30. Loran
30
LORAN
Loran sat in a large chair, listening to the others talk of whether to defend the fortress or Kingsworth, how they would gather more troops, and how they would procure the necessary provisions. Among the dozen people, there were none that Loran had picked herself. Either they were representatives of their villages or the guilds of Kingsworth or they had experience serving in the legions, and Loran had only assented to their presence. There was also a man who had worked for a long time as a low-ranking clerk at the prefect’s office who seemed to know everything about the city.
She eyed the t’laran on the necks of the people debating in front of her. She had forgotten many details about the traditional meanings in the intertwined patterns that showed which clans they had come from. But she still remembered the dragon design that had adorned the necks and banners of the old kings. Two of the councillors showed parts of that design, being perhaps a generation or three away from the royal house. Loran herself had none, but there was no challenge to her about it. It amused her that she hadn’t expected any, and that she was only reminded of her common birth by the vestiges of royal markings on others.
The task at hand was more difficult than laying siege to the fortress. Wilfrid, who stood by Loran’s side but had only listened so far, finally leaned toward Loran and whispered, “Princess, I think making a decision is the only way to end this long prattle.”
“Perhaps.”
Loran knew little of war or politics. Her only work had been that of a local swordmaster. Her intention in hosting this discussion had been to listen to those who knew more than she did and wait until they had come up with an answer. But the Empire’s forces would be overwhelming regardless, and she had a feeling it was no use planning or preparing anyhow. The only thing they could control was how they would act on the day of the battle.
The fact that no one mentioned the gigatherion was proof enough of this. No matter how many soldiers of flesh and blood they had, they would be nothing against a Powered weapon the size of a castle. Everyone knew this. Still, they did not give up, and tried to think of what little there was they could do. Which meant that what they could not do, she would have to do herself.
In the back of their minds, they were probably thinking about the Star of Mersia as well. Emere had spoken to her of Mersia, of how the once-green grasslands were now a barren red desert where nothing lived. The Empire might turn Arland into such a wasteland. But that was to fear the unknown. And nobody, not even Loran, could do anything about the unknown. It was better not to think about what they could not know or anticipate.
But there was one part of the discussion that weighed heavily on Loran’s mind.
“What concerns me the most in this moment is our scout’s report of the Ledon northerners crossing the border,” she said to Wilfrid in a low voice.
“Yes, but we’ve been talking mostly about what to do when the Empire arrives instead,” whispered Wilfrid.
The raider tribes of Ledon, which was north of Arland, had been the country’s biggest concern before the invasion of the Empire. Were they using the unrest in Arland and the absence of a real legion presence as an opportunity to raid again? But the soldiers reported the Ledonites were bringing their musk oxen. It was unthinkable they would stage a raid with cattle in tow.
The discussion had reached a lull. They seemed to have decided that the food in the prefect’s granaries belonged to Kingsworth and that the militia should not touch them, but that they would ask the city’s richer citizens and the landowners in the country for provisions, and that they would send out recruiters to all corners of the land to strengthen their numbers. Loran raised her hand to stop further discussion.
“Your suggestions have been noted. As for my decision…”
Loran’s consent was a matter of form. As long as a consensus was reached with the people’s circumstances in mind, she needed only to voice her approval, and that was that. At least, this had to be the way things were done for now, when she knew so little of ruling.
But before Loran could give her approval this time, a soldier burst into the hall, out of breath.
“Princess! The barbarians are approaching the fortress.”
The hall became awash in murmurs. Why had the Ledonites made their way so deeply into Arland? Loran had assumed that their goal was border raids, but perhaps she had underestimated the wild folk. She couldn’t help but feel that voicing her worry aloud to Wilfrid had somehow summoned them.
Loran stood. “I’ll see to them. Wilfrid?”
Wilfrid grabbed her spear, which had been leaning against the wall next to her, and followed Loran out.
The fortress, in truth, was not the most defensible of buildings. It was more of a monument to the military might of the Empire than a true fortification. This was why its towers were unnecessarily tall, although it did afford a good view.
Loran made her way up to the tallest watchtower.
Kingsworth was visible to the northeast. Its castle, once so beautiful, was charred. Loran had done that. Perhaps it was better burned than preserved as an office of the prefect.
She looked northwest. A large horde of people and beasts were approaching.
Wilfrid leaned forward and narrowed her eyes. “I should say they are about five hundred, Your Highness. And two hundred heads of musk oxen… But why do they not wear their tunics in such cold weather? They seem to be carrying something long on their backs.”
“Swords, no doubt,” said Loran. Five years ago, she had fought a match against the wild folk from the north who had visited her school.
“Their swords are that long?”
“Ledonite swordsmen believe they’ve lost if they fail to slay with the first swing, breaking through their opponent’s defenses. That’s why they insist on such heavy and long swords.”
“And not wear armor, as well?” said Wilfrid, her eyes still fixed on the horde.
“That is so.”
“But it is winter, and to have only their fur cloaks to shield themselves from the cold…”
Loran smiled. “Well, there are limits to my knowledge.” She paused, thoughtful. “This fortress is difficult to defend, they say, but we are still five thousand strong. If a battle happens we will still suffer losses, but I have a feeling they do not come to fight. I shall go to them and hear what they have to say.”
Loran was not used to riding a horse. Wilfrid had offered to lead it by the reins, but she was afraid the northerners would look down on her for it. With a hundred soldiers following, Loran rode out to meet the horde.
One hundred soldiers. In Gwaharad’s underground castle, Loran had to beg for one hundred of his Liberators. But now, at her call, several times more were putting themselves forward to help her. Perhaps this was what it meant to be a king.
Just when she had come to this thought, the horde had stopped their progress, about three hundred paces away. Loran raised her arm to stop her own soldiers and continued forward with Wilfrid. The musk oxen herd had a pungent smell that carried all the way to Loran, wholly different from cows of Arland.
From their side approached a lone man as well, a giant of rough skin and grizzled hair and beard. He looked at least seven feet tall. As he was taller than the others, the sword on his back was also longer. The red war paint on his face looked like congealed blood. Wilfrid, tense, knocked the ground with the bottom of her spear as she walked.
About ten paces apart, Loran and the giant came to a stop.
The giant spoke first, in a loud and cheerful voice. He spoke not Ledonese or Imperial but fluent Arlandais.
“The new king of Arland is in that fortress, I hear? The king who destroyed four chariots with a dragon’s sword?”
In times of turmoil, rumors traveled quickly. It seemed the tale of Loran and Wurmath had already spread to the north.
“I am not a king yet, but I believe you are speaking of me.”
The giant gave a short laugh. “You are smaller than I imagined.”
He was armed, and his voice gruff, but his eyes were kind. Loran smiled back. Wilfrid, still tense, gave a little groan.
“I am Griogal, warrior-in-chief of the fifteen tribes of Ledon. If you are not a king, how must I address you?”
“You may address me as a princess.” She felt no compunction in using the title anymore.
“I ask to be called Griogal. We are here to convey a message to the princess.”
“A message that requires an escort of five hundred warriors and two hundred musk oxen?”
“The cattle are a gift!”
Griogal opened his arms and approached. Wilfrid, still nervous, trained her spear at him, but Loran gestured to her to stand down. Carefully—if she fell on the ground here, it would be disastrously embarrassing—she dismounted the horse.
“Our windboats sailed out to the Great West Sea and saw the Twenty-Fifth’s blue griffin banners. They should have landed on Ledon’s coast by now.”
Loran did not know what a griffin was. Perhaps the beast on the banner at the forest, a mix of a bird and a lion. And what were windboats? She didn’t know that either, but it wasn’t important in that moment.
“If they are indeed in Ledon…”
“… Then they will be here where we stand in as many as six or as few as four days,” Griogal said, picking up where Loran had trailed off. He looked intently at her face. Loran tried not to look surprised.
“Ever since the arrival of the Empire,” Griogal went on, “the fifteen tribes were treated as no better than beasts.”
Southern Ledon was under Imperial rule, just like Kamori and Arland, but the northern part of Ledon was not even afforded that. The Imperial forces made sorties against those tribes regularly, killing and driving out the people who lived there, a tyrannical move even Loran was aware of—one the Empire was eager to make known, in fact, as it made Arlanders feel grateful to the Empire for protecting them from being raided by the northern “barbarians.” In truth, Loran, insomuch as she thought of it at all, had been one of those people until today.
“When we heard the princess had vanquished the legion forces, we were determined to fight by her side. There was no time to send emissaries. Please forgive our impudence for barging into your realm.”
Griogal extended a large hand toward Loran.
Loran did not hesitate. She stepped forward, closing the gap between them, and grasped it.