Dragon Heartstone > Chapter 29–Wounds

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Katun warmed his hands before a watch fire, trying to ward off the relentless chill from the mountains. Though the sun remained hidden, its arrival was heralded by a turquoise sky, casting a pale light across the encampment. Britta emerged from her tent and approached, rubbing her arms. “Good morning, your Majesty,” Katun said, poking a log in the fire pit with his cane. “Cold this morning.”

“I suppose,” she stated, suppressing a yawn. “But not quite as bad as the winds off the Krador in Cazidor.”

A courier approached, his horse’s hooves muffled by the soft ground. He extended a sealed message to Katun. “A message to you from Lord Gall,” he said. Then, nodding briefly to Britta, he said, “Your Majesty,” before wheeling his mount away.

Britta frowned. “What does HE want?” she said sharply.

Katun broke the seal and read the contents. His heart thudded dully in his chest as his skin prickled. Oh no.

The Queen cleared her throat. “Important news?”

How do I tell her? After a brief battle with his emotions, Katun looked up and answered evenly. “Yes, it appears so.” He glanced around. Several staff officers were within earshot. Nodding toward her tent, he spoke in low tones, “We need to talk privately.”

Her eyebrows lifted. “As you wish.” Leading the way, Katun stepped inside, and she followed.

He turned. “So, tell me what this is about,” she said, examining his face.

Katun clenched his jaw. “Your father …” He paused, trying to keep his voice steady, and took a deep breath. The words felt like shards of glass in his mouth. “The King of Cazidor is dead.”

Britta stared without blinking. For a second, he thought she had not heard him. A tear crossed his cheek.

“We have a busy day ahead of us,” she said, then turned and started to leave.

Katun moved to intercept her. “There is more. Don’t you wish to hear it?”

She stopped at the tent flap but kept her back to him. “How did he die?”

“Killed by assassins hired by the Grand Council.” Her head dipped as she seized hold of the opening. “Succession plans are being made. What do you want to do?”

Katun saw a tremor in her hand and a slight catch in her breath. The grief was there, buried deep, waiting. She lifted her head and spoke, her voice as cold as the mountain wind. “I can do nothing about what is happening in Cazidor. I am Queen of Bretagne and have duties to perform, which I intend to do well.”

The flap rustled as she threw it out of her way and stepped outside. Katun followed and found her swinging into the saddle of her horse.

“Your Majesty, can we talk about this?” he asked, hobbling quickly to her side, but she promptly spurred her horse.

Katun watched her ride away. My dear, you can’t outrun your troubles. Britta was a coiled spring. Eventually, she would have to come to terms with what happened. But now was not the time nor the place. He folded the message and slipped it into his tunic. Maybe later.

* * *

As Britta rode, she sniffed back the tears and wiped them away as best she could. No, she would not mourn him, not now. Her mind grasped at other thoughts, and as she sifted through them, a rider approached, wearing black leather armor and wavy blonde hair.

 “Mikail. What are you doing here?” she asked.

“I bring you glad tidings from the Clan and a proposal for an alliance.”

She paused to change focus. “What are the terms?”

“Payment of 1000 crowns a day. We serve only at your behest but reserve the right to operate independently when it suits us.”

She sighed. “I have no money to pay you, and I’m leery of having Preytars operating outside our interests.”

“We are prepared to waive payment for a seat on the war council and control how we are used.”

Britta mused the idea over. “I would agree, but only if Preytars recognize my authority over such decisions. In return, I guarantee the Clan will receive one-eighth of all taxes paid in Keihl for the next calendar year.”

Mikail smiled. “You drive a hard bargain, but the terms are acceptable.” He extended a hand. “We have a deal.”

She returned the gesture. “Tell Nikolas to join us in my tent as soon as possible. I wish to cross the Bear River by sundown.” Mikail nodded and then galloped off. She watched him go, but her thoughts started drifting onto other matters. Not now, her mind screamed. Then she spurred her horse and cantered toward the river, which the army was expected to reach by noon.

* * *

With the sun directly overhead, Katun scanned the trees on the north side of the Bear River. He could see what appeared to be motionless figures with pikes crouched in the underbrush. Sweeping the panorama of the bridge crossing, he noted the remains of Bretagne horsemen and their mounts, pecked at by vultures and ravens. Many of the bodies were naked, white, and bloated, except for the ones the carrion birds had worked over exceptionally well. His stomach churned at the sight, but he finished sweeping the area.

Britta looked on but tried to avert her eyes from the corpses. “So, what do you recommend? Do we risk crossing here or look for somewhere else?”

Katun chuckled. “I think we have our answer.” From out of the trees on the other side of the river rode Nikolas, carrying one of the “pikemen”–a grain sack stuffed with foliage and a sharpened wooden pole stuck in it.

He crossed the bridge. “Good afternoon, your Majesty,” he said calmly. “I apologize for not arriving sooner, but I wanted to see what awaited us.” He dropped the bag of vegetation on the ground. “It appears our friends from Drachnor have left the area.”

Britta stared at the faux pikeman. “So, we have been preparing to attack an undefended river bridge?”

“They were here this morning but withdrew to the next crossing.”

Katun spoke, “How many are there?”

“I estimate at least several hundred waiting for you on the far side of the Wolf River.”

The Queen gripped her reins tighter. “After we cross here, join the war council in my tent.” Nikolas nodded.

She turned to Katun. “Send a detail to bury the dead. We owe them that.”

Katun began shouting orders, and Bretagnian troops formed into a marching column. Their footfalls echoed in the autumn air, their cadence melodic.

Britta watched the men move in orderly rows, drummers maintaining the pace through their dull rata-tat-tat. Once again, her thoughts drifted, and she fought to contain them. With a shout, she spurred her horse, which leaped forward, quickly carrying her across the bridge.