Dragon Heartstone > Chapter 52–The Queen Arrives

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Within minutes, Gall and Katun hobbled to where Harald talked to the Queen. She stood, hands on her hips, looking down at a map of the city’s defenses, her posture betraying exhaustion masked by determination.

As Harald finished talking, Katun interjected, “I found Gall, your Majesty.”

Gall studied Britta closely, immediately noticing the dark circles under her eyes and a haunted, almost vacant look. Something was deeply wrong—beyond the immediate battle, beyond the city’s current crisis.

“Good,” she replied. Her gaze settled on him for a moment, assessing, then shifted back to Harald. “We should be able to push them out of the lower city by evening, and I want them well on their way home by tomorrow.” She paused, rubbing her temples in a gesture that betrayed her weariness than she intended.

“Where is Faline?” Gall asked.

Britta stayed silent as Katun answered, “Still a day’s march north. The Preytars will keep us informed when they have rebuilt the bridges we burned. Unfortunately, they do so quickly.”

“Almost too quickly,” Britta added.

Katun continued with wistfulness. “Even marching all night, we only managed to stay a day ahead.”

“Mikail? Where is Nikolas?” Gall pressed.

“Dead,” Britta said in an empty tone.

Gall let the news wash over him. Losing the experienced mercenary stung. He’d been a good man and a good friend. “When did it happen?”

“Before we abandoned Keihl.” Her eyes drifted, and then she spoke to Harald. “Take me to where I can see the lower city.” He stood and led her away.

Gall turned to Katun. “How long has she been like this?”

“Ever since hearing of Alric’s death,” he said, his face tight. “She does not sleep and has not mourned.”

Gall knew the dangers of unprocessed grief, especially for a leader. “She will be of no use to anyone if she doesn’t get rest soon, and likely be a danger to everyone, especially herself.”

“I have tried, but I cannot convince her to deal with this.”

Gall sighed, understanding the delicate balance between personal concern and military necessity. “I will try then, but now is not the time. The Council forces must be driven from the city first.”

* * *

Brecc stood watching outside the city, observing smoke rising over the rooftops in thick, ominous columns. The landscape of battle lay before him—a chessboard where his pieces were rapidly dwindling. Already they had lost a third of their men, and without Quorous, the mercenary forces lost their driving spirit. They held their positions, but the earlier enthusiasm had drained away like blood from a wound.

A party of black-clad mercenaries approached his tent, pushing past the Cazidoran guards with a deliberate show of force. Their very movement spoke of barely contained anger and potential mutiny.

“We would speak with you,” a tall blond-haired man said. Brecc recognized him immediately as Soroykin, Quorous’ lieutenant. With Quorous dead, the command of the mercenary contingent had fallen to this cold-eyed veteran.

“What do you want?” Brecc asked, keeping his voice level despite the tension coiling in his gut.

“The Bretagnians have been reinforced,” Soroykin reported bluntly. “We won’t be able to hold the city for much longer without more men.”

Brecc studied the mercenary, weighing his options. The truth was a luxury he could not afford—there were no reinforcements. His conscripted Cazidoran troops were already unreliable. Half had disappeared, and the remainder were barely competent enough for guard duty. If the mercenaries withdrew now, his entire campaign would collapse.

He made his decision quickly. “Another two thousand men should arrive by tonight,” Brecc lied smoothly. “I will also increase your compensation.”

Soroykin’s glare could have cut through steel. “Dead men cost you nothing,” he spat. “Those reinforcements better arrive, or I will take my payment from you, directly.” Gripping his sword tightly, he stormed back toward the city, leaving the threat hanging in the air.

Once Soroykin was gone, Brecc’s composure cracked. He swallowed hard, feeling the weight of his desperate gamble. Turning to a nearby runner, he spoke with carefully controlled urgency. “Take a message back to Dathon. Send whatever troops are available. Situation in doubt.”

The messenger nodded and disappeared from the tent, carrying the king’s last hope of salvaging this campaign with him.

The next few hours dragged on. Despite the reassurances, Brecc watched through the tent’s opening as the Bretagne army drove slowly toward the south-west gate. A steady stream of conscripts continued to slip past his tent, making for the road back to Cazidor—each retreating soldier another nail in the coffin of his campaign.

He called for his aide. “Bring the conscript’s captain to me.”

The aide ran off but quickly returned. “He’s gone.”

“Gone?” Brecc’s voice was sharp. “What do you mean?”

“He took his things and left. The conscripts nominated someone else to serve in his place.”

Unbelievable. The word echoed in Brecc’s mind like a bitter laugh. Everything was unraveling faster than he could control.

“Then bring that person in.”

The aide slipped out of the tent and soon returned with a tall, lanky man. Long, greasy hair hung around a face sporting a patchy beard. The man scratched himself casually as he entered, displaying all the discipline of a wandering goat.

“What’s your name?”

“Silas,” the man answered, his gaze wandering around the tent as if looking for something more interesting than the king before him.

Ignoring the lack of decorum, Brecc spoke directly. “You need to keep the men from deserting.”

The man’s eyes widened comically. “Me?” he said, pointing to himself with an expression of pure bewilderment.

“Yes, you. Who else do you think I’m talking to?”

Silas’ eyes continued their restless journey before finally settling on Brecc. “Oh, uh, how do I do that?”

Brecc’s patience was a thin thread, fraying rapidly. “Tell them to fight. Appeal to their honor.”

Silas rubbed his nose, seemingly perplexed by the concept. “Then what?”

Struggling to keep his temper under control, Brecc clenched his fists. The muscles in his jaw tightened as he forced out his next words. “Offer them as much ale as they want in return for fighting.”

Silas gave him a gap-toothed smile and nodded his head enthusiastically. “I like the sounds of that.”

“Fine, get out of here,” Brecc said, waving him away. Silas quickly turned and left; his excitement palpable.

His aide leaned close, concern etching his features. “Sire, was that wise?”

Brecc’s laugh was short and humorless. “We’re past wisdom. I’ll take drunk fighters over sober cowards.”

* * *

As they trudged back through the mud-slick camp, Soroykin’s lieutenant, Krastor, studied the man’s profile—weathered and sharp as a blade’s edge. Smoke rose from the city, blurring the horizon.

“Do you believe Brecc has reinforcements coming?” Krastor’s voice carried a hint of weariness.

Soroykin’s laugh was short and bitter. “The Council hasn’t shown any ability to follow through so far. And that pampered fool, Brecc, couldn’t organize a funeral procession, let alone demand reinforcements.” He stopped, scanning the city walls where defenders now moved with renewed confidence. “He’ll tell us anything to keep us fighting, but we’re hired men-at-arms, not martyrs.”

He caught Krastor’s arm, fingers digging in with an urgency that belied his calm tone. “Propose a truce to retrieve our dead,” he whispered, “but also make it clear: our contract with the Council is negotiable. Very negotiable.”

Krastor nodded, a slight smile playing at the corner of his mouth. They both knew what that meant: survival was always the privilege of the highest bidder.