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.
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?”
“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.”
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.”
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.
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.”
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.
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.
a zhaun is the head of a clan in the Mendei, the mountain range in the south of Martagne.
a jaraun is the person designated as official heir to a zhaun.
a zhaun-jaraun is the acclaimed but unconfirmed heir to a zhaun. Ysaut-Gilliane would be considered the Queen-jaraun.
a talde is the group of close followers of a leader of some sort.
the Service, more formally the Information Service, is a branch of Martagne’s government that gathers information in many forms and for many uses and reasons. It is also responsible for gathering information to help protect Martagne against those who may be enemies of the Realm, such as the Brekken. As “Spymaster,” Damien Ring is the official head of the Information Service.
The Brekken are the invaders, and under orders from their governing body, the Directors, have twice broken all laws of honorable combat, attacking non-combatant targets without warning, slaughtering innocents in a heinous war crime. Her mother, Queen Gloriane, having been killed in the first attack, the new young Queen Ysaut-Gilliane has fled to the Mendei for shelter, only to narrowly escape a second cowardly attack on another non-combatant target. She and her talde are now sheltering in a new location.
* * *
Over time, Damien found himself in several conversations with the zhaun of Peyre, often late at night, over brandy and firelight. It seemed as if the man was deliberately seeking him out, and at first he wondered why. Then he realized that the conversation often turned in some way to Ysaut—but not in a way as if seeking information from Damien about her; but more as Isarn giving him information about himself. Almost as if… as if assuring Damien that his intentions were honorable…
In one conversation, Isarn told him, “My clan has served the Queens of Martagne for more than two hundred years. Queen Aurélie’s father was a Jenico of Peyre, as Gloriane’s was of Argider. It was through the Mendi that the Crowns of Martagne came to count their heritance through the female line. Gilliane’s father, Olivier d’Alvers, is the first in generations not of the Mendei.” He waved that away with a quirk of his sardonic smile. “No matter,” he said, the smile broadening, “by our laws she is Mendi. A Piedmontése father is no bar.” But the joke, once made, lost its humor as Isarn shook his head. “There was a loss,” he said ruefully. “He was a good man, and he loved Gloriane well.” He stared down into his drink, then abruptly tossed it back and set the glass aside.
“We spoke of spies, before,” he said, changing the subject. “Much of the information your Service receives from the Mendei comes from us. You’ve likely seen some of my folk in the offices of your Service. So we knew who you were—a smallish man with black hair and eyes pale as water, and a reputation for as deadly a hand with a blade as any have known.
“There were many Mendi in the Palais du Monde on that day. That is why we know what happened was no accident. The zhaun of Sal’zahar and his jaraun never came home. Others did.” He shook his head and looked at Damien under his brows. “You were seen with the young Queen, and then you disappeared. We found where you’d been, but not where you’d gone. We would have aided you in your flight had we known, given you shelter and protection.
“I knew who you were when we met on the hillside, you and your brown-haired Queen.” He shook his head again. “You came far too close to disaster that day. Leaving you, my talde met a Brekken patrol coming up through the northern pass as you left by the southern. They nearly had to come to blows to keep them from crossing further into Peyre.” Isarn bared his teeth at the memory, and Damien saw for the first time why the man held his clan at such a young age. “They thought us hunters, straying out of our holding. I showed them what it meant to face a clan with its zhaun still in rule.” He bared his teeth again, briefly, and the firelight caught the dark amber of his eyes and turned them lambent gold. “We disarmed them and walked them all the way back to their garrison commander. I told him who I was, and warned him to make sure his men knew how to read maps. The borders of Peyre are clearly marked, and they had strayed nearly half a league past them.” He bared his teeth again, not briefly, and his eyes narrowed. “I reminded him that they had agreed to honor the border, and that if his men encroached on my land again, they would be returned disarmed, barefoot, and naked.
“But if it happened a third time, they would not be returned, and he could seek them at the foot of the Mendei.” He stared into the flames for a few moments, the firelight picking out the lines of his face in sharp planes and angles, and then he looked down and the lines softened. He nodded to Damien and rose. “I’ll leave you to your peace, m’ser,” he said, and left.
Damien gazed into the flames for some time after, thinking of many things. Of the zhaun-jaraun of Sal’zahar, the one they called the Snow Leopard, and thought that here he had met the Wolf of Peyre—and found him far more deadly.
And felt far better about leaving his Queen in the man’s care when he left to take up his proper duties.
No real drama this time, only more of the relationship between Damien and Cécile.
That evening, after the conference, Cécile came out onto the balcony where Damian leaned on the parapet looking out over the valley below. The glow of hearth and cooking fires lay scattered across the land, showing a peaceful, close-knit community. She rested her arms on it as well, content to watch with him in companionable silence, but after a while she spoke without turning her head.
“I meant what I said.”
The silence afterward held so long that she thought he might not have heard, but then, “I know,” he said. “So did I.” It was that simple; a settling-in of friendship that picks up on a conversation as if only moments had passed between instead of months, and miles, and pain. Then again, after a while, “Why?”
“I see in her the future of Martagne,” Cécile said quietly. “Kindness. Gentleness. Compassion. Strength.” Again a pause, then, “It won’t be like you.”
Damien laughed once, softly, and said, fervently, “Oh, I hope not.” He shook his head once, and the torchlight slid across the slight smile on his lips.
Cécile laughed once as well, turning her face toward him. “I just don’t see myself riding desperately across the countryside—” She broke off and laughed again in gentle self-mockery, “Yet did we not just do that?” She shook her head and went on. “What I mean is that I don’t see myself crossing borders and spying so much as being her confidante and bodyguard.”
Again his smile flashed in the night. “One needn’t be a spy to be in the Intelligence Service. I’m sure you are aware how much information you can gather just going about your daily duties. People let fall the most amazing things if you just pay attention.” He tilted his head, watching her. “Did you know that just this morning the cook’s second assistant was found fast asleep in the chicken coop, curled around all the eggs like a broody hen? Stark naked.”
Cécile couldn’t help it, she laughed outright in shocked amusement.
“It’s true,” he said, straight-faced, and turned to her, leaning one elbow on the parapet. “The hardest thing to learn is how to appear to not be listening.” His smile faded after a moment. “Bodyguard,” he murmured. “That’s a different set of skills entirely.” He looked straight into her eyes, and his expression was solemn and more than a little sad. “Are you willing to kill to protect her?”
She returned his gaze as directly. “You may recall I have already done so.”
“True enough,” he murmured, gazing down at the ground somewhere between them.
“Teach me,” she said.
He looked up at her from under his brows. “You are sure?”