Panic at the Lucky Dog

It’s been a while since I last posted, so I thought this would be a good scene to catch up.

Setting the Stage: The invading Brekken soldiers have been watching the Lucky Dog Tavern where Damien is finally meeting with several agents of the Information Service. The Brekken soldiers enter and want to search the premises — and believe it or not, they’re not looking for him!

L’Arrac, the tavernkeeper (also a good guy), has set up a code phrase as a warning to Damien and his agents: L’Arrac sends his son into the back room to bring out two bottles of (fictitious) aged Briseur wine as a delaying tactic and warning. (‘Briseur’ is a French word meaning ‘Breaker’ – the slang term the Piedmontése are using to refer to the Brekken.) Alarums and excursions and shenanigans ensue while the good guys make their getaway. This is what happens next.

* * *

Back in the taproom, L’Arrac took the bottles Giollo had brought and wiped them down, then took out a screw and opened one of the bottles, setting it aside to breathe. “What’s all this about, then? Who’re ye lookin’ for, an’ why here?”

“We have be watch you shop,” the Serjent answered. “Two men we watch for, dey come in your shop. Dey no come out. Where dey go?”

“Two men—wait!” L’Arrac turned red with indignation. “Ye been watching my shop? My shop?” He pounded the bar with a heavy fist. “I am an honest man! I serve Piedmontése. I serve Martagnése. I serve Kerenjí, I serve Brekken. I serve sailors, an’ fishermen, an’ workmen, an’ shopkeepers, an’ soldiers! What d’ye think I am?” He threw up his hands. “Mebbe I should stop serving Brekken, then! What men were ye watchin’? Ye saw ‘em come in, an’ didn’t see ‘em come out? Ye must not been watchin’ very well!”

The Serjent’s face went just as red. “My men, we watch good. Two men go in, dey no come out. Where dey go?”

“I don’t know! What two men? Today?”

“Yes, today! When you t’ink?” The Serjent slapped the counter with his hand. “Tall man, wit’ yellow hair. Od’er man big, like—” He puffed out his chest and made his shoulders wide. “Where go?”

L’Arrac pointed out the front door. “Right back outside! They were already drunk and tried to pick a fight with my boy! My boy! He’s only twelve, who wants to fight with a boy? I threw them out!”

“T’roo?” The Serjent looked confused. “What is t’roo? True, like tell trut’? Not lie?”

L’Arrac couldn’t help the laugh. “Not true, threw. Like throw, like—” he looked around for something, and picked up the towel he used to wipe the counter. He balled it up and threw it across the room. “Throw! Throw! I throw them out!” He finally fell back on what was rapidly becoming a pidgin speech the shopkeepers had started to use with the Brekken. “Make go out door! Make go away! They not here, ye see they not here! Ye looked in all the rooms, the yard, the stable. They. Not. Here! Now you go away! And ye stop watchin’ my shop!”

He stood there for a moment, his chest heaving as he tried to catch his temper. “The hells,” he muttered. “Look. Ye looked all through my shop and yard. Ye ‘frighted my son. Ye terrified my horse-boy. Ye put hands on all of us. There’s no one here but us! Damn ye, look around, my taproom’s empty, ye scairt everyone else away!” He turned and picked up the bottle on the back counter, pulled down two glasses and poured a finger in each—and froze for a moment as the unmistakable tang of vinegar reached his nostrils. He set the bottle down and closed his eyes hard, then picked up the glasses and turned back to the Serjent.

“Look. Here is the Briseur red, it’s my best strong wine. We drink together, friends.” He handed one to the Serjent, and raised the glass to him. “Alla sandé!” He took a breath and threw back the drink in one swallow, then breathed out hard between his teeth.

The Serjent looked at him and raised the glass. “Prozit!” He tossed back the drink, gagged, choked, and coughed, his eyes tearing. “God!” he managed to say, his voice hoarse. He set the glass down hard and pounded the bar twice with his fist. He saw L’Arrac looking at him in concern, and finally said, hoarsely, “Is good. Is strong!” He coughed once more and cleared his throat. “T’ank. We go now. Good.” He waved his men out and followed them, slamming the door behind him.

L’Arrac turned to the back counter and took down another bottle from a high shelf, and another glass. He poured two fingers and took it fast and hard, slamming the glass on the counter and standing there with eyes closed while the fumes cleared his head. Then he moved over and pulled a mug of ale, went to sit down at the nearest table and drank it down. He took a long breath, hiccupped and then belched. And started to laugh.

* * *

Muse and Music – vision and inspiration

This link is to a YouTube video from 2 Steps From Hell. I do not own this, and if this is not permitted I will remove the link immediately.

2 Steps From Hell – Rise Above
https://l.facebook.com/l.php?u=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.youtube.com%2Fwatch%3Fv%3D8VGI7PX8mic%26fbclid%3DIwAR3vALpGHnDe88VTQEYVuA8oVamnJ3NnQMBmna19vXU2cWqFO3gI0IasOZs&h=AT0s7FD5XMERO35scNb-Zz1NOAu8oeCRyJ3CgvOUNAavjDiXS7TZm02QLP9J-u4HhYc3D4bxTi7yyYHTAYsQ2apORg6puPTqu0fQJQDcf3Ae8H1YH14BkRFaJxUxpjP5OF1xew

Music is inextricably linked in my mind to writing. In fact, to every aspect of my creative endeavors. This piece has embedded itself in my mind, because in every part it mirrors Damien’s desperate ride back to Bonne Terre to warn his Queen of the impending attack. The images came of themselves; when I heard the piece for the first time I was just listening to 2 Steps From Hell, not even thinking of Spymaster.

It begins with Damien riding down out of the Breiche mountains, wearing a sheepskin coat and hat, then crossing the plains. The music changes, and he is making his way through the crowded streets of Brekkestad. He meets with his friend and contact, Marczyn, who hands him a pack of papers. Damien leafs through them, and stops on one.

Damien took the handful of papers from his contact and scanned through them. His hands froze on one, and he read it again, his breath caught in his throat. “You’re sure this is genuine, Marczyn?” he asked hoarsely.

The other man looked, and nodded. “I copied it myself. Is it important?”

“Yes—desperately…” Damien said in a fading whisper, then took a sharp breath. “I need a fresh horse.”

“Take mine,” Marczyn said, and gestured across the way to where a horse was tethered.

Damien was already crossing the allée, shoving the papers into his scrip. He mounted up and turned the horse, then tossed a purse to his friend, speaking urgently. “Marczyn, don’t go back there. Take your family and go somewhere safe.”

“But—why?”

Damien reined back, and Marczyn saw his eyes were wide and dark with horror. Then he put heels to the horse, and it leaped away. But his answer burned in Marczyn’s mind long after— “They are going to start a war!”

You hear the slash of the reins as Damien charges away, and then his mad race across the plains and into the mountains, Gloriane’s voice and memory foremost in his mind.

He reaches the Palais du Monde at Bonne Terre, throws the horse’s reins to the groom standing there, and dashes for the stairs, scrambling desperate and breathless up level after level to get to his Queen.

He arrives at the Grande Concours and calls to her; she turns, sees the desperate horror on his face, and turns back for an instant and realizes what is about to happen. She turns back, points down the stairs, and screams her daughter’s name—and the Brekken ships fire.

It’s all there. All of it. It fits. And it gives me chills every time I hear it, because I SEE it, clear and vivid.

Contretemps and Change of Heart

A long piece this time, to make up for the long break between. A little more of each character, as well.

Damien is returning from foraging for food for the travelers, to find the ladies under attack by a Brekken patrol. Cécile has killed one soldier, but Ysaut, the disguised young Queen, lies unconscious on the ground. Damien charges in and kills the other three soldiers in a whirlwind fight, where he himself is injured.

Eadmond, instead of guarding the ladies as ordered, had followed Damien instead, mistrusting him. That mistrust appeared to be justified when another patrol met Damien and spoke in friendly fashion. Damien handed over some papers, which the patrol’s sergeant looks over. Eadmond, distracted, does not see them handed back, and assumes Damien has betrayed them all.

Contretemps

He spent the next quarter hour cleaning up after the fight; first searching the soldiers’ bodies, then dragging them off away from the camp, and finally throwing dirt over the spilled blood. Next he belatedly caught his horse and unloaded the provisions they so sorely needed. By that time, Cécile had led Melina back and settled her between Ysaut and herself. Melina’s storm of emotion had passed, and when Damien had finished, she called to him.

Damien came over and knelt before her, bowing his head in profound respect and abject apology. “M’sera, m’selles, I am so sorry this has happened to you all. I—”

“M’ser Damien, no!” Melina’s voice was soft, but steady. “You have nothing for which you should apologize. You could not have known Eadmond would desert us. You were away seeing to our needs before your own.” She reached out and took his hand in hers. “I wanted to thank you. Without your intervention our case would have been so much worse. I am grateful.”

He had no words to reply to this, and in the end simply bowed his head over their joined hands in acknowledgement. And then his head came up sharply as he heard hoofbeats approaching. He was rising and turning, his knife already in his hand when Eadmond thundered into the camp.

“You bastard!” Eadmond shouted as he flung himself off the horse and onto Damien. They hit the ground together, rolling, entangled like two cats fighting in the streets. Eadmond struck at Damien with no finesse, no sense of how to fight; his blows full of rage but with no skill behind them.

Damien, in contrast, knew how and where to place his fists for the most effect. The moment he realized who he was fighting, he flipped the blade in his hand, only using the hilt to give his blows more weight. But when one of Eadmond’s blows caught the wound in his side, something snapped in Damien’s mind like a flash of white-hot lightning. He brought his knee up hard between the younger man’s legs, buried his fingers in Eadmond’s hair and slammed his head against the ground. Eadmond went limp, stunned, as Damien brought his knife up for a killing blow.

“Damien!” Gilliane’s shout froze him in place. Gilliane, not Ysaut; the snap of command in her voice the unmistakable twin of her Mother’s. For an eternal moment he held there, still and breathless—and then he breathed, and let Eadmond go. The knife was gone again, the moment’s madness past.

For another long moment Damien knelt straddling Eadmond, chest heaving with hard breaths as he fought for calm, and then he climbed to his feet and stood staring down at the younger man. One more hard breath, and he turned and crossed the clearing to kneel before Ysaut, head bowed. “My apologies, your Majesty,” he said. “I—”

“No, Damien,” Ysaut said, her words cutting across his. “No more apologies. Never apologize for protecting us, even if it is only against misguided young fools.”

Damien dropped his head lower, and then nodded acknowledgement. “Your pardon, m’sera,” he said, “I should see to him.”

“Go.”

Damien rose and crossed the clearing again, stopping to pull rope from his gear. Then he went to Eadmond, who was still lying on the ground, groggy from the blow. Damien wound his hand in the man’s collar and dragged him over to a tree, where he tied Eadmond’s hands behind his back, wound the rest of the rope around his chest and the tree, and then tied it off.

Halfway through, Eadmond began to struggle, and Damien put his hand to the man’s throat. “Be still,” he hissed, “Or I’ll put the rope around your neck! Where did you go?” But he ignored Eadmond’s struggles and finished tying him to the tree, and then simply stood and walked away.

Cécile was there as Damien rose, staring down at Eadmond, shaking in fury. She flung out her hand, pointing to where Ysaut still held Melina to her side. “Look at them,” she said, her voice hard with anger. “Look at us! This was your doing. We were attacked because you left us unguarded! What if those men hadn’t been here for their own pleasure? What if they had recognized Gilliane and were taking her captive? What then? You are endangering your Queen at every turn with your insistence that Damien is an enemy, when it is you, you, every time!”

Eadmond stared up at her, gaping. “Men?” he said, “What men?”

And then behind her, Damien staggered and went to one knee, at last yielding to the wound in his side and the strain and grief of the past days as the adrenaline and determination that had sustained him this far finally ran out. He lost consciousness to the sound of all three women calling his name.

He came to propped against a tree as Cécile stitched up the wound. It was a long cut, but not deep; fortunately, the soldier’s knife had hit his rib and slid along it instead of going in. But it had bled more badly than he had realized.

“Ah, you’re awake again,” Cécile said, glancing up at him and then looking back at what she was doing. “I’m afraid your shirt may be ruined. I’m a fair hand with needle, thread, and flesh,” she said with a slight smile. “With linen, not as much. Serviceable patches only. But a fine seam? For that you want Melina. She could run her own atelier and make a fine living. There,” she said finally, cutting the thread and cleaning up.

Damien inspected her handiwork as she wrapped a bandage about his ribs. “How did you come to learn all this?” he asked, gesturing at the medical kit and her pack of ‘necessities.’

She laughed softly, putting it all away neatly. “Seven rowdy older brothers,” she said, “and a pressing need to hunt to keep them fed.”

“And the wit to think of it all, and plan for future need?” he asked. “The henna was especially inspired.”

Cécile laughed again, “The wit I got from my Mother, and her training to think ahead. The henna, well, that comes of helping her keep her youthful looks by hiding the silver in her hair. My father loves to play his fingers in it, and has no clue what she does to keep him happy.” A merry laugh bubbled out of her. “I think!” Then she sobered, and met his eyes, holding his gaze steadily. “And now, m’ser, you will rest.” She raised her hand against his protest, and her voice went stern. “M’ser, you will rest! How long did you ride from Brekke? You said yourself, one hour only, to rest your horse. And another three days from the Capitol to here, and kept watch on us through all the nights, and when have you slept? It’s a wonder you’re not hallucinating! You need rest, you cannot function like this.”

“How can I dare rest?” There was such pain in his voice that Cécile wanted to weep. “I rested one hour, and look what happened! Think what would happen if I rested a day!”

Now her voice went sharp, to break his thought. “Damien, stop that!” Then she went on quietly, but none the less intent. “That is your exhaustion speaking, you cannot think like that. Had you not rested your horse, you would have killed it under you, and then what? You would have had to walk from Brekke, and then you would not have reached Martagne until everything was over. We would all be dead, because you would not have been there to rescue us.

“Your body is not a horse you can kill under you, and you walk off and find another! If you die of a bullet, or a knife, or exhaustion, you are just as dead, and what if Gilliane dies because you are too exhausted to make good decisions?” She reached out and laid her hands over his. “Damien, you are overwrought, you are grieving. Your judgment is suffering, and those words are the proof of it. Rest. You are not alone anymore! I will keep watch for you. I will keep watch for us all.”

There was a long pause as Damien sat there, his hands knotted together under hers, and then at last the tension went out of him all at once, and he bowed his head. Then, very quietly, he said, “M’sera Cécile, I am very glad you are here to show me my folly. You are wise beyond your years.” He took a great breath and held it long, then let it out slowly. “You are right, of course. I am a man obsessed, and that is no good thing. Obsession, and exhaustion…”

“And care, and perhaps too great a heart.” She gave him a gentle smile, and patted his hands. “Come, give over. Rest. Sleep.” And then she added with a hint of mischief, “Or need I tell Ysaut on you?”

Damien threw his hands up in mock defeat. “Touché, m’selle, I surrender! I shall rest.” But then he took her hand in his, and bowed his head over it, then looked up and met her eyes. “But it is you who have too great a heart, m’selle. And for that, I am profoundly grateful.”

* * *

Damien slept fitfully for a few hours, but then woke again, restless from the pain of his wound. He rose and built up the fire, then set up a meal from the dead soldiers’ packs and the supplies he had bought earlier. Then, when it was ready he served the ladies and himself. Only when they were all finished did he even look over to where Eadmond slept, bound near the horses.

At last he rose and went over to him and reached down, shaking him awake before standing up and backing away. “Are you really a soldier?” he asked, his voice harsh with scorn. “Or merely a dressed-up toy? Whoever trained you should be shot.” He turned away for a moment, holding hard to his temper. “I told you to stay here on guard. You abandoned helpless women for no good reason, you ignored the direct orders of your Queen! What were you thinking? Where did you go?”

Eadmond spat at him, his face twisting with hate. “I take no orders from a spy!”

“Don’t be a fool, Eadmond!” Cécile called out from where she sat across the clearing. “Damien Ring has been the Queen’s man since before you were born! He is no Brekken spy!”

“You call me a spy, then, toy soldier?” Damien spoke at the same time. “Well, so I am! Nor have I ever said otherwise. I was spymaster to Queen Gloriane until her death, and by default now I am spymaster to Queen Gilliane. Unless she releases me, in which case I shall yet be her faithful hound and follow at her heels, and fly at the throats of all her enemies. Even you, d’Almena. Even you.

“But wait—you think I am a spy for the Brekken. What do you think I would do for them? What, exactly, do you imagine a spy is good at? What would you say?” He started ticking them off on his fingers, one by one, in savage mockery. “Lies, treachery, deception. Secrets. Intrigue.” He paused a moment, then, quietly, closing those fingers into a fist. “Murder.”

Damien nodded at that, and took a breath that went down to his toes before letting it out and going on more moderately. “Yes, that, too. I am good at all those things and more. And all of those skills I lay at the foot of my Queen, for her and her alone. I play whatever part I must to do what needs to be done.” He looked down at Eadmond and shook his head and then went on bitterly. “As for what I would do for the Brekken? Had I a fast horse and a thousand knives I would cut the throats of every Brekken ever born for what they did to Gloriane. And I would butcher any man who dares lay a hand on her daughter.”

And then he leaned down toward the man at his feet and spoke in whispered tones so cold and deadly that Eadmond winced away. “And you, little toy soldier? You live at her sufferance only. If ever again you desert your Queen for any reason, I will hunt you down and flay you alive, and stake your bleeding body at the crossroads, and weep not a tear at your demise.”

“Brave little man, threatening someone bound at your feet,” Eadmond snarled back. “You weren’t so brave on the Concours!”

Damien straightened abruptly, and behind him Cécile and Ysaut shot to their feet. “What did you say?”

“I said you’re a coward! Your Queen was under attack by the Brekken, and you ran!”

“I followed orders,” Damien snapped back savagely. “Something you seem utterly unable to do.”

“You just left her there!”

Damien took one step back, white and shaking, barely holding his control. “I saw her die!” he said, his voice in rags. “I saw her cut in two by the Brekken bullets. I saw her b—” He cut himself off before he said it, before the image came up in his eyes again, before he spoke the unspeakable in front of her daughter. “No.” he said, deep and harsh in his throat, then in deadly calm, “No. I need not justify myself to you, m’ser. You have not the right to question my actions. I answer only to the Queen.”

“You, answer to the Queen?” Eadmond shot back angrily. “Then who is Charles Banford?”

Damien lost his breath in shock for a moment. “Where did you hear that name?”

“I heard it from your own lips! I saw you when you handed your report to those Brekken soldiers!” Eadmond fought against his bonds, his face filled with anger and hatred. “What did you give him? A letter telling where you were taking the Princess Gilliane?” He spat at Damien in revulsion. “Who better to spy for them than a half-Brekken bastard!”

Ysaut had moved up behind Damien throughout this, and now she stepped up and past him to stare coldly down at Eadmond, every inch the Queen she would need to become. “Charles Banford is the name m’ser Damien uses on his missions to Brekke. Missions undertaken solely on my Mother’s orders these past seventeen years, to seek intelligence to protect Martagne. And like my Mother, I have full faith and confidence in Damien—as I have not yet in you. Will you remain the willful, foolish boy-child you have been acting until now? Or will you rise and become the Queen’s Guardsman whose uniform you wore?” She lifted a hand when he made to speak. “Think very hard on this tonight, Eadmond d’Almena. I will have your answer in the morning.” She turned on her heel and stalked off , pausing a moment to touch Damien’s sleeve. “Attend me, m’ser,” she said. Damien turned on the instant and followed her away.

Behind them, Melina stood breathless in shock, while Cécile gazed after Ysaut and nodded thoughtfully.

* * *

Change Of Heart

In the morning Gilliane sent Damien to let Eadmond out of his bonds and bring him to her. Once freed, Eadmond went and knelt before Gilliane, head bowed. He spoke in a low voice, quite different from the haughty tones he had used before. “Your Majesty, I have no right to ask, but I beg you to hear me.”

Gilliane considered him for a moment. “Go on,” she murmured.

“I am sorry for the trouble I caused for you, and for everyone. I, I am,” He shook his head and began again, still not daring to look up at her. “I am Piedmontése, from the south provinces. This was my first time in the Capitol. I was just promoted, and I was so, so proud to be assigned to be your escort for the celebration. I was, I was full of myself, and it made me foolish. And then things—happened, things went so horribly wrong. And that man, Damien, came, a nameless wretch covered in sweat and road dust, and you turned to him for protection instead of to me. I was angry, and I was, I was—”

“You were jealous.”

Eadmond nodded. “Jealous, aye. That. And then he started giving orders, and you all obeyed without question, and who was this man that could command a royal Princess? And his orders made no sense, I didn’t understand.” Finally Eadmond raised his head, and gestured helplessly. “And then he killed that man, for no reason, just because he was in the hallway—”

Gilliane answered the implied question. “That man was a known Brekken spy. One whom we tolerated, because he could be used in return. But in that place, at that time? He was there looking for me. To kill me.”

Eadmond looked up, shocked, seeing the absolute knowledge in her eyes. Behind her Damien and the others moved in closer.

“The papers he had on his person were orders from his Brekken masters.” Damien’s voice was quiet and precise. “Orders to make sure that Gilliane was on the dais with her parents for the airship review. Or failing that, to find her and kill her himself. Proof of the Brekken’s treachery, detailing the date and time of the attack, and how it would be accomplished.” Damien’s slender knife appeared, spun once, glittering, and disappeared again, all in the flicker of a moment. Then his voice went cold and deadly, “I regret that his death had to be quick.”

“Damien,” Gilliane chided softly, and Damien bowed his head and stepped back.

Eadmond nodded, acknowledging the new information, then shook his head. “You should have been able to rely on me. But I was ignorant of so much. My pride and my ignorance made me foolish, and my folly endangered you, the one person I was honor bound to protect.” He looked up at Gilliane again. “I accused Baron Damien of treason, but it was I who betrayed you.” He took a deep breath, then met her eyes steadily. “I will abide whatever punishment you decide.”

“Punishment…” Gilliane said quietly, gazing back just as steadily. “So be it, Eadmond d’Almena. Hear, then, your doom.” Then she took a deep breath and raised her head. “Do better. Watch those around you. Listen to those who know. Learn what they can teach you. Carry your weight, and be the Guardsman you should be. Let there be no more of this foolishness and mistrust. We must have one goal only—to take back Martagne from the invaders. Nothing else matters. Are we agreed?”

Eadmond stared up at her, his eyes almost glazed over in shock. And then he bowed his head and whispered, “I agree.”

Behind her, Damien’s eyes were locked on her as a drowning man locks his hands on a floating branch. His breath came harsh in his chest as if from a hard run as he thought, ‘This, this is the Queen Martagne needs now!’ And never realized that in that moment his loyalty left his doomed Golden Queen, Gloriane, and settled forever on her daughter.

* * *

Arantxa Fallen

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.

* * *

This could be the start of a beautiful friendship…

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?”

“Yes, General!”

“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.”

“Sir.”

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.”

“Yes, General.”

* * *

Targets

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.

Targets

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.”

After a moment, Bellarmée nodded. “Aye.”

* * *

Interlude: B.A.S. Hellebarde

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.

“Dismissed.”

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.

* * *

Back in the (writing) saddle again

My last post was in January of this year. The last post when I still had a brain. Not long after that post I came down with shingles. NOT FUN. Before I go any further, let me just say this: if you have had chicken pox and are now of an age where you are possibly susceptible to shingles, GET THE SHOT.

Seriously, get the shot. Get The Shot. GET THE SHOT

I can NOT stress this enough! The rash and lesions are gross, and the pain is astounding. It will take your breath away. It will take away your concentration, because you can’t think about anything other than wanting it to stop. It will take away your energy, and you will sleep half your life away just to escape the pain.

GET. THE. FREAKING. GODS-DAMNED. SHOT.

That said, now this:

I love writing, and I love that I am writing again now that most of the shingles and attendant medication are gone. I love that my brain seems to be back online!

I love my cats beyond words, and that the young tuxedo boy I rescued that bolted out the door yesterday morning came back and cried to come in last night.

I love that I have friends who supported me in the worst years of my life, and I love that I am now in a position to help my friends when they need it.

I love music, and I love having found sources such as the HALO soundtracks and Two Steps From Hell to be the soundtracks for my writing.

Did I mention I love that I am writing again?

Fireside Chat

Some definitions, since I’m dropping you in the middle here: 

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.

* * *

Protégée

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?”

“I am,” she said.

He nodded once. “So be it.”

* * *