The Queen's Consort (29 page)

             
“Your brothers,” Beaumont said proudly. “Pierce, Devlin, Chancy, and Mack. Boys, this is your brother Ansel.”

             
Beaumont's sons stared at each other. Clairwyn had been right yet again. Ansel hadn't even known these boys existed. Beaumont had always been very secretive but his purpose now was clear: he wanted Ansel to be uneasy, unsure of his place in his father's world.

             
Ansel looked away. “The Queen expects me to return.” He desperately wanted to escape.

             
Beaumont smiled easily. “You're home now, son. Your loyalty, of course, belongs to me.”

             
For the moment Ansel was the favored son. But the mere existence of these bastard half-brothers proved that Beaumont was hedging his bets.

             
Beaumont settled back into his chair and gestured for his sons to do likewise. “So,” he said to Ansel, “when does she plan to attack?”

             
“Tonight.”

             
“I like her style. She doesn't waste any time.” Beaumont chuckled. “Then again, we all know that she has no time to waste.”

             
Ansel nodded in agreement.

             
“And what form will this 'magic' take tonight?”

             
“I don't know.” Ansel raked his hands through his hair. “I never saw whatever she unleashed at Moth's landing.” He thought hard as something niggled at the edge of his brain until he caught it. “I do know,” he said slowly, “that it couldn't touch water.”

             
“See? That's exactly the kind of information we can use.” Beaumont leaned forward and clapped Ansel on the shoulder. “We'll tell the towers to stoke the watchfires high and be ready to repel any attempts to bridge the moat.” He winked at Ansel. “I hope they try. We've more tricks ready then what their eyes have seen.”

             
'Stoking the fires' was the exact opposite of what Clairwyn had ordered her men to do. The war inside Ansel threatened to tear him apart. Was he hurting Clairwyn or helping her? Was he using her, or was she using him? His head ached.

             
Beaumont summoned soldiers and issued orders while Ansel's mind swirled. The fires would rise to the sky and every able-bodied man in the city would be on the walls at sunset.

             
The decision had been taken out of his hands. Ansel gestured at his brothers, urging them closer. A moment ago he'd been jealous of them; now he felt a fierce protectiveness toward the boys.

             
“The attack will start after sunset and last until moonrise,” he told them.

             
“A scant hour?” The oldest, Devlin, scoffed. “We could repel the Devil and all his minions for longer than that.”

             
The boy's bravado forced a smile to Ansel's face. “Indeed, lad. I'm charging you with keeping your brothers safe.”

             
Devlin's eyes narrowed. “I'm thirteen,” he said. “I can fight.”

             
“I know you can.” Ansel banished his smile. He had been thirteen once, many years and too many miles ago, and he remembered how prickly a young man's pride could be. “And I'm counting on your strong sword arm. I wouldn't trust my brothers' safety to anyone else.”

             
Devlin straightened his spine and threw back his shoulders. “I understand, sir.”

             
“Very good.” He solemnly shook the boy's hand. “If Beaumont and I fall tonight,” he said, “you will be king tomorrow.”

             
Devlin paled. The other boys crowded closer, looking at each other uneasily.

             
Ansel nodded. “Heavy is the head that wears the crown. Spend this night in preparation.”

             
“I'll spend it making offerings for your safety,” Devlin declared. “If you and Beaumont fall this night, the kingdom will fall tomorrow. I will be king, however briefly, in name only.”

             
“Such wisdom is unusual in our family.” Ansel was stunned. “And to find it in one so young astonishes me.”

             
Devlin didn't respond.

             
Ansel put his hand on the boy's shoulder and tightened his grip. “I charge you with keeping our brothers safe. Do not fail me.”

             
“I will not, sir.”

             
Ah. Here was proof that the boy was truly family. Here was the staggering bravado of Elric and Beaumont. Ansel recognized that heedless courage as a dangerous flaw, one that had led Courchevel to the brink of ruin.

             
And, in a rare moment of stunning clarity, Ansel recognized that fatal flaw in himself.

Thirty-Two

              The watchfires of Kingsford were stoked until it was bright as day on the walls. Soldiers hunkered down behind the battlements, arms at hand. They were a mixed lot but mainly raw recruits with very little experience. At the first sign of trouble they were likely to throw away their weapons and run.

             
It probably wouldn't save them, Ansel thought grimly.

             
Beyond the walls the beseiging army lay shrouded in unbroken darkness and unnatural silence. It unnerved the defenders.

             
“Like a ghost army,” one beardless youth whispered.

             
“They say the Queen is a witch,” another answered.

             
The men gripped their weapons. The rank smell of fear filled Ansel's head and set his teeth on edge. That fear would feed on itself and grow. If someone jumped up and yelled “Boo!” half the “soldiers” around him would die in a stampede off the walls.

             
Ansel watched the last rays of the sunset with a hollow in the pit of his stomach. Something was coming. He could feel it in his bones and hear it in the wind. Something very bad was coming, and he was helpless to stop it.

             
The sun stretched its last bright fingers across the land and then winked out. Nerves stretched to the breaking point, the defenders held their breath and waited. But not for long.

             
A thunderous roar shook the walls and rattled the stones in their mortar. The defenders leaped to their feet, heedless of the targets they presented against the firelight. They fearfully searched the land and scoured the sky.

             
Another roar, louder and closer than the first, split the night. A chorus of monstrous voices answered the call.

             
“There!” A soldier pointed as a winged shape, darker than the night sky, swept toward them.

             
At last, a target! “Archers,” Ansel shouted, “bows up and ready! Soldiers, form a line! Swords and shields at the ready!”

             
The men leaped to obey. They formed ranks on the wall and watched the thing fly toward them. It grew larger and larger and larger still. A few archers lost their courage and loosed their bows.

             
Their arrows fell short. And then a burst of flames shot through the sky, lighting up the beast in stark relief.

             
“Dragon!” The shrill scream was taken up and echoed down the wall. “It's a dragon!”

             
Men everywhere dropped their weapons and fled. “Hold the line!” Ansel screamed, knowing that retreat was useless.

             
Some of the men answered the call and hastily re-formed their line, only to fall to their knees as something enormous landed on the wall.

             
Ansel whirled around to face the threat. His mind could scarcely wrap itself around the word, but the beast before him could only be a dragon.

             
On four legs the dragon was roughly the height of one of Clairwyn's elephants but was easily three times longer. Its emerald scales reflected the light from the fire. The beast seemed completely indifferent to the disorganized attack of the trapped soldiers.

             
The monster had all the other physical attributes a dragon required—wings and tails and talons and huge, slavering teeth—but worse, far worse, were the creature's eyes.

             
This dragon was no mindless beast. It was a sentient, thinking being and, right now, it seemed
amused
by the chaos around it.

             
Its long, spiked tail swept across the battlements and a dozen men fell to their deaths. It snatched a swordsman in one long-clawed front paw and casually bit off the man's head. As blood spurted it tossed the body aside, knocking over a barrel of pitch. Fire raced over the stone but the dragon seemed completely unconcerned.

             
It turned its head in search of another victim and its dreadful, thinking eye fell on Ansel.

             
The world quaked as dozen of dragons swarmed through the sky, diving and attacking and breathing fire. They landed on the battlements and in the streets with impunity. Any desperate defense was quickly dispatched or, much more sadly, ignored as utterly ineffective.

             
The dragon stalked toward Ansel. A pointless battle raged around it. Flames surged higher, reflected in the monster's eyes. It strolled closer, straight through the chaos, until it stood directly before him.

             
Ansel's sword dropped from his nerveless fingers. He'd faced death with courage before, and he'd die like a man now. The monster's head was as long as Ansel was tall; its curved white teeth were as long and thick as a broadsword.

             
The beast tilted his head and looked at him. Men screamed and died everywhere but Ansel stood immobile, trapped by the dragon's amused regard.

             
The dragon huffed a puff of smoke and Ansel got the impression that the beast was
laughing
at him.

             
“I wonder,” Ansel said aloud, “what Clairwyn did that made
you
beholden to
her
.”

             
The dragon huffed again, then lifted a claw to tap the raven on Ansel's chest.

             
The stone under Ansel's feet gave way. He barely had time to gasp before a huge paw closed around his body and snatched him clear of the falling rubble. And then, incredibly, he found himself soaring above the castle.

             
When the dragon didn't close its grip and rain his bloody guts on the streets below, Ansel looked around. From the air he could see the full extent of the damage the rampaging horde of dragons had already inflicted.

             
The city was burning.

             
Here and there men made futile stands but they were helpless to stop the carnage. Dragons roamed the streets as easily as they soared through the sky. All of Beaumont's wooden defenses were just fuel for the growing fires.

             
Ansel watched as a knot of defenders poured a barrel of pitch over a small dragon that was no taller than a big warhorse and no longer than a team and wagon. A lit torch followed and fire raced along its skin. The beast stretched itself to its full length and shook its body like a wet dog, igniting a dozen more fires.

             
Seemingly delighted, the beast roared in satisfaction and shook itself again. The roof the defenders were standing on erupted into flames.

             
Judging from the screams, the men weren't enjoying themselves nearly as much as the dragon obviously was.

             
The dragon that held Ansel soared high and then dove toward the fray. Bolts rang against its skin and bounced harmlessly away. Ansel pulled in his arms and legs as much as he could; unfortunately, crossbow bolts wouldn't bounce off
his
skin.

             
The dragon dipped low and snatched a man off the street with its other foreleg. Ansel met the soldier's startled gaze before the man erupted into a bloody spray of gore.

             
The man screamed—and was still screaming—when, one hundred feet above the ground, the dragon let him go.

             
The dragon banked high and dove toward the ground again. Streets and buildings and people raced up to meet them until Ansel could see terrified faces. If it grabbed another man Ansel feared he would go mad—

             
A wave of noise and fiery heat reached up and embraced him. The dragon's wings beat hard until it hovered just above the ground. Ansel's feet brushed stone and he staggered as the dragon released him.

             
Ansel caught himself and straightened. The dragon rose in the air, circling higher and higher into the sky. It roared and dozens of voices responded.

             
The dragon soared higher, circling, circling, circling, until all of the dragons joined it in the air. And then, simultaneously, they all whirled and flew away toward the rising moon.

             
The full moon. The dragons were gone. In the space of an hour they had decimated the castle, Beaumont's last stronghold.

             
Stunned, Ansel surveyed the damage. Everything that could burn was on fire. Capsized stone walls blocked the street. Shocked survivors gathered around him. They needed a leader.

He was all they had.

              Ansel started barking orders. Thousands were dead. He told his battered army to ignore the dead and focus on helping the living. He organized them into groups: some fought the fires, some searched for the injured in the ruble, and others cleared a space to gather resources.

             
Medics and healers came forward. The fires receded. And, somewhere after midnight, Ansel realized that Clairwyn's army had invaded the city.

             
But her soldiers didn't act like joyous victors. They didn't rape and plunder. They worked next to the conquered to put out fires. They erected a hospital tent and collected victims, then treated their injuries.

             
And when, finally, Ansel himself collapsed in exhaustion, they carried him to Clairwyn.

             
They dropped him on a cot in the hospital tent and she offered him a drink of water. “I have no healing skills,” she said, running her hands over his filthy, blood-splattered clothing. “Where are you hurt, Ansel? I will summon help.”

             
Ansel forced himself upright. “Water is all I need,” he assured her. “But you should not be here. It's not safe.”

             
All around them the injured moaned or lay dreadfully silent. Frantic parents searched for children, stopping at each cot, hoping, then moving on. The stench of blood and worse, so much worse, lingered everywhere.

             
Clairwyn swayed on her feet. She looked as tired as he felt, and she was so much weaker than he was. The precious babies she carried weakened her further. He had to get her away from here.

             
“Come.” Ansel took her hand and led her onto the street. The sun touched the stone and painted everything red and gold. Everything looked so different today. He hardly recognized the city he'd grown up in.

             
After a heartbeat he got his bearings and led her forward. Consumed by their own troubles, no one tried to stop them. No one even spared them a second glance as they made their way through the twisted streets.

             
Half of Ansel's home was destroyed but the other half seemed sturdy enough. They climbed over a pile of rubble and he pushed open a blocked door. “Wait here,” he said to Clairwyn.

             
The stone walls of his bedchamber stood square and sturdy and the roof was intact. He gestured and Clairwyn, swaying with exhaustion, moved to his side.

             
“Rest,” he said, gesturing at his bed. He'd imagined her here so many times, but never under circumstances like these.

             
She clutched his arm. “I cannot rest without you.” Her voice was determined.

             
He looked into her tear-stained face and cupped her cheek. “What is wrong?” he asked gently.

             
“Everything.” Her laugh held a touch of hysteria. “This.” Her gesture encompassed the entire city. “I'm so sorry, Ansel. So many people, so many dead!” She buried her face in his chest as sobs wracked her body.

             
He wrapped his arms around her and held her tight. “'Tis war, my love. Many would die—will, perhaps, still die—no matter what course you take.” Right now he was just relieved that she was among the living and was standing here beside him.

             
After a long while her sobbing eased. He gently folded her onto the bed and lay down next to her. Only for a moment. As soon as she slept he would rise. He still had so many things to do….

*****

              The midday sun blazed through the curtains when Ansel opened his eyes again. Clairwyn still slept beside him. He realized that his mouth was dry and his stomach rumbled with hunger—and he wasn't a pregnant woman. He grinned to himself.

             
Very gently he eased away from her. The war was over. Clairwyn and the twins were safe. He rested his hand on the soft swell of her stomach and felt pure relief and satisfaction surged through him. He could take care of her and their children.