Siege

Jistan held the sword in a two-handed grip, arms extended to keep the sharp parts as far away from himself as possible.

“It’s very…large,” he said lamely. He probably should have said ‘impressive’ or ‘amazing’. But it was just a long piece of sharpened steel.

Karrin laughed loudly, tossing her head back briefly. “Oh, little brother,” she said, shaking her head. “That’s not nearly as big as they get.”

He looked at the blade doubtfully. It was at least four feet long from hilt to tip, and it wasn’t some flimsy dueling blade either. It was a hefty, not to mention heavy, hunk of metal.

“We’re just starting you out on a baby sword,” she whispered, leaning in conspiratorially. “That way, you won’t chop your own foot off. Maybe just a toe.”

He frowned, still holding the sword away from himself. “Yeah, okay. But why do I need a sword?”

She grinned. “Did you miss the part about this being an army?”

He gave her a flat look. “I mean, why can’t we just use Will? Isn’t that what Manicot is famous for? ‘Masters of mind strikes’ and all that?”

Her gaze grew solemn. “Sometimes, that’s not enough. It’s always good to have more than one plan of attack.”

He gave her a puzzled look, but she just shook her head. “Come on. Father will be back soon from his scouting mission, and I bet he’ll want to see you.”

***

Joree had only two options left. Kill himself, or kill Aniah. One of them had to go.

“My feet are positively bleeding,” Aniah moaned, limping along beside him.

“No, they aren’t. We already checked.”

She sniffed. “You checked. I think you lied. They must be falling apart from all this walking.”

“As I recall, this was your idea,” Joree pointed out.

“My idea was to go north to find my mother, not wander aimlessly in the wilderness while I slowly starve to death and my body wears away under the brutality of nature!”

Joree snorted. “How poetic.”

She huffed. “Well, one of us has to be more than an uncivilized brute. I swear, you citizens are so…so…” She seemed to be thinking very hard to find the correct word.

“Don’t think too hard, dear,” Joree said, turning to pat her shoulder in a mock-comforting gesture. “Wouldn’t want a strained brain along with strained muscles.”

She glared at him. “Remember who you’re talking to,” she warned.

“How could I forget?” he said brightly. “Unless you give me a swift blow to the head. Which, come to think of it, sounds much more pleasant. Why don’t we give it a go?”

Her glare grew more spiteful, like a child who was growing closer to throwing a tantrum. Not intimidating, but plenty irritating.

“Wait, no,” he continued, tapping his chin as if musing. “You couldn’t hit me hard enough to knock me unconscious, so I would just be left with two headaches instead of one.”

“Maybe you could try doing something useful,” she snapped. “Like finding some food or shelter.” She glanced meaningfully up at the sky, which was growing noticeably dark.

“Is that what constitutes as being useful?” he asked innocently.

She eyed him warily, sensing the trap. “No, that’s just the only way that you can be useful.”

“Ah,” he said, nodding as if in comprehension. “Then I am doing far too much.” He sat down abruptly, picked a blade of stoutgrass, and started chewing it idly. The outside was chewy, and the inside released a sharp, tangy liquid into his mouth.

“What in the Flames of Arkadia are you doing?” Aniah demanded, putting fists to hips.

He pointed to the grass in his mouth, speaking around it. “Food.” He pointed up at the thick canopy of trees overhead. “Shelter.”

Then he laid back, placing his hands behind his head and closing his eyes.

She spluttered unintelligibly for a few moments. “You can’t just-I mean-”

He lifted his head and opened one eye. “I thought I’d filled my ‘usefulness’ quota for the day.” He cocked his head, feigning puzzlement. “Or is there something else you wanted me to do?”

Her face was red now, hands clenched into tiny white balls at her sides. “I swear by Arkadia’s Halls-”

“Careful,” Joree said, laying his head back down. “I hear the gods take oaths on their realm very seriously.”

“You insolent little…gah!” He heard her stomping away, but she didn’t go far. In just a few moments, she stomped back until she was standing over him. He saw her shadow but didn’t open his eyes.

“We are wasting time,” she snapped.

“Then maybe you should do something useful,” he said dryly.

***

“You’re holding that sword like it’s a venomous snake,” Sackrin said, giving a full-bellied laugh. Despite his age, Jistan’s father had the physique of a warrior in his prime. His hair had gone full white, without a speck of grey, and now his blue eyes gleamed with amusement.

Jistan scowled briefly, looking at the sword in his hands. It still felt clunky and awkward, and he held it in a vice grip, afraid he would accidentally cut himself.

“Loosen your grip,” Sackrin said encouragingly. “You need to relax your muscles. Use the sword like you would Will power. It extends out from you, completely under your control.”

Jistan frowned. This seemed like an entirely different concept from Will. For one thing, he was never in danger of slicing into his own brain when he used mind strikes. For another, Will was actually a literal part of him, while this sword was certainly not.

Sackrin sighed, shaking his head.

“If you think this is discouraging,” Karrin called from her perch on the top of a high stool, “then you should see him ride a horse.” She grinned. “He holds the reins like he’s afraid of snapping them, and bounces so high you would think his seat was spring loaded.”

Jistan turned to glare at her. Slowly and carefully, so as not to swing the sword too much. “Oh? And I suppose you got all this in your first five days?” he challenged.

“Alright, you two,” Sackrin cut it. “That’s enough. But she has a point, Jistan. You’re too tight, too wary. You need to step out and take a few risks if you want to improve.”

Jistan sighed, placing the tip of his sword against the ground. At his father’s frown, he lifted it again quickly. “I just can’t help but feeling like this is not where my talent lies,” he admitted. “I mean, Highness Arellia took notice of me because of my Will power, right?”

Sackrin gave a nod of acquiescence. “True. But that doesn’t mean there aren’t other skills you need to learn in order to fill the role she has in mind for you.”

Mind Scythe, Jistan thought immediately. No one had explained that term to him completely, but everyone made passing comments and references. From what he gathered, the Mind Scythe were an elite group with superb Will. Not only that, but they were fierce warriors as well, their bodies in peak condition, trained in physical combat and weaponry.

But there were others in the army that specialized in just Will or weaponry. Jistan didn’t understand why he had to do both, when he was so clearly lacking in physical combat skills.

Sackrin seemed to sense his thoughts, stepping forward and clapping a hand on his shoulder, apparently unconcerned by the long blade that Jistan held only inches from his body.

“You have a natural gift for Will,” Sackrin said softly. “You worked hard to improve, but you never had to truly struggle for it. Now, you think that you should be able to pick up on things quickly and easily, and you get frustrated when you don’t.”

Jistan opened his mouth to protest, but then dropped his gaze, ashamed at how easily his father had seen through his complaints.

“Just because you haven’t learned the delicate art of swordsmanship in a few days, doesn’t mean that all is lost,” Sackrin continued. His voice had an edge of humor now. “Be patient. Work hard. It will pay off.”

Jistan nodded slowly, more to get his father to drop the subject than because he agreed.

“Good,” Sackrin said. “Now, I think we should take a break from swords for a while.”

Jistan looked up hopefully. “Will drills?” he asked.

Sackrin grinned, eyes twinkling. “Better. Hand to hand.”

***

Furl found Arellia watching over a group of new recruits from an open tent flap. She was obscured in shadow so they likely hadn’t even noticed her, although their drill masters, more trained in the art of perception, most certainly had.

“Highness,” Furl greeted, saluting with a fist.

“Fiedon,” she replied, not shifting her gaze from the trainees. “What did you discover?”

So like Arellia, bludgeoning her way through any small talk or formalities.

“The boy’s father is an unknown figure, even to the mother. He was a foreigner. They met when she was very young, and he left her after she got pregnant. His name was Aegon, and she doesn’t know his last name.” He shrugged. “Not much of a report, I’m afraid.”

“Aegon,” Arellia mused softly. “That name is unusual. Do you know where it originates?”

He shook his head. “I haven’t the faintest idea. It doesn’t sound like Kliston or Islander, although it might be one of the more rural strains of Hogi from Hogan Cove.”

She nodded once. “See if you can find out the origin of that name.”

He glanced at her, puzzled. “If I may, Highness, why does it matter so much?”

She gave a shrug of one shoulder. “Maybe it doesn’t. I like to be careful.”

He knew better than to press her for more. If she was being vague, then more questions wouldn’t get him any more answers.

***

Narissa walked in the back of the line of farmers and other outer city workers, her head down. They were surrounded by Kriton guards, each with spears, swords, or cudgels. Anyone who moved too slowly received none-too-gentle encouragement from one of these implements.

They were all being herded towards the center of Ranteel, to the Royal Courtyard, where large festivals and celebrations were held. It was an enormous open space, paved with marble and interspersed with flower beds and fountains. Already, Narissa could see the throngs of people being shuffled in from other directions, all merging on this central location.

She was shoved into a mass of sweaty bodies, children crying and squirming and parents desperately trying to calm them. Gruff elderly people complained at the noise or their aching backs, or the fact that the noise was causing their aching backs. Narissa stood as still as possible, keeping her gaze down.

She stood that way for the better part of an hour. Then, the guards surrounding the courtyard all started to march in place, their feet beating in unison. In a few moments, the crowd in the courtyard had gone silent. As they quieted, the marching stopped. A man stepped onto the raised pavilion at the front of the courtyard. He was Kriton, with sage green armor and a thin sword strapped at his waist. His helm was under one arm, revealing a square face with olive toned skin and dark eyes and hair.

“People of Ranteel,” he bellowed, his voice washing over the hushed crowd. The pavilion was set up so that sound would carry out across the courtyard easily. “I am Captain Manisutti, messenger of King Abicotta of Kritose.” His accent was thick, but understandable. “We have taken this city, and now hold you under siege.”

A few mummers and whimpers echoed from the crowd. Manisutti held up a gauntleted hand. “We are not here for your blood. If you cooperate, no conflict need arise.”

Several guards broke free from the surrounding soldiers and began to walk among the people, jostling their way through. They each held a sheet of paper in their hands. Occasionally, one would grab the shoulder or chin of a young girl and stare at her for a few moments, looking between her and the paper. Then they would move on.

They’re looking for someone, Narissa realized, a sinking feeling in her stomach. She thought she knew who it was. Suddenly, she wished she hadn’t watched the direction Joree and Aniah had gone when they had fled. It would be better if she couldn’t reveal anything if pressured.

After what felt like an excruciatingly long time, the guards made their way to the pavilion. Each said a few muttered words to the Captain, then went back to their posts. The Captain was frowning deeply.

“Are any of you hiding people? Concealing them?” his voice had a cool, icy edge. “You were commanded to gather everyone to this place. I would hate to think I have been disobeyed.”

His eyes roamed over the crowd, but no one spoke up. Narissa kept her gaze fixed downward.

“Well,” the Captain said, a hint of cold humor in his voice. “I suppose I’m not really in a big hurry. After all, I already have the big prize. I’ll find what I want, in time.” His voice grew louder. “You are free to return to your homes. Go to work, as usual. One half of your wages will now go to the King of Kriton as tribute. Anyone who tries to flee will be killed immediately.”

He let those words sink in for a few moments. Narissa could hear soft weeping and cursing around her. Her own blood had grown chill.

“Oh, one more thing,” Manisutti said. “Is there a woman by the name of Narissa Glade?”

Narissa froze, heart skipping a beat. How did he know? How could he have found out? Had someone seen the children leave her house? She tried to shrink down further, but it was no good. People knew her, at least by face and name. She sold the best milk and cheese of all the farmers by far. Now, slowly, space began to part around her as she was betrayed by the people of Ranteel.

“Ah, there you are.” Manisutti beckoned her forward in a far too friendly gesture. Taking a deep breath of resignation, she started making her way to the pavilion. People parted the way for her as if she were royalty. Or perhaps as if she had some sort of highly contagious disease.

Once she reached the Captain, he smiled at her predatorily, then turned away, looking towards a man in the shadows that Narissa hadn’t noticed before.

“Payment, as promised for your help,” the Captain said.

The man stepped partially out of the shadows.

“Oh, no,” Narissa whispered.