The Thunderbolt was huddled in a tight circle with forty yellow-cloaked men, shields locked together as arrows rained down on them. Mukhlun Gregory's force of sixty encircled the prince's forty.
"Loose! Loose! Loose!" the warrior priest kept yelling at his men as they unleashed volley after volley of arrows at their beleaguered opponents.
The arrows thudded against the shields of The Thunderbolt's men. The men on the outer ranks held their shields in front of them while those in the middle held them above their heads. They were clustered together like grains of wheat in a cup to maximize the protection their shields could offer but some of them still fell. The hail of arrows from the numerically superior red cloaks was unceasing. They struck every exposed part: feet, arms, shoulders, and at times even vulnerable necks.
After nearly an hour of ceaseless punishment, Mukhlun Gregory's men ran out of arrows. "Charge!" the warrior priest roared. Ten mounted men with lances couched under their arms thundered in a wedge towards The Thunderbolt's outclassed and cavalryless ranks.
The Thunderbolt's surviving 36 instantly formed a hollow square, five men to a side. The 25 men forming the faces of the square braced the butt spikes of their twelve-foot halberds against the ground, tips sticking out in front of them to form a bristling spear wall.
Their commander was at the center of the hollow square, surrounded by eleven men with the four fallen ones lying on the ground. The Thunderbolt sent five of his eleven to reinforce the north face of the square which was poised to take the full brunt of the enemy charge. The five formed a second line behind the first, sticking their halberds out in front of the men in the first line to give the spear wall a second layer.
Seeing this, Mukhlun Gregory sent twenty infantrymen to reinforce his cavalry and overrun the north face of The Thunderbolt's defensive square, effectively committing half his forces. The remaining thirty infantrymen stretched out in a loose circle to maintain the encirclement.
The Thunderbolt and his six in the middle of the hollow square loosed a hail of arrows at the charging horsemen. Horses and riders alike were struck. The horses reared and threw their riders. Other riders and some of the infantrymen running behind them were felled by the arrows and javelins. The cavalry charge floundered and failed without a single man or horse reaching The Thunderbolt's line.
Muhklun Gregory lost eighteen of the thirty men he sent on his ill-fated charge. But he still had a slight numerical advantage. The surviving riders and reinforcing infantry retreated to their lines. Only two were mounted.
There was a short staredown as Mukhlun Gregory redistributed his returning twelve in the circle. His next move was obvious even to Allara so The Thunderbolt recalled the five he had sent to reinforce the north face of his defensive square but otherwise maintained the square intact.
Mukhlun Gregory's circle rotated, his men walking slowly around The Thunderbolt's square, shouting taunts and insults. The Thunderbolt's men were quiet. He went around, saying something to the men. As Mukhlun Gregory's red cloaks walked around The Thunderbolt's yellow cloaks, their circle tightened and grew closer. Once they were within arrow range, they broke into a sprint and charged all the sides of The Thunderbolt's square at once.
The 25 yellow cloaks forming the defensive square locked their shields and braced for the impact of the charge. The eleven yellow cloaks in the center of the defensive square formed a small outward-facing circle, standing shoulder-to-shoulder firing arrow after arrow at the charging red cloaks. A few fell but many kept up the charge.
The Thunderbolt stood alone at the center of this small circle with a war hammer in one hand and a throwing ax in the other. He rotated slowly, watching the red cloaks charge his lines.
He shouted something as the red cloaks came within a single pace of his defensive square. His eleven in the center instantly dropped their bows as if they were hot rods. They bent in one move like it was some synchronized dance. When they rose, each man had a halberd in one hand and a shield in the other. They tightened the circle, locked shields, and stuck out their halberds simultaneously, leaning forward as if bracing for a charge.
This move made no sense to Allara but a moment later it did. Instead of meeting the charge head-on as everybody was expecting, the yellow cloaks forming the outer defensive square, sidestepped at the very last moment, leaving wide gaps in their ranks.
The momentum of their charge carried the red cloaks through the gaps the 25 yellow cloaks had so helpfully created for them. They had thought to use the force of their charge to break the shield wall and ended up impaling themselves on the halberds of the eleven yellow cloaks in the center instead. The yellow cloaks of the defensive square instantly closed ranks as soon as the red cloaks poured through, turned, and started battering them with their halberds, war hammers, maces, and axes.
The fight was short and brutal. The tables had turned and it was the red cloaks who found themselves surrounded and battered from the front and back. There was nowhere to run.
There were loud clunks as hammers and halberds thudded against armor. Men groaned and screamed and fought desperately. Red cloaks went down like flies.
When the carnage ended, The Thunderbolt stood victorious, surrounded by his 28 survivors of the Battle of The Sandpit. All the red cloaks lay motionless on the ground. Hamyr, The Thunderbolt's second in command during the battle, took off his helmet. His hair was matted and his face was moist with sweat despite the mid-winter chill. Hamyr surveyed the scene. He raised both his arms and balled them into fists. "Haaaaaaaaaaaah!" he roared while vigorously shaking both hands as if to exorcize some demon.
The other 27 took off their helmets as well and joined the visceral roar. It was so loud Allara thought it was going to crack the glass. All of them had rivulets of sweat flowing down their faces. Allara was wrapped in a thick woolen cloak and a fire was burning in the massive fireplace and she still felt chilly.
The Thunderbolt was the last to remove his helmet. His face was serene. It showed no signs of sweating. As it always happened whenever Allara saw him, her heart thudded just a little bit faster. He surveyed the fallen with an inscrutable look. In the sandpit, the rear courtyard of Landshield, 73 men lay still. 12 were his own. The other 61 were the entire enemy army and its commander.
He looked even more ferocious than usual, his half-severed left ear seemingly glowing with satisfaction even as his expression remained grim. His unflinching purple eyes lingered on his fallen yellow cloaks longer than they did on the enemy's red cloaks.
Lady Ermina beamed. "My husband." There were three dozen women by the window of her first-floor knitting room watching the mock battle in the sandpit.
"Rise!" the Thunderbolt roared at the fallen below. 73 men slowly rose to their feet, groaning and clutching at their ribs, arms, and knees. The Thunderbolt personally helped Mukhlun Gregory up and the two struck up a short conversation.
The yellow cloaks helped their compatriots to their feet. The victorious teammates greeted each other effusively. "You were trying to kill me for real you bastard," a red cloak accused a yellow cloak.
"You don't look dead to me," a second yellow cloak hit back. The accuser wagged a finger at the two yellow cloaks, mumbled something under his breath, and limped to a bench by the sandpit.
Squires and other boys from the castle came to help the guardsmen take off their armor. Others walked the sandpit, collecting the shields, blunted arrows, and practice weapons strewn all around. Amran and Little Horax were absent. Allara knew he would be standing vigil at The Golden Temple all night with all the other fifteen-year-old boys in Pharasandria. In the morning they become men, Allara thought.
"You are a shit general, Gregory," Sir Horax Miller, Landshield's captain of the guard grumbled loudly.
"As if you could have done better," the Purple Shield retorted.
"We had him surrounded, outnumbered, and with no cavalry. And you still managed to lose. I told you to hit him with everything we had from the get-go. No silly sallies. One massive charge with everyone we had could have broken them. We had the numbers and the horses."
"He could have whittled us down with javelins and arrows and blunted our charge," Mukhlun Gregory defended his tactics.
"He still did that," Sir Horax pointed out. "You just prolonged the inevitable and allowed him to crush us worse in the end."
"If you had hit me with everything from the outset, I wouldn't have had a leg to stand on," The Thunderbolt admitted. "My men would have fought hard, no doubt. But any victory would have been far from decisive."
"What about the double encirclement trap?" Mukhlun Gregory countered. "You were always planning to pull that one, weren't you? It's the only way you could guarantee your victory and avoid massive losses."
"I was," The Thunderbolt admitted again. "But it wouldn't guarantee victory for me if you attacked before I had an opportunity to whittle down your numbers. With numerical superiority and discipline, you can fight your way out of any encirclement. But you couldn't do it when you charged. By the time I let you through my lines I had 36 men to your 34. There was no fighting your way out of that one. And once I sprang the trap, your men already believed the battle was lost. That is always a self-fulfilling prophecy whether it's initially true or not."
"Gods!" Mukhlun Gregory exclaimed.
"See?" Sir Horax tapped his head.
"The victory would still be an uncertain one," The Thunderbolt said. "You would have been lucky to walk out with five survivors. And the tactic only works if the men are disciplined and motivated. If they get scared or believe they have been outmaneuvered, it's over."
"But even if we had lost, we would have bloodied you instead of getting crushed like cockroaches," Sir Horax insisted.
"You would have," The Thunderbolt agreed. "How about you go against me next time, Horax?" he asked.
"I have to wait for my bruises to heal first, Your Highness," Sir Horax demurred. "I took quite a bludgeoning today."
"What about after you heal?" The Thunderbolt asked.
"Sure. Let's do it three weeks from today."
"Matched troops?" The Thunderbolt suggested.
"Of course not," Sir Horax answered quickly. "I'm not that confident. I will take two to one. Plus cavalry superiority just like Gregory."
"Two to one?" The Thunderbolt asked. "You're stacking the odds against me, Horax."
"I am," Sir Horax admitted. "You need the practice. Me? Not so much. If it comes to battle I'll have you to think up the clever strategies. Who cares if you lose a mock battle as long as you win the real ones?"
"I guess you have a point. Two to one it is," The Thunderbolt acquiesced. "You and Gregory together. May Aemlilon help me."
"You can have Gregory," Sir Horax said and stood. "I will take Sylar, Hamyr Robyrus, Marvyrn…" The knight went on to choose all of The Thunderbolt's winning 28 plus the tallest and the strongest from among those that were left, bringing his numbers to 67. "You're all red cloaks now," he told them. "In 21 days we go up against His Highness and his 33 weaklings. Anyone who fails me in that battle will muck the stables for a month."
"Now you're just cheating, Horax," The Thunderbolt complained.
Sir Horax flailed his hands. "How else can I hope to defeat you?" The guardsmen laughed.
"What about me?" Mukhlun Gregory asked.
"Have you lost faith in my ability, Gregory?" The Thunderbolt teased.
"Just wounded pride," the warrior priest said.
"I have nothing against you, Mukhlun," Sir Horax said. "But you outrank me and I don't want you undermining my authority."
Mukhlun Gregory shrugged.
"Well, boys," The Thunderbolt told his 33. "We have to come up with a battle plan." He placed his arm around two of them and they all trooped off to the men's bathhouse
Ermina Rhexbhurg sighed loudly as her husband turned a corner with his guardsmen and disappeared from sight. It was a sigh of both satisfaction and longing. Bedecked in furs and jewels, she rose, and left, followed closely by her cousin Lervina, her daughter Xaena, and a dozen ladies-in-waiting.
"Bye bye, Allara Stefanus," Xaena waved at her.
Allara waved back. "Goodbye, Your Highness." The princess flashed her a smile and ran after her mother.
The smiles always warmed Allara's heart. She and Xaena had had a rocky start. The princess was more interested in chasing after butterflies in the gardens and playing with her friends than in learning the intricacies of the alphabet, spelling, and counting. Getting her to sit still for more than a few minutes was a struggle.
On Allara's first day as a tutor, the princess emptied a pot of ink over her head and ran off. Allara hadn't known why tutors used chalk and coal with children instead of ink until then. But the girl had warmed to her. They got along great. Xaena didn't run away as much anymore.
'Tomorrow is Aephyrnia. Day after tomorrow,' lesson time, Allara thought. She looked forward to her lessons with the princess. She rather enjoyed them. She had been away at the temple for four days until that morning. She had missed Xaena. The only thing Allara dreaded were her questions. And her father.
Allara didn't like thinking about The Thunderbolt too much but she did it anyway. It had been almost four months since he gave her that pot. While the incident tormented Allara, The Thunderbolt acted as if it had never happened. He never discussed it, never mentioned it, and never talked to Allara about anything other than her work with Xaena. In a strange twist of irony, this made Allara obsess over the issue even more.
Allara hadn't come to love her master. If anything, her fear of him had only intensified. The small issue of his long-suffering wife also troubled Allara deeply. While Lady Ermina was besotted with her husband, he had no interest in her company.
He occupied a tower on the opposite end of the castle from hers and only saw her when they had guests. She made frequent trips to his apartments under a myriad of excuses but he never set foot on the side of the compound she inhabited.
She took every opportunity to watch him when he was out in the yard practicing with his guardsmen. The men often acknowledged their wives with waves, winks, and even blew kisses. Lady Ermina sat by the same window every time her husband was drilling or fighting a mock battle in the sandpit. He never once glanced up at her.
Allara wished she knew more about her master's marriage but that was the one thing the servants of Landshield never dared whisper about.
"Stop speaking," Corvinia had hissed and walked away when Allara tried to ask. The same Corvinia who was notoriously unable to keep her mouth shut about anything.
It didn't help that Lady Ermina had taken a shine to Allara. She had gained her mistress' attention through her needlework and Lady Ermina liked to show Allara off to her friends.
The lady of the castle would talk about all kinds of things during their sewing sessions but her favorite subject was her husband. Her eyes would glaze and the gentlest of smiles would come to her face when she talked about The Thunderbolt. My Caedmyr, she called him. Listening to her speak, you would think theirs was the happiest of unions.
It made a small part of Allara hate The Thunderbolt but that hate was squished under a mountain of terror. How can he be so cruel to such a sweet woman? Allara often wondered. But she never got any answers. So she continued attending Ermina Rhexbhurg's sewing sessions whenever summoned and worried. Lady Ermina spent more time watching her husband hone his fighting skills than she did sewing and knitting but Allara didn't mind. Spending time with his wife was the best way to avoid The Thunderbolt.
It was impossible to avoid him completely. Allara had a standing weekly appointment with The Thunderbolt to go over his daughter's academic progress. Of all the five days of a lichum and the hours therein, the half an hour Allara spent with The Thunderbolt was the one she dreaded the most.
Every time she met him, she thought he would bring up the subject but he never did. When the meeting ended, she would feel relieved because she didn't actually know what she wanted to do. He was always stiff and proper, Allara fearful. She never knew what she feared. He never treated her any differently. Sometimes she thought she had dreamt up the whole thing but the pot on her bedside table always disabused her of that notion.
Allara tried looking at The Thunderbolt with new eyes. Tried to see him the way Lady Ermina did. But she couldn't. She had been attracted to men before. She knew how it felt. It never felt the same way with him. He was taller than the average man and classically handsome with a flawless caramel complexion, cheekbones in the right places, a jaw in the right shape, perfectly proportioned muscles, and a symmetrical face even with only half a left ear.
By all standards, The Thunderbolt was a great catch. Lots of women, including some of Lady Ermina's friends, tried to catch his eye but he paid them as much attention as he paid his wife: none. Add his power to that and he was irresistible. But it was that power that terrified Allara. The Thunderbolt never excited her the way a man should. The way other men had. He didn't make her want to smile at him, flutter her eyelashes, and stand up straighter, puffing her chest so her breasts would be more prominent.
All she ever felt in his presence was terror. An all-conquering terror that made her want to run away and never stop. Yet the same terror kept her rooted in place, knotting her stomach, and freezing her legs so hard they often felt like tree trunks.
Allara pushed The Thunderbolt out of her mind and thought of Bogdyr. She hadn't seen her brother for the better part of five months and as she thought about it, she realized it was the longest time they had been apart. They had never been apart before. Not for a single day. All her life, Allara had always had Bogdyr.
Bogdyr had always enjoyed annoying her and she hated him for it but she also loved him. And she missed him. Missed him terribly. She wished he was next to her, saying something mildly cruel. But Bogdyr was a thousand miles away. They call us warriors. But what we really are is armed construction workers, he complained in his last letter.
Bogdyr had completed the first part of his basic training and been dispatched to garrison Nauconia, a sizable city in northwestern Trevantum. The assignment disappointed him because there were no bandits to hunt or battles to fight. But he was far from idle. The peacetime duties of soldiers were endless. There were bridges to build, roads to repair, towns to fortify, and countless civil constructions to work on. Every Baenarite recruit knew it going in but it didn't make Bogdyr detest it any less.
Allara whispered a quick prayer for Bogdyr and left the knitting room. Sylvia hugged her like a long-lost friend as soon as she got to the dining hall. "You're back!"
"It was only gone for four days," Allara said.
Sylvia shrugged. "I missed you. When did you return?"
"This afternoon."
"And you didn't even say hello to your best friend?" she asked accusingly.
"I ran into Lady Ermina. She summoned me to her knitting room."
"How was the knitting?"
"We didn't knit much. There was a mock battle."
"Ooooh," Sylvia exclaimed. "I forgot about that." Sylvia's face took on a pitying look. Allara knew exactly what she was feeling. Landshield's women sympathized with their mistress. They just never said it out loud. Not even to each other. Allara didn't know why but she had been informed in no uncertain terms that it was just something you never mentioned. The Thunderbolt would not tolerate servants gossiping about him or his family.
"So how was the temple?" Sylvia asked.
"You know how it is. You've been there," Alara responded. Allara and Sylvia had been getting their periods concurrently for as long as they had known each other.
To balance out her privileges as a member of the warrior class, Allara had to volunteer in the temple during the days a month on which she was on her period. As a freedwoman, Sylvia only had to volunteer once a year. Allara would only get to go once a year after she got married. With The Thunderbolt's eye on her, she knew that wasn't happening any time soon, if at all.
Sylvia went on to update Allara on all that had transpired during the days that she had been away. The following day would be Aephyrnia, the Winter Solistice. Aephyrnia was the last of four mid-season festivals celebrated throughout the year in honor of Aephyr, The God of Gods. But Aephyrnia had another more common name: Circumcision Day.
This was when all fifteen-year-old boys shed their foreskins. This was the ritual that turned a boy into a man. Landshield had three of its own going under the knife this Circumcision Day: Amran, Corvinia's younger brother Kieran, and Sir Horax's son, Little Horax. Sylvia whispered about her plans to attend. Some of the maids had found an isolated spot on the second floor of the library tower from which to watch the ritual come morning. Sylvia wanted Allara to join them.
"Unmarried women are banned from attending circumcisions," Allara said in a harsh whisper.
"What are they going to do? Smack our ankles with clubs?" Sylvia retorted.
"Yes," Allara said. "That's the punishment. And it's both ankles. It's very painful."
"They won't see us," Sylvia said. "We will be behind a window two floors above. You think anybody will bother to look up?"
"They might," Allara said.
"Then we'll just hide," Sylvia said. "They can't see our faces. I checked. By the time they come up to investigate, we would have run away."
Allara continued to protest. When morning came, she found herself pressed against the said window with Sylvia and four maids around her. Allara had to admit she was curious.
On the central courtyard below, the three men-to-be stood side by side, stark naked and shivering from the cold. Allara felt a little sorry for them. She was bundled in two thick cloaks and had five women pressed tightly against her yet she too was shivering. She longed for a fire but The Thunderbolt didn't allow open flames anywhere near his precious books.
Two men rolled a huge wooden tub filled with water into the courtyard. Allara could see ice crystals on the surface. If they were somewhere else, they would take a dip in the river but Pharasandria's rivers were too polluted and Landshields's moat had frozen solid. One by one the boys stepped into the tub, lowered themselves into the water up to their waist, and stepped out. Their increased shivering looked more like epileptic convulsions but they stayed on their feet.
Surrounding them were their families, nearly all the men, and a few of the married women of Landshield bundled in furs and thick cloaks. A knife rested atop a small brazier filled with red-hot coals. Kieran stepped forward. His uncle stepped forward too, beside a priest of Aemlilon. Kieran's uncle cocked his hand and swung at his nephew. The boy stayed still but ducked the slap at the last moment. Everyone groaned loudly. Corvinia screamed angrily at him.
The priest shook his head and said something. Allara didn't need to hear him to know what he had said. It was the font of a thousand suicides. The most devastating thing a fifteen-year-old could hear on Circumcision Day: "You're not ready. Try again next year."
The boy had displayed cowardice. He wasn't ready to be a man. He would have to wait another year and undergo the ritual with the following year's cohort of fifteen-year-olds, a great shame. He would be marked as a coward all his life and taunted incessantly unless he proved himself otherwise. He walked away with his head lowered in shame. His family followed close behind, endlessly berating him.
Amran's eldest brother stepped forward next. Amran took his slap without flinching or making a sound. Rita smiled proudly. Even The Thunderbolt looked pleased. The priest took the red hot knife off the brazier, pinched the boy's foreskin, and sliced it off in a single fluid motion. Everyone applauded when he showed no indication of pain.
His brother led the boy away as he walked bow-legged with blood dripping from between his legs. The priest threw the foreskin onto the brazier and said a short prayer as a thin wisp of smoke. The knife went in after the foreskin.
Little Horax was next. He took a resounding slap from his father and stood still. He underwent the ritual with quiet dignity, received his applause, and was led away by a beaming Sir Horax.
The Thunderbolt then approached the priest. The two men had what appeared to be a heated argument. The priest flailed and waved his hands and shook with indignation, emphasizing every point with a vigorous downward shake of his finger. Finally, he relented. The Thunderbolt summoned two of the stablehands and gave them some instructions. The men ran off.
A little while later, Kieran and his family returned, carrying firewood. They built a small altar and sacrificed a white lamb on it, burning it whole. The boy took a second dip in the tub while his relatives wagged their fingers at him. "Act like a man or else…" Allara could imagine them saying.
After Kieran stepped out of the tub, his uncle stepped forward to repeat the ritual but the priest adamantly shook his head and waved him off, pointing at his own chest.
The priest stood in front of the boy and swung, stopping just an inch from the boy's cheek. Kieran didn't flinch. A look passed between boy and priest. The priest swung again and this time struck home. His slap was such that even two floors up, Allara and her friends heard it and winced. Kieran's head swung to the side and pulsating red palmprint adorned his cheek. The boy stayed still, made no sound, and made no move to soothe his visibly hurt cheek. The priest nodded his approval and finally circumcised the boy.
There was no applause for Kieran. The men and women gathered just nodded as a stablehand led him away, trying to walk with his legs as far apart as possible while blood dripped from between them. His relatives crowded around the Thunderbolt to effusively thank him for saving their family the shame of having one of their own labeled a coward. He nodded pleasantly, patted them on their shoulders, and waved them away.
Then his head swung and looked up, directly at the window. Sylvia and the rest ducked immediately but Allara froze. She couldn't move. Her feet felt like they were nailed to the ground and her heartbeat picked up instantly. A strange look crossed his face and then he turned away.
"What were you doing at the window?" he asked her when they met at the feast.
"I was just curious, Your Highness, I am sorry," she stammered.
"Were you alone?"
"Yes."
"You're lying," he said matter of factly. "Why?"
Allara started trembling all over. "I did not want to tell on my friends, Your Highness," she finally managed to say.
"You will NEVER lie to me again," he said with some feeling.
"Yes, Your Highness," Allara swallowed and curtsied. He walked off to warmly greet a group of nearby guardsmen. Allara's tremors finally died down.
The days came and went. Allara avoided The Thunderbolt as much as she could but she still had to see him once a week to go over his daughter's progress. Their interactions went back to what they were before.
He never brought up the incident on Aephyrnia, tried to punish her, or even ask about her other companions. Like his gift of the pot, he just acted as if the whole thing never happened. Yet Allara would hear 'You will NEVER lie to me again' whenever she closed her eyes. It tortured her. It wasn't just the words but the way he said them that bothered her. The Thunderbolt sounded hurt. Angry, she could understand. But hurt? 'How can a white lie hurt him?'
Kieran, Amran, and Little Horax were sent to the Golden Temple, to recuperate and learn the manly arts from the priests. By custom, they would stay away for six weeks. Six weeks in which no woman could see them. They would only return home on Aemlilosia, the last day of winter and the last day of the year.
It must be nice to be free, Allara thought with a tinge of bitterness at the welcome feast on Aemlilosia. Bogdyr had been sent back to work two weeks after his circumcision. He hadn't even fully healed yet. It took another week for that to happen.
She repented for her envy and joined the festivities. There was a lot to be happy about. Both she and Bogdyr were free now. As a member of the warrior class, she could never be enslaved again for any reason. Not in the 100 Realms at least. The snows and icebricks had melted and the following day would herald a new year. The beginning of spring.
She was less pleased by Bogdyr's joy at fighting in his first war. The onset of winter had whetted his lust for combat. He had fought in skirmishes against cattle rustlers, wild mountain men the Trevantenes had never been able to subdue. As if the palpable excitement apparent in his words when he described the clashes wasn't bad enough, he was going to fight an actual war. Against an actual army.
The 12th Cod War, he called it. Allara had found some information about the Cod Wars in The Thunderbolt's library but it was 50 years old. The wars were fought over the Cod Islands, a cluster of three large islands in the Khars Sea halfway between Trevantum and the Reendeni city of Marmia.
The Cod Islands were mostly fertile and flat with thick black soils, reliable rains, small but everflowing rivers, and hills full of iron ore; but their name came from the abundance of cod in their waters. All the accounts Allara read said you could dip your hands in the water from a moving boat and come out with a fish in each hand.
Naturally, the Trevantenes and the Marmians had been fighting over those islands worse than stray dogs over a bone. They changed hands twice every century or so. The last time that happened had been 56 years ago. The Trevantenes and Marmians had signed a peace treaty, taking an island each and splitting the third one down the middle. Something had happened in the interim as the Marmians currently controlled all three islands. Allara had no idea what it was and her search turned up no information. The scribes were equally clueless.
They all gave her the same response, "Nicanor Leonus should know." But she didn't want to talk to Nicanor. He had been as friendly as possible but he still made her skin crawl. She knew his offer of friendship wasn't real. He just wanted to keep her close so she didn't spill his secrets.
'And he has a sword hanging over Bogdyr's head.' That rankled her the most. Nicanor's lover Mukhlun Gregory, on the other hand, barely acknowledged her existence. To see him walk past her, you would think she was an ant on the floor.
I could ask His Highness, she thought but immediately dismissed the idea. He was friendly enough to the servants but she was too terrified of him to even initiate a conversation. She had sent a letter to Bogdyr inquiring about the previous Cod Wars but the Royal Mail had been extremely slow in the winter. 'Maybe it will speed up with spring,' she thought hopefully. 'Or I'll just ask Nicanor. What's the worst he could do?' The Thunderbolt made his rounds among the servants and slunk to the opposite side of the room.
Aemlilosia ended and a new day dawned: Aemianza, the first day of spring. New Year's Day. Everything restarted after Aemeianza. Tilling, building, sailing, and waging war. But first, there was feasting and drinking and gift-giving and chariot racing.
Aemlilosia and Aemianza were celebrated back to back and after two days of continuous feasting and drinking, no one in Landshield couldn't stand up straight. Two days after Aemeianza, The Thunderbolt and half the men of Landshield set off on a hunting trip in the woods north of Pharsandria. They took the three newly minted men with them, which was the whole point of the expedition. Kieran, Amran, and Little Horax were expected to kill a wild animal to cement their status as men.
When the hunting party returned a week later, Bogdyr still hadn't answered Allara's letter. She was having breakfast in the servants' dining hall when The Thunderbolt came in. Allara noticed him immediately but none of the others seemed to.
Hamyr was singing a rendition old battle hymn that had been banned a century ago by Pharas The Pious:
Ring the bells of Vaechia,
There's joy today,
The Aemlilonus' come
To fuck your gods.
Woi woi how the widows wail
Woi woi how the orphans howl
T'is a Rhexian army
On above your walls
Our swords fuckin'
Y'all up the ass
Woi woi how the widows wail
Woi woi how the orphans howl
"Fuck you, Hamyr! Fuck your father, fuck your whore mother, who was fucked to make you. Fuck you!" the target of the song, Marlon The Merciful, cursed. "You and I worship the same gods."
"Because we made you," Hamyr said. "You'd still be sacrificing your children to false gods if not for our swords. We showed you the light. You were savages and we civilized you. Be grateful and at least win us a race, you half-breed donkey."
The chariot racer had had a rough stretch of weeks since the winter solstice. He had lost all his nine races and had fallen off his chariot without finishing three of them. Marlon The Merciful didn't live in Landshield but he often visited as his horses were stabled there. What had started as a light ribbing of the charioteer's performance on the track had turned ugly.
Marlon somehow mentioned that his mother was Vaechian and Hamyr asserted that's the reason Marlon was losing. "Vaechia has never been a land of winners," Hamyr said. "You fought 100 wars against us and lost 99. His Highness should get some Rhexians to drive his chariots. We know how to win."
"My father is Rhexian," Marlon protested.
"I meant pure-blooded Rhexians," Hamyr responded. "Not half-breed mongrels like you." He derisively waved his hand up and down in front of Marlon's face. "Half Rhexian half barbarian. What a disgrace."
"I am not a barbarian!" Marlon The Merciful screamed.
"All Vaechians are barbarians. You live by the Sechia Sea. Your grandmothers were raped by Khwefian raiders every summer for a thousand years. You are the bastard offspring of barbarians. That makes you barbarians. All of you! Khwhefian rape babies!"
"That's a very interesting theory Hamyr," The Thunderbolt interjected. A hundred heads swung towards him.
"Y… Your Highness, I didn't… " Hamyr stammered.
"You do know that Queen Diopetha is a Vaechbhurg, right? And Pharas. How the future king would be pleased to learn that he's only half a barbarian," The Thunderbolt taunted.
"Your Highness, please," Hamyr groveled. "It was only harmless banter. I didn't mean it."
The Thunderbolt placed a hand on Hamyr's head. "We are all Bhaandini, yes?" he asked.
"Yes, Your Highness," Hamyr said.
"And no Bhaandini can be a barbarian, yes?"
"Yes, Your Highness."
"Get up. You look ridiculous," The Thunderbolt said. "And apologize to Marlon."
Hamyr stood up and The Thunderbolt turned his hand over. His palm was stained black. "You dye your hair?"
"Yes, Your Highness," Hamyr responded with an embarrassed look
"I knew about your grandmother," Prince Caedmyr said. "But this… What else have you been hiding from me?"
"Nothing, Your Highness," Hamyr answered quickly. "Nothing. Only the hair dye."
The Thunderbolt looked at him for a long while. Hamyr appeared to visibly shrink. "Get me some water," he finally said.
All 100 of them scrambled to find water for their master to wash his hand. Someone thrust a jug of water into Allara's hands. "Let's go," Hamyr, holding a bronze washbasin, told her. That's how she found herself washing his right hand while Hamyr held the washbasin to catch the runoff.
As she scrubbed the black dye off his palm and fingers, Allara realized that it was the first time she had ever touched him and instantly tensed. He gave her a go-on look and she continued, acutely aware of her skin touching hers. She had forgotten her terror in the rush to get the water and now it came back with a vengeance. His steady unflinching gaze didn't help.
Allara finally finished her task. The Thunderbolt inspected his hand, summoned Rita, and left. Allara's heart rate slowly went back to normal. As soon as The Thunderbolt left, the teasing began.
"Tell me Hamyr," Marlon started. "Why does a pure-blooded Rhexian need to dye his hair?"
Hamyr just glared at him without saying a word. "Are you a mongrel too?" Marlon continued. Hamyr didn't say a word.
"What kind of people have colored hair?" Marlon asked the room.
"Barbarians!" came the near-unanimous response. Hamyr stormed out in a huff.
Allara went through her day with the feel of her master's skin in her mind. She found it bizarre that they had never touched before. His skin felt pretty normal. Soft with hard muscles underneath. It was warm. She didn't know why she expected it to be as cold as ice.
A little after noon, Princess xaena started complaining that she was tired and hungry. Allara let her go. She had lunch in the servants' dining hall and collected her wages from Sir Parnyrl afterward.
She got all her necessities met at Landshield so she saved most of what she was paid. She had accumulated quite the nest egg. She took out a quarter of the silver and went to deposit the rest in her box at The Golden Temple.
She washed her hands, face, and feet in the temple courtyard, left her sandals with a luggage clerk, and trudged barefoot up the stairs. Inside, she showed her key, bronze identity tag, and box owner's certificate to a priest. He examined all items closely and checked a huge leather-bound book. Finally, he waved her on.
She went through a series of guarded doors and finally came to the massive stone doors that led down to the temple treasury. She showed her key, bronze identity tag, and box owner's certificate again before she was allowed entry.
The vaults were guarded by more warrior priests. She showed her key again at every turn and was pointed in the right direction although she already knew the way. She made the trip to her deposit box every month.
She walked past rows and rows of Temple Steel drawers with small keyholes. There were people here and there opening and closing their boxes. She idly wondered what valuables each contained. For a silver stallion a month you could store anything in the steel boxes under The Golden Temple. She had paid for a full year of storage. Half the temples of Aemlilon offered storage for valuables in their vaults.
Allara stopped by her vault. 102,864, it read. The row was unusually deserted. There was always a warrior priest making the rounds. Allara slid her key into the slot and opened the Temple steel of her storage box. In it, she kept her most valuable possessions: her Edict of Manumission and her savings.
She emptied her latest batch of savings into the box, taking some perverse pleasure in the clinking of the coins. She knew it would be years before the box filled up. Then she would just rent another box and probably convert the silver to gold so she can fit more of it in there. She counted them. One thousand two hundred and seventy-seven stallions, she thought proudly. Princess Xaena could now count to a thousand.
Allara exhaled loudly and closed her box. When she turned he was just standing there. Barefoot and leaning against the wall, unflinching eyes trained on her. There was no one else around. She didn't know how long he had been standing there.
"Y… Your Highness…" she stammered and fell to her knees.
He detached himself from the wall and covered the two paces between them in a single stride. He stopped in front of her. "Stand up," he said simply. "You can't kneel to me inside a temple."
Allara stumbled to her feet, her head still bowed. With one hand he grasped her chin and raised it, staring directly into her eyes. The vein on Allara's neck was throbbing so hard she was certain he could see it. "Pools of gray," he murmured.
Somewhere in the back of her mind, she knew he was talking about her eyes but it just didn't register under all the terror. She was half expecting thunderbolts to shoot out of his purple eyes and incinerate her for daring to look into them. But with his fingers grasping her chin like a vise, she couldn't move her head, let alone look away.
"Why are you always so terrified of me, Allara Stefanus?" he finally asked.
Allara found herself tongue-tied. "What have you done to warrant my wrath that makes you so terrified of me?" he asked.
"Nothing, Your Highness," Allara answered. "I haven't done anything."
He just stared at her for another long moment. He finally withdrew his hand and she immediately bowed her head. An arm shot out and righted it again. "Look at me when I'm talking to you," he said.
"Yes, Your Highness," Allara nodded.
"Have you thought about what I asked you on the day you swore allegiance to me?"
"Yes, Your Highness."
"And? Would you like to be my mistress?"
"Yes, Your Highness," Allara answered slowly. She wasn't sure but she couldn't bring herself to say no.
"Your heart is thudding like a marching drum. How can I believe a word you say?" came his response.
Allara was at a loss for words. 'My heart? Marching drum?' "My heart, Your Highness?" she stumbled.
"Yes. Your heart. I can hear it."
As if in response, Allara's heart got even louder and filled her ears with its beat. She just stared at him, not sure what to say or do. Her mouth went dry.
He handed her a key. It looked like hers. She took it slowly. "Open it," he pointed at the box next to hers. 102, 865, Allara read. "Open it," he insisted. With a trembling hand, Allara inserted the key into the keyhole and pulled the drawer open. It was quite heavy. In it was more gold than Allara had ever seen in her life. Coins and coins and coins of shiny yellow gold. She immediately slammed it shut, panting.
He handed her a roll of vellum. It was the certificate for Box 102865. In her name. "Y… Y… Your Highness," she stammered.
He put a finger on his lips, urging silence. "Ermina's brother is getting married in Namantown at the end of this month. I leave the day after tomorrow. My father wants me to call on a bunch of towns and cities on the way. I will be gone for six weeks, maybe seven. Xaena and Ermina too," he started.
"Take that time to think about it. I had your brother granted leave. He should get to Pharasandria by the end of the week. You can go see your mother too."
"My mother?" Allara asked. She didn't even know whether her mother was still alive. How could he?
"Yes. I didn't mention it earlier. She was still unsure about it but she has agreed to meet you. Do you know Makan Ridge?"
"Yes, Your Highness," Allara answered. It was the town where Baeon The Bard got buried in rotting cabbages a couple of years before she was born. Everyone knew the story.
"Your mother is a priestess at a temple 10 miles south of Makan Ridge. The village is called Kiburk. The Sacred Mud Temple. Ask for Mikhlin Julia."
"I didn't know you knew my mother, Your Highness?" Allara.
"I didn't. Not at first. It was your grandfather I knew."
"My grandfather?" Allara blurted. "Is he alive?"
"No. Your grandfather died during a sortie at the siege of Wayan's Harbor ten years ago. You didn't know?"
"No, Your Highness," Allara shook her head, suddenly overcome with sadness. She liked to think he was alive even if it was more likely he was dead.
"He was a brave man. We spent many windy nights together atop the wall while Maevites bayed for our blood below. He told me all about his voyages with my uncle and about his daughter and grandchildren in Salandport. He took an arrow for me. When the wound got infected, he insisted on going out on a sortie so he could die a warrior's death. He burnt a siege tower, killed a Maevite, and received an axe in the face from a second one for his trouble. His actions prolonged the siege for another three days. Enough time for my father to arrive with a relief force and break the siege. I owe your grandfather a great deal," The Thunderbolt said with a twinge of sadness.
"I looked for you kids when Salandport fell but no one had seen you since your father got hanged. Nine years later I blunder into you at The Roost. How did you even get there? The king pardoned all commoners after the Salandrian Revolt."
Allara thought of telling him about their first meeting. When he stopped a Baenarite from cutting her and Bogdyr in half. "We went to find grandpa," She said instead.
"And?"
"We were abducted by Khwhefians. Vultures. They made us slaves. We followed our mistress to Confluencia when she got married. Then our mistress' husband got indebted to Lord Brooksbhurg and we were traded to The Roost," Allara explained. "What about mother? How did you find her?"
"I found her in Maevi'i a year after the rebellion. I had an agent buy her and ship her home. She decided to dedicate her life to Aeduia in eternal penance."
"You never told me any of this before," Allara said. It was half a question and half a statement.
"Your mother didn't want me to."
"Why?"
"You will have to ask her."
"What about the gold?" Allara pointed at the deposit box.
"That's all yours," he said.
"Why? What for?" she asked.
He moved very close. "I harbor certain affections for you, Allara Stefanus. If you do not share similar feelings, it would be best if we don't see each other again. Take the gold and set yourself up somewhere in the realm. Buy some land and grow wheat, or raise cattle. Marry a good man. With that kind of money, you will never have to do anything you don't want to. You will be comfortable for the rest of your days," he said.
Then he continued, "If you choose to stay, you will remain my servant and you will be expected to behave like one. You will be treated as one and if you displease me or Ermina in any way, you will be punished as one. Use my absence to reach a decision. If you have to speak to anyone, talk to your mother. I trust her to keep her mouth shut. And she knows about my… intentions with you. But you will not breathe a word to anyone else. Not The Bullslayer and not to your friend the cook. Do you understand?"
Allara nodded. "Yes, Your Highness." The Thunderbolt turned on a heel and walked away.