The Siege of Druine

Day One

Ermano

Ermano Douci dipped a quill in his inkwell and carefully crossed out the sentence he had just written. Then the one before it, and the one before that, before shoving the letter away in disgust. Scattered across his desk was the evidence of previous failed attempts to find the right words to describe a crisis about which he had only the vaguest details and no reliable way to find out more. To people who were already convinced he was a liar.

In truth, he wasn’t even sure there was a crisis. He had little more than panicked reports from the handful of peasants who had passed by Druine on their way south. Garbled accounts of Qidan soldiers burning villages along the Donean border, wild estimates of numbers that put this force at thousands strong and suggested an army—an invasion no less—was heading his way. And if he was having trouble believing it, what chance did he have of convincing anyone in Sarenza?

Ermano Douci was not a soldier. He was a diplomat. Or rather his father had hoped he would become a diplomat. He had never progressed further than ambassador’s secretary when he was accused of falsifying intelligence—how was he to know his source was untrustworthy?—and dismissed from his position. That he was here at all, in charge of the fortifications at Druine where Flaeres bordered Hantara and poor, troubled Donea, was his father’s attempt to salvage his ruined career by buying him a military position he was most ill-equipped to handle. He was not the right man for this, and his superiors would have no trouble believing that.

Which was why he had spent the last two days attempting to compose a suitably urgent but measured plea for help. One that would be taken seriously, not dismissed as the hysterical overreaction of a known liar. It was, he had found, a surprisingly difficult balance to strike.

He was reaching for a fresh sheet of parchment—he had gone through a month’s supply in two days—when the door opened to admit his second in command. Luiz was a dour man in his fifties who resented Ermano’s youth, inexperience, and pretty much everything else about him.

Luiz never knocked. He never waited for permission to speak, and he certainly didn’t bother with any show of respect. Ermano had given up trying to force him; it had become embarrassing.

“Yes, what is it?” he snapped. If the man insisted on being rude, he didn’t see why he should be polite.

Luiz glanced at the scattered papers, his lips curling in contempt. “Armed company at the gates. They’re asking to be admitted.”

Ermano waved a hand. “Send them on. We have enough mouths to feed. We can’t take in refugees.”

“They’re not refugees. They’re soldiers, mercenaries. Say they have information for us. About the Qidans.”

The way hesaid the Qidans made his feelings about that clear. Luiz had requested permission to lead out scouts to ascertain the truth of the rumours, and Ermano had refused. Partly because it was Luiz who had suggested it, and partly because he didn’t want to risk losing the bulk of the trained men he had, especially the most experienced of them, by agreeing to Luiz’s proposal. Although he would never admit that.

Now, it seemed, a solution had come to him, and just when he needed it. “Thank Yholis. We can finally get to the bottom of this.” And he would have solid facts to write in his report, not just rumour. “Well, go on,” he said to Luiz, who did not appear as relieved as his commander by this turn of events. “Let them in.”

Luiz didn’t move. “We don’t know who they are.”

Ermano frowned. “You just told me.”

“I told you what they said, but—”

“Are they Qidan?”

“No—”

“Well, that settles it. Our enemies are Qidan. These men are not, and Qido never uses mercenaries. Everyone knows that. Let them in.” He stood. “I’ll come down.”

Luiz glared at him in disbelief and disgust, and Ermano pretended not to notice so he didn’t have to do anything about it. Instead, he shuffled the papers on his desk and made a shooing gesture.

The door slammed.

“Bloody man.” He straightened his rumpled uniform and attempted to flatten his hair. He couldn’t do anything about the ink stains on his fingers or the shadows under his eyes from two days composing letters with little sleep. He was a bureaucrat, for Yholis’s sake, not a soldier, and mercenaries were famously lax in their appearance and manners, especially mercenaries working this part of the Donea. A neat, shiny uniform was unlikely to impress them.

He emerged from his tower a few minutes later, blinking in the sunlight, as the first of the soldiers entered the small courtyard. And realised he had been wrong on several counts. This was no ragtag band of opportunistic adventurers. Everything about them was efficient, professional, frightening, from their armour to the well cared for horses that were now filling his fortress.

A tall man was shouting orders in a Lankaran accent—it occurred to Ermano, hearing it, that he might have made a rash decision in opening the gates; Lankara and Flaeres were not currently on good terms—but it was the silent way the mercenaries obeyed that terrified Ermano. It spoke of a discipline that came from the kind of experience Ermano hoped he would never have. The kind of experience the Qidans were famous for.

He paused with his foot hovering above the first step, fighting the impulse to retreat to his office, when the mercenaries parted to allow a lean, dark-haired man through. His eyes scanned the nervous soldiers before settling on Ermano, who wished he could disappear into the stonework.

The mercenary came up the steps towards him. “You’re the new commander here?”

Ermano tried not to look at the well-worn armour, at the weapons that seemed to be everywhere. “I, uh. Yes.”

The man took his elbow and steered him back towards the tower entrance. “Piece of advice. Don’t open your gates to just anyone who happens along. Get them ready to move out,” he called over his shoulder.

Ermano squirmed in rising panic, but the fingers digging painfully into his arm held him firm. “What are you doing? Who are you?”

Dark eyes turned on him. “I’m the man who just saved your life.”

***

The mercenary didn’t release Ermano until they reached his cramped office at the top of the tower. He stumbled to his desk, putting it between him and the man who must be the company’s commander, who kicked the door shut and scanned the room before returning his attention to Ermano.

In the dim light, his lean face was shadowed and threatening. Pitiless. He crossed to the small window, glancing out at the endless, empty hills of the Donea, and the sun caught the hilts at his hips, which flashed a cool blue, bright as starlight.

Ermano gaped. The Lankaran accent in the courtyard made sense now. “You’re… you’re—”

The man turned back. “Yes?”

Ermano tore his eyes from the rare glow of old Isyr to the hard face. “You’re—” And realised he had no idea what to say. What did you call a man whose names had been taken from him? A man who looked like he might kill at the slightest offence. “You’re him.”

Alyas-Raine Sera, Duke of Agrathon and friend of Flaeres’s old enemy, the King of Lankara. Or he had been, before he was branded a traitor and exiled by his king for attempting to make peace when he had been sent to make war, only to become a man who made war for the highest bidder and a constant thorn in that king’s side. What his name was now, Ermano was not about to guess.

The man took pity on him. Or perhaps, after more than five years, he had grown tired of watching people fumble for something to call him. “I am the captain of this company. That’s all you need to know. You’re aware what’s coming?”

Ermano bobbed his head. “An invasion from Qido.” Out loud, it sounded ridiculous; he could not believe it. The empire had been a threat on Flaeres’s doorstep for a hundred years, a looming menace of superior power and unfriendly intent, but he’d never thought they would actually invade. There were treaties. Specifically, in this case, a treaty that guaranteed the independence of the Donea.

The captain swept aside the jumble of papers to reveal the map Ermano had been glaring at for two days. “It’s not an invasion, though it might as well be as far as Druine is concerned. Two battalions of the Qidan army have mutinied. They crossed the border at Cescende to escape pursuit, picked up a few Donean discontents while they were at it, and now they’re heading this way.”

“Why?”

He expected the man to mock his ignorance as Luiz would have done, but he didn’t. Instead, he tapped the map. “This part of the Donea isn’t capable of supporting the people who live in it, let alone a few thousand soldiers, and they’re too close to the Qidan border. If they head south, the emperor will sit back and let us deal with them. But if they stay here, he can send in his army to destroy them and it will be weeks before anyone hears about it, by which time it will be over and done and he can claim he was merely cleaning up his own mess. They know it. And your king does not want a Qidan army sitting on his doorstep.”

“But why here?” It came out as a whine. The little garrison called Druine the Silent Keep because nothing ever happened, and no one ever came, except the occasional trade caravan. It was a remnant of the border fortifications of the Isyrium Wars a hundred years ago, when invasion from Qido and pretty much everywhere else was not only a possibility but a daily reality as nations scrambled for every last scrap of Isyrium. It hadn’t seen action since the mining syndicates began refining Isyrium ore and ended the wars, and its tiny garrison was a token gesture to a border defence no one really believed was required. And a useful place to shunt failed diplomats.

A hint of impatience entered the captain’s manner. “Because this is their way to safety. Druine is the gateway to both Flaeres and Hantara. You’re sitting across the only pass for fifty miles. The border is mountains to your north and a river to your south. Where else would they go?”

Ermano wisely didn’t attempt to answer that, sitting down and picking up his quill, his mind already turning over the perfect phrasing to convey what he’d been told. Perhaps he should say he’d sent out scouts—which he was beginning to realise he should have done. That would explain how he knew, and…

The captain was staring at the mess of parchment on the desk. He picked up a discarded sheet. “You’ve called for help already?”

Ermano hastily shuffled the half-written papers together, embarrassed. “I’m still working out what to say.” How to convince the recipients not to dismiss his warning out of hand because of his past, uh, minor inaccuracies.

The man snatched the stack of papers from his hands, ignoring Ermano’s half-hearted protests, and flicked through his various attempts. “How long,” he asked, tossing the letters back on the desk, “do you think you have before they get here?”

How long? Ermano realised with horror that he had no idea. That he had not thought about the time it might take to send a message and receive an answer. Suddenly, spending two days composing the perfect wording seemed rather wasteful. “Um, ah. A few days? A week?”

“Try a few hours.”

“Hours? But they can’t. I mean—”

“Hours,” the man repeated. “If you’re lucky. So you’d better get going.”

“Get going? Where? What are you talking about?”

“To get help.” The man flipped over a sheet of parchment and scrawled a line of text across it. He folded it and slapped it against Ermano’s chest. “There’s your letter. Now take it to Diago, tell him Haki’s coming, and get me men.”

Ermano clutched at the parchment, unable to grasp this bewildering turn of events as he followed the captain to the door. “But I can’t just leave. My men… I’m the commander here…”

“Not any more you’re not. And you can take your men with you.”

“You can’t do that!” Ermano protested. The man was Lankaran, or he had been. This was a Flaeresian fortress. He peered down the stairwell at the mercenary’s retreating back. “Who’s Diago?”

There was a muffled growl from below. “Your bloody king!”

Oh. Oh. Heat flushed his face; fortunately there was no one there to see. He retreated to his office, unfolding the note and flattening it on the desk.

Send everything you have to Druine, now. Alyas.