damien’s slender knife appeared, spun once, glittering, and disappeared again, all in the flicker of a moment. Then his voice went cold and deadly, “I regret that his death had to be quick.”

“Damien,” Gilliane chided softly, and Damien bowed his head and stepped back.

Eadmond nodded, acknowledging the new information, then shook his head. “You should have been able to rely on me. But I was ignorant of so much. My pride and my ignorance made me foolish, and my folly endangered you, the one person I was honor bound to protect.” He looked up at Gilliane again. “I accused Baron Damien of treason, but it was I who betrayed you.” He took a deep breath, then met her eyes steadily. “I will abide whatever punishment you decide.”

“Punishment…” Gilliane said quietly, gazing back just as steadily. “So be it, Eadmond d’Almena. Hear, then, your doom.” Then she took a deep breath and raised her head. “Do better. Watch those around you. Listen to those who know. Learn what they can teach you. Carry your weight, and be the Guardsman you should be. Let there be no more of this foolishness and mistrust. We must have one goal only—to take back Martagne from the invaders. Nothing else matters. Are we agreed?”

Eadmond stared up at her, his eyes almost glazed over in shock. And then he bowed his head and whispered, “I agree.”

Behind her, Damien’s eyes were locked on her as a drowning man locks his hands on a floating branch. His breath came harsh in his chest as if from a hard run as he thought, ‘This, this is the Queen Martagne needs now!’ And never realized that in that moment his loyalty left his doomed Golden Queen, Gloriane, and settled forever on her daughter.

* * *

by

Arantxa Fallen

At one point Brekke’s Directors order the bombing of Dorre Arantxa, the mountain stronghold where Damien, his Queen, and the others have sought refuge. Forewarned, they and the keep’s residents flee to other shelter. But the Brekken airships bomb the tower in a destructive rage. Now Damien and Eadmond are headed down the switchback road to the southern province of the Piedmont on the Queen’s business. But their way is unexpectedly barred…

* * *

They rounded a turn on the road and stopped short, appalled. A large section of the main Dorre had come down whole onto the road and shattered, leaving a pile of stone and rubble as tall as Eadmond. They dismounted and tethered the horses to some larger rocks, leaving them happy with handfuls of grain while they went on to inspect the rockfall. With a heavy sigh Damien took off his coat, laying it across his saddle, and rolled up his sleeves before going to the road’s verge and looking down. Eadmond joined him a few moments later.

“Well, at least it won’t matter if we shove all this over the edge,” Damien said. “There’s nothing down there to be hurt or blocked.”

“Aye,” Eadmond replied, backing off from the edge. “Nothing but down all the way to the bottom.”

The topmost layer of the pile was mainly larger blocks from the outer wall of the Dorre; settled but not immovable. After wrestling the first one loose, both went back to the horses and dug out leather gloves from their kits; no sense courting cuts and broken nails for no reason. And then back to the pile to clear the road.

After an hour or so the largest blocks had gone over the side, and then it was smaller stones and debris from the inner walls and floors of the Dorre. And then Eadmond came upon some small items and clothing, calling up to Damien to show them to him.

“Just set them aside for now,” Damien answered. “We can make up a pack and set it somewhere safe—in the—wreckage…”

Eadmond looked up as Damien’s voice trailed off. He watched as Damien bent and picked up a child’s doll. He dusted it off and gently smoothed the doll’s hair, his face ineffably sad. Then Damien sighed and looked up the cliff face to where the Dorre had stood.

“What a waste!” Damien said with a sudden, savage anger Eadmond had not heard before unless it touched on his Queen. And then a moment later Damien let his anger go with a hard sigh. He reached across the debris to Eadmond to pass the doll over. Eadmond took it, and where a few moments ago he might have tossed it aside to the growing pile of belongings now he stepped over and laid it down gently. He stood staring at it for a moment and felt that same helpless rage at the pettiness of it all.

Then, as Damien had done, he turned and grimly put that anger to use shifting the fallen stones.

* * *

by

This could be the start of a beautiful friendship…

Another of those scenes that demanded to be written. This time, the first meeting of two characters from the middle of Damien’s story. Thirty years ago, in the midst of the Brekken war.

* * *

Jan Silber was last in a line of about twenty Brekken who had been sent to augment the staff of their field hospital when their little convoy was taken by the Martagnards. Now they were being marched under guard to a camp north of the battlefield.

As they went Jan realized they were passing a Martagnése camp, one of their field hospitals, and he noted in somewhat desultory fashion the similarities and differences between theirs and his own Brekken hospital laagers.

He watched as two men carried a stretcher up to the main tent. The stretcher held a very young soldier, at most 17 years of age, with a blood-soaked bandage around his mid-section. The two men set the stretcher down, and one of the bearers called into the tent. In a moment, a man in medical white came out, crouched down beside the soldier and checked the wound, sadly shook his head, and rose to go back inside.

At this, Jan stopped in the road and called across to the men. “Zehr,” he called, “M’ser—you do not help him? He will die if you do not!”

One of the soldiers escorting his group came up and tried to move him on, but Jan shrugged him off and took a step across the road toward the tent. The medico turned at his call and answered without thinking. “He will die because we have no one here qualified to do the surgery.” And then he realized who he was talking to, and shook his head angrily. “You’re a Brekken, what do you care if he dies? It was your kind put him here!” Behind him another man stepped out of the tent, a man dressed in Martagnése blue, gold rank insignia catching the light.

Jan again shrugged off the guard’s restraining arm and took another step forward. “I am a surgeon! I can help him!” And then, seeing the second man, “Zehr General! Let me help!”

General Ellery Shepherd put one hand on the medico’s shoulder, quieting the man, and stepped forward. He gestured to the soldier who was trying to shove the young Brekken back into line. “You are a Brekken, an officer,” he said mildly. “Why would you want to help us?”

“Before I am a Brekken,” Jan said earnestly, “I am a man. Before I am an officer, I am a surgeon.” Suddenly his face twisted in anger. “All dis—” he flung a hand out, indicating the young soldier on the stretcher and the battlefield beyond, “—is a waste! Dis boy, he has his whole life before him! Why he must die because I wear a different uniform?”

Ellery met his eyes and the Brekken looked back with neither challenge nor fear, just a level, steady gaze. Ellery glanced over the man’s uniform, noting the Brekken rank insignia of a Capitan in the Medical corps. He looked up and met the man’s eyes again, and nodded once, then glanced back at the medico. “Get him a surgical table,” he said. “Let him work.” The man began a protest, but then faltered to a halt as Ellery’s gaze sharpened on him.

“Yes, General…” the medico said faintly, and ducked back into the tent.

“I need my kit,” Jan said, and Ellery cocked his head in question. “My surgical kit.” Jan gestured back behind himself. “Dese men took from me, and put on de cart. I may get?”

The General caught the guard’s eye and gestured, and the guard stepped back out of the way. Jan quickly dug through the objects on the cart and found his leather case. He pointed to his name where it was embossed on the leather, and the guard nodded and let him take it away.

He carried it back and passed the General, setting the kit down and kneeling next to the young soldier, checking the boy’s pulse and breathing. He looked up and signaled the stretcher bearers to bring the boy inside, but they stood there and stared at him with hostile eyes.

The General snapped his fingers at them twice. “Do as he says,” he growled, and they moved at his orders. He held back the tent flap as Jan took up his case and went inside, and then found the medico. “Get him what he needs—anything he needs. And tell your staff to take his orders the same as any other medico, is that understood?”

“Yes, General!”

“You watch him, and as long as it looks like he knows what he’s doing, let him work.” He nodded at the man. “Keep me informed.”

“Sir.”

Ellery watched for a while as the Brekken scrubbed up for surgery, with one pause only when the man turned to him with a serious face.

“I make agreement wit’ you, zehr General. I do surgery for you, for your Martagnése wounded, all. But if dere be Brekken wounded where yours cannot help, dey bring dem here to me, too. We agree?”

“That’s fair,” Ellery said. “Agreed.”

Hours later, Ellery came back through the medical tent to check on his wounded men, and spotted the Brekken sitting backwards on a chair, arms across the back and head pillowed on them, asleep. He recognized exhaustion when he saw it, and called over the medico in charge, a different man than before. “Why is this man not in a proper bed?”

The man gave him a half shrug. “He said beds were for the wounded. That he could sleep on the ground if need be, but a chair was better.” Another half shrug. “He’s worked straight through, whatever we brought him.” He looked at the General. “He’s a wonder, sir. Their methods differ from ours. Their training is better, their results more consistent, we always knew that. Our medicos have been spelling in to help during his surgeries, they’re learning things every moment. He explains what he’s doing and why as he works, so they understand.”

“So he is teaching, as well as saving lives…” Ellery mused on that for a moment, then nodded. “See he’s not disturbed unless it’s for something none of you can do. Or if it gets busy. Let him rest as long as he can, I can see he needs it. When he wakes, send him to me unless something requires his attention.”

“Yes, General.”

* * *

by

Targets

This is another of those scenes that wouldn’t let go, that had to be written. Something about how Damien was trained, and how he thinks. He is about age 12 here.

Targets

Bellarmée was there when Damien came back from retrieving his knives from the target. “What happened with those last five?” he asked. “I’ve never seen you that far off your mark.”

“I wasn’t off my mark, m’ser,” Damien replied. “I added those points.”

“You added them? Why?”

Damien laid out the knives, ready to practice again. “They are additional points of vulnerability that are lacking on the target,” he explained. “So I added them.”

“Points… of vulnerability?” Bellarmée frowned. “What do you mean?”

Damien pointed to the target, indicating each as he spoke. “Brachial arteries, femoral arteries, groin.” He looked back at Bellarmée, pointing again. “Shoulder joints, hip joints, to incapacitate. The others, to kill. That was the point of this exercise, wasn’t it?”

“When…” Bellarmée cleared his throat. “When did you realize these were points on the human body?”

“The first time you placed the target, m’ser.” Damien looked back at him, and pointed once again. “The center line isn’t straight, from throat to diaphragm, because the heart is offset somewhat to the left. Nothing else made sense.”

“You never said anything.”

Damien looked up at him, his pale eyes sober and sad. “What was there to say, m’ser?” he said. “I know what you are training me for.”

There was a long silence, and then Bellarmée sighed, his head tipped back as if looking at his stars. “For what it’s worth, boy,” he said quietly, “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Damien answered, his voice equally quiet. “It’s for what she’s worth.”

After a moment, Bellarmée nodded. “Aye.”

* * *

by

Interlude: B.A.S. Hellebarde

And now, back to writing. Some new players on the board: just a reminder that not all Brekken are bad guys.

* * *

Interlude: the Brekken garrison at Sal’zahar

“Commandant?” The Air Captain of the B.A.S. Hellebarde had waited until the others had left the wardroom, stepping back out of their way as they passed.

“Yes, Captain Wraithfield?” The Commandant barely turned back to look at her.

“Are they to be given a warning, sir?”

Now the Commandant turned back and gazed at her coldly. “You have your orders, Captain.”

“Yes, sir—but there are hundreds of people in those towers, sir! Women, children—”

The Commandant straightened and looked down at her. “Are you questioning your orders, Captain?” There was danger in the soft tone of his voice now, and she realized she had to make a hard choice.

“No, sir,” she answered, her voice thin.

“Dismissed.”

Harouen saluted smoothly, and the Commandant responded with a negligent wave of his hand. She turned and exited the wardroom, heading out to the airfield with her mind in turmoil. She knew what her decision was for herself, but she could not choose for her crew. That had to be for each one to decide.

Once on the Hellebarde, she went straight to the bridge and took up the microphone for the airship’s address. “Attention, Hellebarde. Attention, Hellebarde, this is Captain Wraithfield. All crew report to the central airframe immediately, repeat, immediately. Lift crew: bring all ground crew aboard now and report to the central airframe immediately. This is not a drill. All crew check in with your sector chiefs as you enter the central airframe. Sector chiefs, be ready to log your crews. Wraithfield out.”

Ten minutes later Harouen strode through the hatch and entered the airframe. Fifty-four pairs of eyes watched her as she stood at the top of the steps, and she waited until all the mutters and shuffling stopped. Until there was no other sound but the creak of the airbags and the singing of the wind through the tie-down lines.

Until all she could hear was the beat of her aching heart.

She looked out over her crew, meeting those eyes one by one, and at last she took a deep breath and spoke.

“We have our orders,” she said, and waited until their reaction settled. “You may guess from all this that they are orders I disagree with, and that guess would be right. I’ll tell you those orders now, and why I disagree, and then you each have a choice to make.

“We are to board a payload of explosive ordnance and prepare for lift and engagement.” She paused, and then took a deep, hard breath. “In three hours time we are to lift and proceed to our target, Dorre Arantxa, the seat and residence for clan Arantxa and the surrounding area. There we are to discharge our armed payload and return to base.”

A third time she paused and waited for that return to uneasy silence. “To be absolutely clear: we are to bomb a civilian target with the intent to destroy it utterly.” Her voice went harsh and stark. “And we are to do it with no warning.” She raised her voice over their shocked reaction. “We are to give no warning and no chance to evacuate. We are ordered to bombard a target filled with hundreds of non-combatants. Men, women, and children.”

She waited for silence once more; a long time, this, several minutes, and once more took a deep, shuddering breath. “I cannot comply with these orders. They go against all the rules of engagement of honorable warfare.” This time, the silence held, and she went on. “I am giving you each a choice for your own actions. If I am alone in this, I will walk off Hellebarde and submit myself for court-martial. If enough of you are with me, we will arm and lift last, and once airborne we will turn out to sea with all speed until we are out of range of the flight. What follows then will be a separate decision. In that case, any of you who are willing to support those orders will be detained until just before lift, and will be put ashore peacefully.” She looked out onto fifty-four sober faces, and nodded once. “I would like to see a show of hands, please. Any who will follow those orders, please raise your hands?”

Not a single hand was raised; not a single crewman moved save to look around to see.

Harouen nodded once. “A show of hands for those who oppose those orders?”

Every single hand shot skyward without an instant’s hesitation. After a long moment she cleared her throat and gestured for them to put their hands down. She looked out over her crew, all standing in silence before her, and cleared her throat again. “You do understand that this is mutiny, mutiny and treason.”

The answer came back to her in a rolling growl of “Aye,” falling back into silence.

She looked down for a few moments before raising her eyes again. “You must know that if we do this, we can never go home again.”

“Beggin’ yer pardon, Captain,” one of the senior ground crew shouldered forward, “but how can it be home when they can do the likes o’ that?”

Harouen met the older man’s troubled eyes for a long moment, and nodded. “Aye. And speaking of home—another thing to consider. If we do this, our families back home may pay a price as well.” She shook her head and went on. “A last thought. Once the flight is finished with Dorre Arantxa—we will be the next target. They will hunt us down like a rabid wolf. There will be no quarter, just blood and fire and wreckage.”

Beside her, her first officer stirred. “Better that than roll over like a whipped cur or do their bidding like a savage dog.” She looked over at him for a moment, and then nodded soberly, and once again cleared her throat.

“So be it, then.” She clapped her hands once and gestured to the sector chiefs. “We go on as ordered until lift. Load the ordnance and take on any ammunition or supplies we need to top up our stores. Ground and lift crews, to your stations. Bridge and department crews, same. Let’s to it like the top crew we are. Dismissed.”

But instead of leaving, each and every crew member snapped to attention as if ordered and gave her a brisk salute, holding it until she gave the answer of a full, formal salute in return.

* * *