Tickling the Dragon's Tail

  Orris was vexed by Nevin’s words. Did he share the deep commitment the others felt? Was he there only because his King had ordered him? Did he, in fact, deserve to be considered one of their Alliance if he could not bury his enmity with Gilsum. The answers came while watching Nevin, Corissa and Anson hasten to ease the suffering of these Guardsmen. He gradually realized the importance of his role was just now playing out. If they were to succeed, veteran soldiers like him would have to retire their swords and leave the war behind them. He walked over to the wagon and stared at the injured men. They were all conscious, but their uniforms were dirtier than a good soldier would allow; their bodies battered and eyes glazed, perhaps more from their inability to understand what happened than their injuries. Orris put out a hand to steady himself against the wagon. With a sudden but decisive move, he climbed aboard the wagon and started helping Corissa treat a broken leg. Nevin saw the effort and gave him a nod.

  The youthful soldier who drove the wagon watched in dull deference as Anson directed the makeshift triage. To anyone who would listen, he alternated between expressing his gratitude for the aid and asking if his comrades could make the four-hour ride to Taunton. When the last of the bandages were tied, Nevin edged over and asked his name, which was Berl. He compliantly answered Nevin’s questions about the blast, confirming they had carted some “Device” to a small isolated village, which they left right after their Captain had tripped the damnable thing. Being the only able-bodied one who had escaped injury from the “hellacious storm,” except for a swollen eye, Berl had done what he could to help his comrades but the demands were beyond him. Three had died, including their Captain.

  Nevin put his hand on Berl’s shoulder and said his Captain would be proud of the job he had done. With that memory recalled, Berl started to lose his tenuous composure. His chest heaved once or twice as he seemed to flash back to some private moments, then he covered his face and started incoherently cursing the army and himself. Seeing that Berl’s catharsis could not be held back, Nevin put his arms around the lad, who stood barely more than waist high next to the much taller man. Berl struggled at first but lost himself in deep sobs as he buried his face against Nevin’s shirt. To Nevin, Berl seemed more like a boy scout than any serious type of soldier, and he hugged him tightly until the youth’s emotions were drained. Orris came over to help out, the older soldier knowing the right words to ease the younger one’s guilt.

  Nevin, meanwhile, had caught sight of Corissa, sitting on the ground exhausted. He remembered what Bekar had said about her feeling ill and realized he had not made sure she took the herbal medicine the dwarves gave her. Angry with himself, Nevin made an appeal to young Berl to allow them all to crowd into the wagon for the ride to Taunton. Still unsure of himself, but showing a semblance of composure after Orris’ reassurances, Berl thought it a good idea as how the injured men might need further treatment along way. Looking up with uncertainty at the unusually tall man, Berl stammered, “Well, Sir. If you sit on the driver’s seat with me we can probably squeeze the rest in the box.”

  Nevin quickly shared this idea with the others and all agreed, Anson especially pleased because it provided the best available opportunity to get inside the gate and possibly into the castle. Nevin took his place next to Berl, the others crowded into the box with the injured soldiers as the wagon creaked away.

  Chapter 19

  First Minister

  With Nevin situated next to the driver and Corissa curled up in exhaustion, there was no conversation among the injured or any others. The monotony of the drive was broken only by an occasional groan from an injured man, which was immediately tended by Anson or Orris. Compounding the tedium, the drive took longer than expected because Anson insisted the horse, which he seemed to know was near collapse, not be pushed too hard. Finally, with the first signs of dusk, the capitol city of Taunton came into full view.

  Like the Antrim capitol, Taunton was walled all the way around except the back of this city was flush with the sheer mountainside. Judging by the length of the walls, Nevin estimated that Taunton was considerably larger, covering about twice the area as Sartell.

  When they approached the huge front gates, they were met by a trio of uniformed Guardsmen. The lead guard talked with Berl to get a quick explanation of their troubles, then checked each of the injured soldiers, making conversation with those sufficiently conscious. Next, the guard looked over each member of the Alliance, obviously looking for weapons or any signs for potential concern, holding his gaze longest on Nevin. When he was satisfied there was no threat, he said, “We appreciate the care you provided our fellows. I do not quite know what happened to them, but they were knocked about pretty good. I would say you saved the life of one or more. I will see that you are taken to the armory where you will be shown a proper thanks a curist can tend to these men.”

  Each member of the Alliance kept silent for the stroke of luck that got them admitted past the gate. By remaining with the wagon, they could avoid contact with passersby and reduce attention that Nevin might attract. As the wagon passed through, Nevin saw the city open up in front of him. It was magnificent.

  Taunton was clean and orderly. People milled about an open market area and activity seemed normal around small adjacent shops. People made way for the wagon but paid little heed unless they spotted Nevin, though their reaction was much milder than the attention he had received elsewhere. He was still a larger man by far than any of the locals, but apparently not so extraordinary that he caused much of a stir. Considering their need to minimize undue attention, it was a boon and Nevin was grateful for it. Still, something about the populace seemed a little odd until he realized there were few children around. Only a handful were seen, and those were either swaddled or kept close to a solicitous parent.

  They shortly turned onto the street that headed toward the castle. It was much a larger central avenue than the one he had seen in Sartell, Nevin wondered whether this reflected a difference in wealth between the two kings. Meire’s castle had three main stories with numerous turrets and towers rising to higher levels, ideal for long distance lookouts. The rear of the castle backed directly into the side of the mountain, also ideal for fortification. As the failing horse trudged on, its pace noticeably slowing further, Nevin guessed that Taunton was a lot larger than he expected for this mountainous terrain.

  As they approached the front of the castle, the wagon abruptly stopped causing the horse to stagger a bit. Before them was an expansive building with a single, relatively small entrance. A few men in uniform had been loitering around the doorway but jumped to action when they spied the wagon. One went inside and raised a shout. Within a minute, litters were rushed out and the injured soldiers carefully unloaded and carried within. Nevin and the others stood by the wagon, cautiously quiet until beckoned to enter by one of the ranking Guardsmen.

  Inside was a huge room obviously assigned to military purposes. Along one side, there were at least two dozen tables with benches, apparently serving as a mess area. Several doorways marked the walls on both sides, along with a few open casements that looked into adjacent rooms. Everywhere there were weapons, shields and other accoutrements of soldiering. In two corners, there were practice areas with mats covering the stone floor, one area being utilized for swordplay and the other for some kind of wrestling or hand to hand fighting. The room was full of sounds from soldiers chattering, wooden practice weapons clattering, and blows being landed with accompanying shouts of encouragement or derision for their respective skill. Orris, already ill at ease about being in the proximity of enemy soldiers, looked about and made a noticeable doubletake.

  “What’s wrong?” Nevin whispered.

  “They’re training women! They got girls bloody suited up to be soldiers,” he hissed.

  Nevin pointed a finger to his lips to silence Orris, making a mental note to talk with him later about what the future has in store for the equality of the sexes. It was probably fortunate there were women about s
o the soldiers would pay less attention to Corissa.

  Off to their left, some medical personnel quickly appeared and started removing splints, examining injuries and barking orders for new supplies. At first ignored amid the hubbub, Nevin and the others stayed close together. Corissa came close and whispered in Nevin’s ear.

  “Nevin, I think you should speak for us. I need to draw as little attention as possible. I don’t think I will be recognized but if I am, we will be lost.”

  Nevin nodded agreement just as he was approached by a sandy haired youth, who stopped a few paces away apparently trying to figure out to address him. Wearing clothes that suggested he was a page or possibly a military cadet, he looked nervously at them but kept returning his gaze to Nevin. Finally, he stammered to no one in particular and scuttled off. “All of you are to stay here. The First Minister is coming to see you personally.”

  Nevin exchanged looks with Anson, the mage’s tightened lips indicating the importance of the moment. Before they could discuss any strategy, Nevin saw a stout woman enter from a doorway and head straight for them. Her passage was notable by the sudden halt to conversations and practice activities throughout the huge room. She walked with a very erect posture, head held high, arms gracefully swinging as she moved. As she passed some soldiers nearby, they acknowledged her with sharp nods that passed for salutes and practically jumped out of her way. She barely noticed them as she kept her eyes on Nevin and the others. She appeared to be a rather stout woman, but her figure was hidden by a maroon caftan that dropped straight to her ankles. She had dark hair, cut short and streaked with gray. Her clothing was not particularly ornate, nor did she have any jewelry that indicated rank, but there was no doubt she was a person of high status. She stopped a few feet from Nevin, and looked at him straight in the eyes before giving each of the others a momentary glance. She turned to the side and nodded slightly to the Gilsum soldiers who watched her, a silent order for them to continue their business while she conducted hers. Looking back at the four from Antrim, she spoke in a quiet tone that still conveyed her command of the situation.

  “I am Camrel, First Minister to King Meire,” she said, announcing herself to them as a group. To Nevin’s surprise, she chose to address him directly. “I assume you speak for the group. What is your name?”

  “Uh, Nevin, Miss. I mean, Nevin Reasoner.”

  Frowning slightly, as if disappointed with the name, Camrel raised her head and spoke loud enough for all in the room to hear. The buzz of myriad conversations and scurrying stopped again as she spoke.

  “On behalf of the King and the people of Gilsum, I thank these good citizens for rendering aid to our Guardsmen. These good people have saved lives and eased the suffering of our injured comrades. Is their good will appreciated by all?”

  With that question, a clamor broke out as the dozens of men and women in the room, soldiers and servants alike, gave a hearty cheer and rapped on tables with anything at hand.

  As the cheers abated, Camrel stepped closer to Nevin and spoke in a quieter tone not meant for others to heed. The other Gilsum people in the room immediately went back to their business, giving Camrel wide berth to resume hers. Speaking to Nevin but taking in the others with a furtive glance, she asked, “State your business in Taunton, Nevin Reasoner.”

  It was now or never. Nevin took a deep breath without trying to look too nervous. “We came to see the King.”

  “For what purpose.”

  “We wish to speak to him about the war with Antrim.”

  Camrel hesitated, contemplating the request. “Do you mean you have information to help us? You know some secret of theirs?”

  “Well, actually we have a lot of things to tell the King. About what happened in the village of Stedt, for one. And how that poses more of a threat to your good people than Antrim—”

  “You speak as an outsider, but that is no surprise, at least for you. About the business in Stedt, do you wish to tell us how to better use this weaponry?”

  Camrel’s question made Nevin pause. Everything they had gone through hinged on his response. Should he be truthful or not? Decry the horrible, obscene use of such destructive force and be seen as a desperate mewler for the enemy? He swallowed hard, but before he could speak, it was Orris who stepped forward.

  “Good Minister, we come to tell you of the evil of this Device that destroyed Stedt, and how the poisoned air that lingers would inflict terrible suffering on your people if merely the wind should change direction. We came to plea with King Meire to end its use and consider a truce with Antrim before there is nothing left for winner or loser. Anson, show her the hiroshima pictures.”

  Amid the noisy, bustling activity in the huge armory, Anson brought out the pictures safeguarded under his tunic. “This is the horror that Device creates,” the mage said dolefully.

  Camrel took the pictures, now heavily creased and soiled from the journey. She carefully looked at each one, her face grim but betraying no opinions. She handed the pictures back to Anson. Her face still grim, she made eye contact with each of them in turn and quietly affirmed, “You are a delegation from Antrim.”

  Nevin, Anson, Orris and Corissa nodded in unison, each fearful that this identity would mean their demise.

  Camrel drew a breath as she pursed her lips, then exhaled slowly, her proud demeanor broken for an instant. Before she could talk, a young woman ran up to her, panting but beaming at the same time.

  “Mother! I placed in the sword competition! I am half-way to earning my field uniform. Are you proud of me?”

  Camrel looked into the face of the eager trainee, who looked no older than sixteen. Not returning the smile, but softening her tone to respond, the First Minister said, “I see that you are proud enough for both of us, daughter. But now I am conducting court business and you should not interrupt me.”

  The young woman frowned and started to walk off, stopping for a second to look up at the unusually tall man standing there with three other common folks. Deepening her frown at the lack of military bearing in such a large man, she sulked off.

  Camrel stared after her, made another sigh and whispered barely audibly, “Half-way to your uniform or half-way to hell, my child?” The Minister recaptured her bearing, still speaking in hushed tones not meant for others to hear, said, “We have been informed that 946 Guardsmen were killed at our Grayflood River encampment several days ago. Do you know anything about this?”

  Nevin froze. The memory of his fight with some of these men and so many deaths struck him with a double edge of guilt and fear. Not knowing what to say or do, he started to panic. This time, it was Anson who responded. “We saw the encampment, Minister. They chose to invade and desecrate the Elvenwood, and the elves would not let them pass. I tried to warn your Guardsmen. I went to General Levant and begged him not to cross the river for the sake of his men. But he would not believe that elves could be a force to stop them. It is my greatest failure that I could not find a way to prevent this loss.”

  “Are you trying to say that we are at war with elves, as well?” Camrel responded with a shake of her head. Composing herself again, she spoke directly to Anson. “The dispatch I received from Levant said nothing of a warning…but…that is not surprising, is it? How would it make the general look to lose so many men when he had foreknowledge of their risk? I questioned the dispatchman myself, so that I might be better informed to bear this unfortunate news to the King, and the man spoke of a visitor to the general’s tent. ‘Man-of-the-Forest’ the general called him, and some thought him a spy while others overheard him bring the warning you claim. This unfortunate man was supposedly bound to a tree and tortured to reveal whether he was a spy or nothing more than the simple pacifist he seemed. Let me see your wrists.”

  Anson looked away but offered his arms for her to see. Everyone remained frozen while Camrel inspected both of Anson’s wrists, gently dropping his hands after drawing back his sleeves to see the rings of tortured flesh. Thinning her lips in a tight
ened grimace, she asked, “Your back, too, has been scarred?”

  Anson remained silent, head bowed but unable to keep tears from falling. Corissa moved over to put her arm around Anson and hugged him gently. Facing Camrel, Corissa spoke with tenderness as she grasped Anson’s hand. “Anson would have died, First Minister, and nearly did, to save those men. Now they are gone but the grief their families will suffer never ends. You can see the importance of our mission, from the measure of this man’s commitment. King Lucan acknowledges the need to end this war and wishes to negotiate terms with Meire.”

  To Nevin’s surprise, the First Minister seemed to believe them. To his relief, she waited a long minute and said, “I hope you are not too late. Follow me.”

  Chapter 20

  Meire

  Camrel led them along a labyrinth of brazier-lit corridors. Despite her bulk, the First Minister moved rapidly, but their pace afoot was nothing to match the racing hearts of the four from Antrim.

  Keeping a close-ranked single file behind her, they followed Camrel, turning on their heels when she turned. Whenever they met someone walking the same corridor, whether coming or going, that person would immediately jump to the side to let the line pass unhindered. It did not matter whether it was a guard, servant or courtier, upon recognizing Camrel under a full head of steam, the way cleared for them.

  Finally, they reached the King’s Council Room. The room, or more closely described as a hall, was huge and ornately furnished with tapestries and lush carpet framed to provide a gold-colored runway to the king’s throne. There were many guards stationed around the room and a line of petitioners, about twenty or so, queued before the throne. There were no courtiers milling about. A middle-age man wearing a crown occupied the elegant high-backed throne straight ahead of them. He was thinly built, with a narrow mustache and goatee, and his robes of office were opulent with gold brocade on red velvet.