K. R. Treadway
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The Queen's Archer Prologue
🕑 Added 2024-05-25 19:28:36 +0000 UTC[ A/N - This unscheduled post is a curio. It's not supposed to exist yet. It is the prologue to The Queen's Archer, a "reverse Mulan" story set in the same world as His Orc Charioteer Bride. Let me be up front: this novel is far in the future! Over a year. But I made a bet on the RFM discord…and I lost. I don't regret making the bet. I might regret the cavalier way I offered the stakes! Still, I am a man of my word. Please enjoy this super super SUPER early sneak peek. 😆 ]
The Burial of Mercy Gap
Grivene.
Oldest of the three human realms. Oldest and smallest.
North Kingdom and South Kingdom were, in truth, unlikely progeny. Beginning their lives as mere rebellious provinces, those soon-to-be-great lands cleaved themselves away from Grivene in ancient days. In the centuries that followed they both grew hale and hearty. Grivene grew more timeworn.
“Insular Grivene,” the twin kingdoms called their parent.
“Moth-eaten Grivene,” a Ninegates poet once proclaimed, “thou dusty, rigid, ramshackle realm! Thou ancient domain of strangest customs and fiercest pride.”
Scholars who studied Grivene were quick to point out that it was defined by its duality. The infamous Grivenean pride—a double-edged blade that sustained in dark times and hampered in bright—was but one example. Duality could be found wherever one looked. Grand mosaics with missing chips. The curiously separated roles of men and women. A king and queen who had to rule together or tear the realm asunder. How apt, this duality, in a land that still worshipped the Paired Monarchs above all other gods.
Change came slow to Grivene, and rarely by its own choosing.
Six years into the reign of King Zehl and Queen Dahri, change came nonetheless. It arrived in the earliest days of Spring, and at the kingdom’s southernmost extremity, a venerable keep known as Mercy Gap. The fort had earned its name by occupying the lowest pass in the Dragon’s Knuckles, yet it was also the highest occupied point in all of Grivene.
Duality abounds.
The day of change, portentous as it was, began much as the days before.
Intendant Fhen, the commander of Mercy Gap’s garrison, rose with the sun. He broke the thin shell of ice over his wash bucket, performed his ablutions, and heartily wished for spring to hurry its arrival.
Fhen doubted there was any truth to the claim that the mountain range encircling half their realm was the actual remnant of a beast, much less the Dragon of Creation slain by the Paired Monarchs at world’s dawn. But…he had to admit the foreboding summits rising to either side of the pass bore an uncomfortable similarity to prised-up scales, frozen in death.
Or simply frozen, he thought drily, pausing to gaze out his window at the snow-covered heights. He shivered, but not from the cold. He didn't know why…perhaps he was tiring of this place and its endless vigil. Hurrying his preparations, the Intendant left to begin the morning inspection.
Having charge of Mercy Gap was, like so many things in life, a duty of two faces. On the smiling face, the garrison was the most prestigious command of his career, a posting of literal high honor. On the scowling face, the fort was so aged that it might better be called a crumbling heap. Its bricks still stood, and its gate still held, but everything was softened at the corners.
Fhen ended his inspection at the usual place, atop the south-facing parapet. He ran his fingers across the dusty yellow stone of the wall. Where the bricks had been quarried was one of the mysteries of the keep. They certainly didn’t hale from the dark gray rock of the Dragon’s Knuckles. Likely they had been carried up from the base of the mountain's far side, as the keep’s original builders had been a southern kingdom lost to time. Grivene, young and arrogant in a bygone age, had seized it from them.
His beloved kingdom was no longer young…but one must ruefully own that there was still arrogance aplenty.
Fhen’s half-hearted chuckle petered into a sigh. He stared over the walls at the cracked and broken flagstones of the dead road. Made of the same rock, the ruinous track led down the mountain towards its lost kingdom. It had not seen commerce in centuries. The vile realm that now called those lands home had used it but once, to launch an attack that had threatened Grivene with mortal peril. But the dead road had not felt the armored boots of soldiers in Fhen’s lifetime.
First and Last Monarchs be praised.
Still gripped by his odd melancholy, he found himself staring at the dark green smudge of the forests far below.
“You have the air of a grave man.”
He heard the smile in the words and recognized the husky warmth of the woman speaking them. It managed to coax one side of his own mouth into something less forbidding.
“Bowmaster Neya. I hope the morning finds you well.” He turned to behold the statuesque woman who commanded the fort’s detachment of the Queen’s Archers.
“It finds me…grumbly,” she grumbled. “Some of my bow-women task me.” Unlike the fort she was stationed in, Neya still had hard edges aplenty—and only the desirous sort of wear, like the smile lines on either side of her mouth. “Do you have a moment, Intendant? I wish to gripe uselessly.”
“Always for you.” He canted his head. “Care for a game of fox?”
“Apart from training, the only things to do here are complain and play cards. An efficient soldier accomplishes both at once.”
He chuckled and by unspoken agreement they soon found themselves in the tiny courtyard next to the parapet, one of the few places out of the wind and in the morning sun. Fhen retrieved their secreted deck and sat himself at the rickety table that someone had long ago brought up here. He dealt the cards for both of them and set hers with the ends off of the table so she could clamp them in the slim wooden holder made for the purpose.
“Neya,” he ventured yet again. “You can dispense with the holder when it’s just the two of us. I wouldn’t think you any less of a woman for handling paper.”
It was an old plea, but she just laughed as usual and told him her parents would disown her if they found out. “But speaking of men’s work…” She trailed off, distracted by sorting her cards. The wooden caps affixed to her index finger and thumb seemed like such clumsy implements, but all the women he knew were adept at using them.
“Men’s work?” he prompted.
“Oh. Sorry. Forgot to gripe.” She gave him a crooked smile. “I’m having problems with my newest arrivals. It always takes them a few weeks to get used to the quiet, and as they are young, their minds turn to mischief.”
“Nothing serious, I hope.”
“No, merely vexatious.” She frowned in thought, then set down her fox card. He played his, and they began laying out the paths as they talked. “I found out that a lovely girl by the name of Krinda has been teased ever since she arrived.”
“By the other archers?”
“Just so. And yesterday they dumped their practice skirts onto her bed with a note to ‘scrub hard.’ ”
Fhen blinked. Why would they ask her to wash clothes…then comprehension dawned. Seeing it on his face, Neya nodded, smiling without humor.
“They were saying she looked like a man,” he said.
“And what better way to twist the knife than assigning her a little ‘boytoil’?” She played a card and blew out a frustrated breath.
“Hosted gods,” he muttered. “Are we overseeing soldiers or children?”
“Both,” she answered at once. “Ah! When did you play that? My head is already off the game.”
“Then fortune favors me this morn. I predict your fox will soon be in the well.”
She snorted and fell silent, focusing harder on her cards. She was such a competitive woman. He liked Neya’s snorts. He liked Neya. Perhaps, when their tour ended he would—
Thrummm.
“Did you feel that?” he asked.
“Hm? No. What are—” Neya went silent as it happened again. Her eyebrows rose. “Aye. The ground trembled. It felt like…a plucked bowstring.”
Fhen’s earlier misgivings flooded back at thrice their former strength.The vibrations kept coming, one on top of the other, until there was no delay at all, only a strange rising-and-falling. “It hums like a hive,” he said grimly.
They looked at each other…and stood at once. Neya rose so fast that her stool thumped onto the dusty stone at her feet.
“Whatever the cause, I’ll assemble the archers.”
“Neya.” When she turned back, his heart gave a tiny clench. She really was rather lovely in sunlight. “Make sure you keep an arrow for the Last Measure.”
Her eyes widened in surprise, and when he offered no explanation a faint pallor crept into her dusky cheeks. She gave a tight nod and was gone.
With his heart pounding and the soles of his boots quivering from the ominous vibration, Fhen dashed out of their shared sanctuary and made straight for the inner walkway overlooking the main courtyard. There he gripped the alarm lever, its wood polished smooth by thousands of hands. He pulled it to activate the mechanism.
TONG. TONG. TONG. TONG.
A counterweighted hammer drove into the massive alarm bell under his feet. The bell was another relic of the extinct kingdom. He had always thought it sounded funereal, but that didn't impede its function. Trusting that the contingent of the King’s Guard would start assembling at once, he rushed for the observation ledge.
Fhen climbed two flights of steep steps and exited onto a platform hewn from the gray stone of the mountain. With trembling hands he snatched the spyglass out of its battered wooden case.
Duty directed his gaze upward at first, checking their final defense through the magnified view. He raised the brass tube high, following the rocky face of the mountain…and located the long horizontal notch carved just below the snowpack. A work party had chipped away the ice build-up a mere month ago. Was it still clear? It was. The wooden casks stowed in the notch remained open to the air.
Highest Hall deliver us if it comes to that, he thought, but he was relieved nonetheless.
Answering his own grim premonition, Fhen immediately turned his spyglass south. He aimed his gaze along the dead road. The way was clear for some distance…his hands went tight around the cold brass.
“Shuddering Zhud,” he breathed.
A tower was rising into view where the road dipped out of sight.
Fhen watched through the glass with dawning horror as its size grew and grew. By the time its massive metal wheels appeared, the tower was nearly as tall as the parapet. Gleaming armor covered the front of the thing, thick metal plates scored with organic, unsettling lines. Any number of arrowslits or other trickery might be concealed among such designs.
After decades of silence, the Beh-Inar Empire had returned.
Frantically he studied the surrounding terrain. But he saw no elves. There was only the awful siege tower rolling on wheels as tall as a man. Every wheel’s hub sprouted a growth of anti-infantry blades that spun as the wheel revolved. The blades were spinning fast…far too fast. How was the monstrosity being pushed that quickly? And wait…was that a second tower?
Fhen ran to the edge of the platform, seeking an angle for a better view. He made another dismayed sound.
It was two towers—no. Three. It was…many towers? Stacked in a line? As he beheld it, the rows of metal plates resolved into one terrible shape. It was a single titanic vehicle. Not just a siege tower, or even a battering ram, but something akin to an entire mobile keep.
Fhen slowly lowered the spyglass.
The Beh-Inar had created a weapon with no precedent. A rolling engine so vast that its builders must surely be mad. Only their incomprehensible crystal magic could drive such a gargantuan…Machine.
“Stop quailing like children,” Neya shouted from below. Even from here the Bowmaster’s voice carried perfectly. “Take your marks, damn you!”
Fhen turned his attention to the parapet, where Neya was assembling her twenty archers. Within moments she had her women spaced in a perfect line. The way their ironweave battle skirts belled out made him think of upside down wine cups arrayed along a tavern shelf. The sight fortified him. In the main courtyard, Fhen was likewise encouraged to see the Guard contingent forming up with shields and lances. His garrison was comprised of the finest men and women of the realm. Well-trained and strong.
But what good could they accomplish against this bewildering new thing? What could any of them hope to accomplish when faced with a surprise attack of such magnitude, and after decades of nothing?
“Intendant Fhen!” The King’s messenger staggered onto the platform, his voice ragged from dashing up the stairs. Fhen strode over, grabbing the man by his elbow when he would have rested his hands on his knees. None of them could afford any delay now.
“Here!” He said harshly, thrusting the spy glass into the man’s hand. “Observe while you catch your breath.”
Chest heaving, the messenger did as he was told. His breathing only became more labored as he gazed upon the rolling metal nightmare.
“ ‘Tis…‘tis a centipede,” the man gasped. He sounded as if he’d been punched.
A centipede. Yes, that was accurate after a fashion. “A centipede made of Beh-Inar steel and taller than a two-story inn,” the Intendant grimly observed.
“Formless creation…” the messenger choked.
“Keep watching,” Fhen commanded. The messenger would tell him if aught changed, freeing him to oversee the garrison.
Below the platform, the Queen’s Archers were preparing their first volley. Neya had positioned herself behind them, in the center of the line.
“Nock!” she shouted, her voice rising to him on the icy breeze.
Twenty arrows were fitted to twenty strings.
“Draw!”
The women raised their bows in one fluid motion, pushing with one arm and pulling with the other, until each string was held at the corner of their lips and the ends of their Grivenean recurves were bent back in leashed power.
“Release!”
The contingent let fly. A perfect volley. Fhen watched the arrows arc through the sky. At their apogee all the steel heads flashed for an instant…and then curved down towards their singular target.
One lone arrow lodged itself amidst the metal carvings—naught but a fluke. The others bounced off with a distant clatter like rain. Fhen wasn’t surprised, but it was dismaying all the same.
Beside him, the messenger stirred uneasily. “Should I—”
“Keep your watch,” he growled. “I'll tell you when it's time.”
“…flame…” Neya was calling, her voice diminished as she addressed the far end of her line of archers. Her head turned back his way and she repeated the command to the archers nearest him. “Orc flame!”
In the courtyard below, the King’s Guard milled about nervously. They couldn’t see what was on the other side of the wall, but they’d heard Neya. They knew what sort of threat called for orc flame.
Above, the archers were busy pulling long arrows with white hafts from a special compartment in their quivers. Each unwrapped the protective rag on one end to reveal the arrow’s unimpressive black tip. The archers dropped the scraps of cloth to be caught by the wind. They fluttered away like a mockery of celebration.
“Nock!” Again the archers took their stances and followed Neya’s commands. “Draw!” Neya would have been using her own orc flame arrow had Fhen not warned her to hold onto it. His stomach churned at the thought.
He feared they would have need of it.
“Release!”
Fhen watched the second volley. There was no sunlight glitter off these missiles. What they carried was not made to shine prettily. Despite his gut instincts, he allowed himself to hope…
The arrows impacted onto the front of the Machine. A giant fireball bloomed as each expended itself violently. The resulting series of explosions rumbled up through the pass, muting that damnable hum for a handful of precious seconds. A cloud of smoke rose up from the front of the weapon like a roiling black mushroom. Seeing only the top of it from the inner courtyard, the men of the Guard cheered.
The Machine rolled on.
Fhen’s insides turned colder than the top of the nearest peak. He watched the hungry orc fire eating its way across the indifferent metal surface. There was no change aside from scorch marks. Spawn of Zaghel…where were the elves? Not a single Beh-Inar soldier had revealed themselves. Only their vile Machine. Growing ever closer.
That settled it.
Fhen seized the spyglass from the messenger’s hand. “Did you see?” he demanded. “Do you understand?”
The messenger blinked rapidly, seeming to wake up from a stupor. “Aye, Intendant. I bore witness. I will carry the word.”
“Go now,” Fhen told him. “And do not stop until you reach the Crowned City.” Pause. “I am closing the pass.”
The messenger was stunned. “In-Intendant, are you—”
“Ride,” Fhen told him. He smiled tiredly. “While you can.”
Saluting with his closed fist to his forehead, the messenger practically scampered towards the stairs. Fhen checked to make sure the man’s horse was waiting by the open rear gate, then looked towards the parapet.
Neya was already staring up at him. She was too far away for him to make out her expression, but he could picture it all the same. Gathering every last iota of courage in his heart, he beckoned her with his arm. Her shoulders slumped, but it was to the bowmaster’s credit that she didn’t delay.
“Abandon the wall!” she shouted. “Flee the keep!”
Fhen smiled. Despite this duty of two faces, he and Neya were of one mind. There could be no posturing here. Their kingdom would have need of every able-bodied warrior soon enough. Cupping his hands around his mouth, he shouted to the lancers below.
“Quit the keep! Reform at Bastion Fort!” He repeated it three times, until his throat was hoarse. By then the messenger was already away and the King’s Guard and Queen’s Archers were mingling together as they started to pour through the small portal at the back of Mercy Gap. It would be up to the Guard’s first lancer to maintain overall order. The bowmaster would be indisposed.
Neya appeared at that moment, rapidly ascending the steps. She barely seemed winded despite her heavy ironweave dress. Such a magnificent woman.
“Fhen,” she said, her dark eyes on him. “Are you sure?”
“Tell me your honest thoughts,” he answered quietly, nodding at that which might spell the doom of their land. She looked at the Machine, and then she looked back, and her eyes were shining. They were of one mind again.
She pointed. “You can still make it if you leave at—”
“No.” His voice was resolute. “I prefer the company here.”
She swallowed. “Fhen—”
“When this is over, would you permit me to call upon you?” he asked softly. “As a suitor, I mean?”
Her bottom lip trembled, and her pained smile tore at his heart. “Silly man…of course you can.”
“Thank you, Neya.”
“May the Paired King clasp you to his breast,” she said.
“May the Paired Queen enfold you in her arms,” he answered.
Neya took a deep breath, and pulled forth her white hafted arrow. She peeled away the protective cloth. Up close, the head resembled nothing so much as a pellet of tar. Without ceremony, she nocked the bow.
“Not just yet,” Fhen cautioned. “It’s almost at the gate. Wait for the aftermath so your aim is true.”
She nodded and looked past him at the metal centipede. He turned to watch with her. At just that moment, two massive metal screws emerged from the front of the Machine, twisting in opposite directions.
“Truly?” he remarked scornfully. “The Beh-Inar have no decorum.”
“They never have,” Neya agreed. “Fuckers.”
The twin screws pierced the foot-thick door with ease, tearing the ancient timbers to pieces like a child snapping twigs. Then the rounded front of the Machine itself slammed into the stonework below the parapet. The ground trembled as the Machine labored, and Fhen took a small bit of heart to see it momentarily slowed by the wall. That awful vibration grew louder until his head started to pound.
“Wait till it gives way,” he shouted.
The ground shook and leapt, and they both clutched each other for stability as, at last, the stone wall that had defended Mercy Gap for centuries tumbled and fell with a cacophonous roar.
“Now!” he yelled.
Neya waited a touch longer for the vibrations to subside…then raised her bow and aimed for the dark groove cut just beneath the sun-brightened snow. She drew and held. Fhen watched the taut string, knowing she was waiting until the shot was aligned and the wind was steady.
“Merciful Monarchs preserve our beloved Grivene,” he whispered.
The bow string thrummed as it loosed its last shot. Coated in orc flame, the deadly arrow streaked towards the dozens of casks filled with the same black sludge.
Bullseye.
The Last Measure detonated, and the ground jumped like a thing alive, as if the ancient wyrm of legend was stirring from its own death. Fhen and Neya watched the sheet of flame billow up…and then vanish beneath a white wall. The air filled with a sound like thunder as a centuries-worth of snow bore down on the ill-fated keep.
Fhen felt Neya’s arms slide around his body, and he was able to get his own around hers just in time. Then, perhaps in a rare blessing by the remote gods they worshipped, they felt nothing beyond their final embrace.
The Dragon of Creation molted its scales, and Mercy Gap was buried beneath a hundred feet of snow, ice, and rock.
It took a long time for the noise to abate. For the crackle of ice and thump of falling snow and raining gravel to fade as all found a precarious new balance beneath the bare flank of the mountain. At last…all was still.
Had a witness remained—and had they possessed keen hearing—they might have detected one remaining thing amidst the quiet. The faintest sound sifting up from the collapsed keep far below. A hum.
Like a hive.
Comments
K. R. Treadway
Yup...yup. 😣
brideofmoo
😭
