The Shattered Realms: A Queen's Heart, #2

THE SHATTERED REALMS

Part Two of A Queen’s Heart

by

David Waine

Turnspit Dog Publishing

© David Waine 2013

*

This is a work of fiction. All characters, places and events are fictional. Any resemblance to a real person, place or event is entirely coincidental. No part of this narrative may be reproduced in any way without the written consent of the copyright holder. David Waine has asserted his moral rights. All rights reserved.

*

www.davidwaineauthor.com

*

First published 2013

This edition published 2022

*

Dedication

To my wife, Helen, and our sons, Michael and Paul

CONTENTS

THE SHATTERED REALMS

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

THE POWER OF FOUR QUEENS

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

CHAPTER 1

A SOMBRE SKY gloomed over Graan. It was barely noon, yet the day fretted and grumbled as if a are of the dread that afflicted its people. The streets were virtually empty, especially in the stricken Lower City where commerce had bustled cheerily only the previous day, but terror now strutted unchecked, threading its tendrils like an icy ghost through every square and alleyway.

Beyond the dividing wall that separated it from the wealthier Upper City and the Golden Citadel, scarcely a soul ventured abroad. No house had been isolated, but all who dwelt there knew that their lives depended on a thick barrier of dressed stone, designed to keep an invader out, yet was no impediment to a rat.

Dr Yarovin Lustik entered his study, closing the heavy door behind him and leaning against it with a weary sigh, born more of his depressed spirit than fatigue. His heart sagged, born down by the weight of the responsibility he had inherited. He was a young man, barely thirty, dark of hair, swarthy of countenance and slender of build. The build aside, his stock was traditional Draal, like many more in the city and province. Rumour had reached even his ears from time to time that he had been considered a worthy prospect by the unattached maidens of the upper city. He shuddered to contemplate how they would see him now that the rat ship had struck.

From this moment forth, he could neither dream of such things nor be a symbol of hope to the ailing. He was condemned to become a figure of abhorrence, whose knock would be dreaded. Adults would cross the street to avoid him and children would hide as he walked abroad, masked and cloaked. Fingers would be pointed at his back and whispered words of fearful opprobrium exchanged to mark his passage.

By a quirk of fate, not of his doing, he was the most powerful soul in the Kingdom, for not even Queen Avalind could re-enter the city without his leave. She was out there yet, on the training field, poring over that accursed device that destroyed walls from afar. He was the mightiest undoubtedly, yet the most despised indisputably. He had dedicated his life to selfless service of the people, from the noblest to the meanest, but so did the hangman, and — in truth — there was little to separate them now.

It took him a moment to realise that his eyes had closed as the dread spread through his stomach and into his bowel. The gravity of his situation appalled him, and he shook at the thought of it, yet there was nothing he could do, save what had to be done.

Falteringly, he crossed the room to his writing desk, past the meticulously tidy racks of books and glass jars in which sundry creatures were preserved. Beyond that, two plain closets stood against the far wall. One was large and its chipped varnish and worn handle bore testimony to its regular use. That was where he stored his potions and instruments. The other was smaller and stood stark, seemingly new, but actually equally old. It glinted coldly in the weak daylight filtering through his window. That cupboard had remained unopened since the day he had accepted his appointment, save once for him to try on its contents.

He passed by the desk, the fingers of his right hand drumming nervously on the polished surface. Here he paused. Reaching down, he pulled open the bottom drawer. The inside was dusty and empty, containing just one item: a key, unused in years.

Picking it up, he fitted it into the lock of the new-looking closet. It was stiff, but it opened with a creak. There they hung, exactly as he had left them on the day he took up his situation: the heavy black leather coat and trousers, the large-brimmed hat and the terrifying mask with its great hooked beak and soulless red lenses where the eyes should have been. The stout boots, gauntlets and cane were in a corner at the back: silent, remorseless, pitiless.

He shrank from it, the uniform of the Angel of Death, his by right and responsibility. If any in the city were to survive this infestation, he must clothe himself in this horror, separate the infected from the healthy and leave them to die. Should he fail in his task, all were condemned.

He must cease to be Graan’s senior healer and become the plague doctor instead.

The training field of the city’s military academy stood beyond the walls and was bounded by a loop of the river. Here, Queen Avalind Vandamm, Prince Adiram Cabral and their senior military advisers for Graan province were still examining the huge hole torn in an old wall by the great gun that they had removed from the rat ship the day before. Keenest interest was shown by General Sir Simian Treponic, commander of the Border Force.

The device, itself, appears to be quite simple, he remarked. There are no moving parts, other than the wheels used to transport it."

It is painted black, remarked Avalind. What metal did they use?

General Sir Keriak Rulik, commander of the Graan garrison, withdrew his dagger from its scabbard and scraped a little paint from the barrel of the gun. It looks like copper, he announced.

More likely bronze, postulated Simian. Stronger than copper. Not as heavy as iron, and it won’t rust either. Hence its choice for use at sea.

Is there any reason why we could not cast one of our own? asked Cabral.

I don’t see why not, answered Simian. It should simply be a question of making a suitably accurate mould and boring it out precisely. I think we must assume that the tolerances will be very tight, given the explosive power of the device.

That still leaves the composition of the powder that discharges it, put in Baron Killian.

The captain of the rat ship told us that it is a mixture of brimstone, charcoal and saltpetre, confirmed Simian, but he does not know the proportions as he was not involved in its manufacture.

Are all three materials readily available in the Kingdom? asked Avalind.

Oh yes, answered Killian. We still do not know the proportions, though

But we can experiment? asked Kupornik.

Carefully, cautioned Simian. We have seen its destructive power.

The healer had sent a message asking them to remain where they were until he could clarify the situation within the walls. He had pledged to send his report at the earliest moment. It was delivered half an hour later in a box lowered from the ramparts.

That looks ominous, remarked Killian. He isn’t bringing it himself.

Keriak freed the box from its net of ropes and presented it to his queen.

Her cascading russet hair was ruffled slightly by the gentle breeze as she extracted the folded sheet of parchment. Breaking the seal, she scanned it and nodded grimly in confirmation. Our freedom has been removed from us by the only man with the power to do it.

For how long? asked Cabral.

Holding the parchment up, she read it aloud for them.

"Your Majesty,

It is with great sadness that I am forced to issue a quarantine order to cover the entire city and its surrounding area. Nobody may enter or leave and, I regret to inform you, that order includes yourself, Prince Cabral, Baron Killian, Generals Rulik and Treponic and Admiral Kupornik. Furthermore, as you are all located beyond the walls at present, I must forbid you from re-entering the city, for fear of infection, until it is safe to do so. I rely on the baron’s wisdom and the diligence of his senior officers to provide you with suitable accommodation.

Plague is virulent and deadly. At present, it seems to be restricted to one area of the Lower City. My assistants and I will know better when we have made a thorough survey, and we will undertake our best endeavour to prevent it from spreading. This, however, cannot be guaranteed, given its nature.

The symptoms of the disease are swellings and blisters, in the area of the neck and the groin. They will appear within a week of infection and can be extremely painful. I will check you all daily, dressed in my protective clothing, but you should also check yourselves every few hours and inform me directly if there is any sign of infection. Hopefully, none will appear, and Your Majesty and Prince Cabral will be free to leave after a safe period of ten days, although you may still not enter Graan until the danger has passed.

I deeply regret having to take such action, Your Majesty, but there is no other way to prevent the disease from spreading.

I remain your loyal and obedient servant.

Yarovin Lustik (Senior Healer of Graan)"

She lowered the parchment and stared coolly back at the men around her.

So, we cannot even return to our chambers? asked Cabral.

She nodded. Turning to Baron Killian, she continued, Nor can we go home lest we carry the pestilence there. Ten days away from our children. That is a blow to my heart. We must send messages to Brond, Zinal and Kurial. Gledden, Kurian and Rudnik must be informed. What accommodation can be provided out here, Baron?

Killian scratched his white head and indicated a low stone building on the far side of the training field. That is the academy barracks, ma’am, he told her, currently full of trainees, but some of them can move into tents to provide room for us, and the rest can give the place a thorough cleaning to make it habitable for you. It has its own larder and kitchens. There are food stocks for weeks, so we will not go hungry. She nodded with a smile. I should add, however, he went on, that it is a barracks, so the accommodation will be basic and the food wholesome, but plain.

Avalind laughed good-naturedly and treated him to one of her famous smiles. Can it be worse than the hold of a slave ship? I have had that experience.

You were only there for a day, put in Cabral with a chuckle, I was in it for a week.

Not the entire week, she responded mischievously, pressing his hand. You spent some of it in the sea, avoiding sharks.

Oh yes, remembered Cabral with a wry grin, they let me have a wash.

In the upper city, the healer emerged from his room, clad in the heavy boots, trousers, gauntlets, coat and hat, but carrying the mask in his free hand. Its long, beak-like nose was freshly stuffed with herbs and spices to keep evil humours from infecting him. He carried his cane in his other hand. Two junior healers, both clad as he was, waited by the postern, along with several worried guards.

We will make our inspection of the Lower City, announced the healer. One house has already been identified as carrying the infection and has been isolated. We will go together, taking meticulous notes. By the time we return, we will know precisely the extent of its penetration. Turning to the guard, he added, We must all be hosed down thoroughly before you readmit us. The disease is transmitted through fleabites. These outfits will prevent them from penetrating our flesh, but no fleas must remain on us when we pass through.

The guard nodded as all three healers removed their hats and strapped the hideous masks tightly to their faces. Pulling his collar up to protect the back of his neck and replacing his hat, Yarovin Lustik eyed his acolytes through his red-tinted lenses. Well, gentlemen, he announced, let us discover the worst.

They went from house to house, tolling a bell and instructing every citizen they found abroad to leave whatever he or she was doing and return home to await his visit. Only when all the ways were empty did they begin their survey. Lustik and one of his assistants examined each member of the household while the third noted down the findings.

No outbreak was detected in the first seven houses. His message was the same at all of them.

There is no infection here, but that could change. The disease is spread by fleas on rats. To protect yourselves, you must wash your bodies and your clothes regularly. The house must be kept scrupulously clean. If you see a rat, kill it if you can, but do not touch it — even after it is dead. Pick it up with a stick and burn it with your rubbish in your backyard.

At the next four houses, however, he had to give a different message to quailing occupants.

There is plague here. You must surrender the key and I will lock you all in. You will not be allowed out again until the disease has passed. Food will be supplied to your window daily.

The woman of the first house fell to her knees, tears cascading. Is there no hope for us, Healer? she cried.

Gently he took her hand. One of your family has contracted the disease, he told them. In time, it may pass to the others — or it may not. There is no way of knowing, so the best we can do is to contain it until it runs its course. The dead cart will pass daily. If any here has succumbed, you must give up the body for cremation immediately. Full funeral rites will be observed, but you will not be allowed to attend, for fear of infection. There is, however, a chance that, even if infected, you may recover. Your best hopes lie in keeping yourselves and your house as clean as possible, and in prayer.

With that, he left them, taking the key and locking them in. An assistant produced a wooden cross, painted red, which the senior healer nailed to the door as a warning for others to stay away.

Hosed down at the postern, they returned to the training field, which he discovered to be in a turmoil of activity as students erected a small forest of tents that were to be their accommodation for the next ten days at least. Further crews were swabbing the interior of the building down thoroughly to prepare it for its royal guests.

Having ordered a medical tent to be erected, he found the queen and her entourage in the barracks.

Ma’am, he announced with a bow, I regret to inform you that the plague has now spread to four houses in the lower city. They are near neighbours. I have restricted the infection-free houses on either side to essential excursions only to limit the spread. The infected houses have been isolated and the people within provided for. When all inside are dead, the buildings will be burned to the ground.

Avalind heard the strain in his voice all too plainly and her heart sighed within her, for she could imagine the agony already etching itself into his fine features beneath that horrific mask. Is there no hope for those people? she asked.

The healer shook his beaked head. Very little, I am afraid. Our medical books tell of miraculous recoveries, but they are extremely rare and more in the hands of the Almighty than the physician. Turning to the group as a whole, he added, My assistants will examine the students and I will examine you all, beginning with Your Majesty. If you would accompany me to the medical tent, ma’am…

Twenty minutes later, he announced, with evident relief, that there was no sign of infection. Reports also indicate that there is no infection among the students either. If the situation remains unchanged for a further ten days, you will be able to leave.

***

KUTARIK BLEW HEAVILY through his nose. The muscle-bound, sweaty commander of the invading forces squinted at the sunshine flooding the Imperial City of Krimmin. Being accustomed to the eternal gloom of the Lord’s Morgonnun, he did not like the bright light. It hurt his small, piggish eyes. At least he could rest them on the ruins of the conquered city, and that served to improve his temper a little.

The sun shone down on a sorely altered metropolis. Where a glittering citadel had once reared to its shimmering crystal dome, blackened, cracked walls teetered and ragged gaps had been torn in the splintered ramparts. Desolation stalked the vacant, battered streets and the fountain in the main square gushed no longer. The greatest of the fires had died down, but a new one could be found on the beach where the invaders had begun to pile the bodies of the slain Krimmin defenders and set them ablaze, lest disease should break out among their own number. Fresh rain was already damping the fires down.

Only the wharves were undamaged as twenty-nine ships unloaded their cargoes of troops and weaponry to establish their bridgehead. He had already sent out a patrol to inspect the nearest villages for signs of insurgents, but it had not returned. He was beginning to feel vague concern over that.

Soldiers, garbed in plain black, marched from house to house, sniffing out isolated survivors, lining them up against walls and summarily executing them. That treatment was even applied to the occasional woman or child who had not fled.

Above it all, silent and majestic, rose the Sentinel, Krimmin’s vast mountain that dominated everything for as far as the eye could see. Legend held that it contained a benign spirit that kept the land safe, only now that spirit had deserted them, for it reared its glacier-crowned peak to the heavens, aloof and alone, while an entire civilisation was destroyed at its base.

Yet not quite alone, for a hint of defiance stirred yet in the shattered realm.

Kutarik inspected his latest patrol. They were a motley crew, only half-trained and armed with bows and swords. He knew that, although the Krimmin fleet had fled with an army aboard, and the remaining defenders had been destroyed, a large part of the land’s armed forces had yet to be accounted for.

He was disgruntled. The turncoat, Kopik, had told King Magnan and Queen Russica all that he knew, so they had been able to take some defensive measures before the invasion was launched. The vast majority of the civilian population had been evacuated, leaving a distinct shortage of nubile nymphets for him to ravish and destroy. He had issued an order to search all the neighbouring villages, kill any soldiers that they found and bring all the young women back to him alive. None had yet appeared.

He had been trained to deliver the hammer blow that would crush all opposition at a stroke. That was done, and yet Krimmin was not yet fully defeated. They were adopting their own version of the old Morgonnun tactic, which was likely to make this war a protracted one before he could announce absolute victory to his master. He was not used to an enemy that fought back. His only battle had gone his way, as was inevitable, given the superiority of his armament, but from now it would be a case of hit and run: a murder here, a skirmish there, an ambush somewhere else, and he would lose men in every one of them. So, would they, of course, but he knew that they could sustain their losses while he could not. The great guns were too bulky and heavy to move into the forests and mountains. Besides, he could not risk their falling into enemy hands, so he would have to rely on foot soldiers. The elite, armed with their rifles, were too precious to risk as there were only a thousand of them, so it would have to be the rank and file with their muskets or even the half-trained lackeys with their bows and arrows.

Cuffing the nearest soldier and damning him for a blackguard, he sent the troop out, watching them until they disappeared round a bend in the road before raising his hand and snapping his fingers.

A small squad of fully armed elite soldiers, carrying rifles, rounded the corner at a smart trot and stamped to attention before him. Their sergeant saluted.

Follow that patrol at a discreet distance, grunted Kutarik. If it runs into any resistance, I want to know. And I also want the heads of the leaders.

The sergeant saluted and gave the command. His troop fell into step behind him.

An hour passed. The sergeant in charge of the first patrol, still ignorant of the second following them, raised his hand for his men to halt. He could see the shingled roofs of a village distantly nestling in a little valley between two wooded hills ahead, but the trees stood densely across the road and blocked their path.

What do you think? he asked of the nearest man.

The road passes through the wood, Sergeant, replied the man. It looks like a good place for an ambush.

The sergeant nodded, scanning the hillsides and failing to find a suitable way around the trees that did not involve an exhausting climb.

The previous patrol didn’t come back, he announced to his troops. My betting is this is where they were done. Steeling himself, he cried, We have no choice. Fan out! We will give them less of a target. Each man to remain within sight of the men on either side.

His squad did as they were told, transforming themselves from a small column, marching along the road to a thin line straddling it. Cautiously, with arrows nocked, they made their way forwards towards the trees.

They reached the first boughs without resistance. Here they paused, the sergeant’s ears cocked for any sound. He could remember hearing stories about how the wildlife went still and quiet whenever enemies lay in wait. He was never quite sure whether he believed them, and this, he reflected ruefully, was no time to find out. He could clearly hear birdsong within the wood, which seemed to him a good sign if it really were birds that were singing. He raised his hand, motioning to his men to proceed cautiously.

They had advanced more than a hundred paces under the eaves when the birdsong suddenly stopped. They were on the edge of a small clearing and had taken no more than two steps further before the first of them fell, clutching at an arrow in his breast. Immediately swords were drawn, and panicked men loosed off arrows in all directions, one of them even felling a fellow soldier.

More arrows spat forth from the trees, dropping several men, then a small host of attackers, dressed in green tunics, swarmed out of the trees, blades whirling. Within twenty seconds, the entire patrol lay dead.

Captain Sodarnik wiped his sword clean on the body of the sergeant before sheathing it. He looked different from when he had arrested the delegation from the Lost Lands. Gone were the armour and ornate trappings, although his goatee beard was as neatly trimmed as ever. Now he wore a loose-fitting green tunic, plain trousers and stout leather boots, much the same as the rest of the men under his command. The purpose of the new uniform not being to terrify an enemy so much as to be invisible to one.

That makes two patrols, he growled with evident distaste. The men they had just killed were little better than farm boys rounded up at random and given weapons. And this is the army that defeated us?

It was their ships that defeated us, sir, pointed out his sergeant. They can’t bring them on land.

Sodarnik nodded grimly. They hold their best men back in the city, lest we launch a counterattack. These poor fellows were sent out to die. We have reduced their army by what… twenty men? He was scratching his goatee beard. A pinprick. How can we hit them so that it hurts?

A crack sounded from the trees and his sergeant jerked and fell, a brief fountain of blood spurting from his back. Further cracks sounded and two further men collapsed.

DOWN! yelled Sodarnik. His men hit the ground instantly as more balls screeched over their heads, rebounded off tree trunks and whined off into the wood. The head of the sergeant lay next to his. The man lay on his back, his eyes already rolled up into their sockets.

Sodarnik cursed himself for allowing his men to be caught in the open. These assailants bore the new weapons and he knew that he was powerless against them. All that he could hope for was that they would advance into the clearing to give them a chance to loose their arrows just once. Cursing silently again, he realised that he had landed in a patch of long grass, from which he could see nothing. It hid him effectively, but if he parted it, he would give away his position to these skilled marksmen.

A moment of silence ensued, during which all he could hear was the pounding of his own heart. They would be reloading their weapons, he reasoned. Dare he take a peek? He had no idea how long it took to recharge one of these weapons, but he had no choice. He was in the process of reaching forward to part the grass when panicked cries reached his ears. They were not his own men, for they lay hard by. The sounds came from further off towards the city, from where the shots had been fired. He identified a momentary thud and crackle of twigs, more cries and a general crunching of feet, which gradually faded to silence as they ran off. He could feel the faint vibrations through his chest.

He flattened himself against the ground, heart pounding anew. He dare not do other than wait, for he had no idea what faced him now.

Someone was approaching. That was the sound of boots crunching the grass. He screwed up his courage and reached for his sword, ready to spring forth and make a defiant last stand.

The last thing he expected was the voice of a woman.

You can get up now, Captain Sodarnik, she said clearly, they’ve gone.

Sodarnik jerked up to find his vision occupied by a pirate crew, led by what appeared to be a pirate queen, who faced him, legs apart. She was definitely a young woman, and beautiful, but not dressed like any female he had ever seen. She wore canvas trousers, a linen shirt, a leather jacket and boots. She carried a curved sword at her waist and a curious club-like device in her hands.

Relief flooding his vitals, he struggled to his feet, motioning his men to follow his example, for he had finally realised who she was.

Lady Mussa, he cried, "I thought you on your way to your homeland by now.

I was, Captain, she smiled, but ships don’t sail well when they are full of holes. She turned to her associates on either side. Indicating a young man, she introduced him as Lieutenant Sulnik of the Royal Dragotar Navy, and this, she indicated the young girl,