on Froi stumbled. He knelt by the corpse of Florik’s cousin and most loyal friend. Faces that had stared at him as he sang alongside Arjuro.
And it was from where he knelt that he saw a mighty soldier to be reckoned with. A mountain of a man, stumbling away from one kill and searching for the next. It was Trevanion, but it wasn’t. It was a man born for battle. Captains mostly were. And Froi stood and turned back to Dorcas and pointed ahead, and Dorcas nodded. Froi stepped over the dead, limping his way towards the man and he thought of the story Gargarin and Finnikin had told them about the Haladyans. His father and his king. A surrender for a surrender, they had said. And Dorcas later said that the gods must have protected Froi, because he walked through the battle like a man in a daze, his weapon in its scabbard, his arms above his head. What was Froi’s instinct amidst the battle rage? It was what his instinct always would be. From the moment he was born. Find a way to live. And as he limped towards the Nebian Captain he asked himself over and over again, what would Trevanion do? If he saw a lad walking towards him in a futile battle where Lumaterans were slaughtering Lumaterans? Would a captain’s pride have him fight on till the end, knowing his men would follow him to the grave rather than give in? Froi knew the moment the Captain of the Nebian Guard saw him, because the big man dragged the Lasconian soldier along to where Froi stood with his arms still raised in surrender. He thought he heard Dorcas by his side, but the world seemed a haze.
‘Bestiano is dead,’ Froi said. ‘Gargarin of Abroi is our only hope.’
And the Captain of the Nebian army lowered Froi’s hands and took the white flag from Dorcas and hollered, and when Froi’s hearing returned, his head felt as if it had burst into fragments and he fell to the ground, writhing in pain. But with that pain came the words he was waiting for, from a captain perhaps no different from his own.
‘
Later, he watched Dorcas check the corpse of every man they passed, manically searching for life.
‘Is he going to be all right?’ Froi asked Fekra quietly as they stood under a cruel sun that shone its brilliance, illuminating every fatal wound and blank stare of death.
Fekra shook his head. ‘We’re the last. Of the palace, I mean. Dorcas. Me. Remember all those people when you arrived that day in the Citavita? The King’s men and family and palace soldiers? The riders? Everyone’s dead, except for Dorcas and me.’
‘And Quintana,’ Froi reminded him.
They reached a section of the valley where Perabo and a group of the Lasconian lads were guarding the surrendered army. Gargarin arrived with Arjuro and De Lancey on horseback and Froi could see De Lancey staring around at the carnage in desperation. With Fekra’s arm around him for support, Froi hobbled to them.
‘He’s not here, De Lancey. You have nothing to fear, for now.’
Arjuro stared down at Froi’s leg and bent to inspect it. ‘It’s nothing,’ Froi said. ‘Just get me onto my horse.’
‘You’re not going anywhere until I see to this leg,’ Arjuro said.
‘There are men dying, Arjuro. See to them.’
Gargarin was gravely studying the surrendered Nebian army before him.
‘How many dead?’ he asked one of the Lasconian lads who was guarding.
‘Ours or theirs, sir?’
Gargarin sent the lad a scathing look.
‘They’re all ours, you fool! They’re all Charynites!
Froi shivered at a memory of what had happened in Lumatere on the day they entered the kingdom. Trevanion had counted the dead. Young men and not so young. The Captain had visited every family who lost a loved one in the battle to reclaim Lumatere. Froi recognised the same pain in Gargarin’s face now. He had given the order for this.
Before them the Nebian army was kneeling in rows, placed in some sort of order that made no sense to Froi. Those who were wounded lay down.
It was here that Froi got a better look at Scarpo of Nebia. He was a thickset man with solemn eyes that made little contact with the world, slightly younger than Trevanion.
‘Can you get to your feet?’ Gargarin asked.
The Captain of the Nebian army rose.
‘You surrendered easily,’ Gargarin said.
There was no response.
‘Some will see you as a coward,’ Gargarin said.
Froi looked at Scarpo’s men. Their eyes blazed to hear the words.
‘Then let that title be mine and not my men’s, sir,’ Scarpo said. ‘They followed orders. They are assembled in the order of rank. All I ask is that you follow the conventions of surrender and that no harm comes to my men, sir. At no time have they behaved disorderly or without honour. If you choose to take their land from them, sir, I ask that you take into consideration those who are sole providers of elderly kinsfolk. If I could also ask that those closest to where we stand are attended to with alacrity, sir. Their wounds are dire and if we are to agree on anything today, it’s that Charyn can ill afford to lose another man.’
‘You have much to say … what’s your name?’
‘Scarpo of Nebia, sir. Captain of the Nebian Guard.’
‘Former Captain of the Nebian Guard, Scarpo.’
‘As you please, sir.’
‘The Queen needs a captain,’ Gargarin said flatly. ‘And I don’t have many candidates, so you’re it.’
Froi saw the startled surprise in the expression of a man who thought he was to die this day.
‘Agreed?’
‘Your order, sir.’
‘Join Ariston of Turla and his men and bring us back the Queen and her child.’
Surprise again, and then a grimace.
‘The Queen, you say?’
‘He said the Queen,’ Froi shouted. ‘Are you hard of hearing?’
The man grimaced again. Froi studied him and walked towards where he was. ‘What is it you’re not telling us, Nebian?’
The Captain shook his head with regret. ‘Bestiano issued an order to every spy, every street lord, and every barbarian outside the province …’ Scarpo swallowed hard. ‘She’s not to live.’
Froi stared at him, his gut twisting.
‘If she’s given birth to the child, then grieve Quintana of Charyn,’ Scarpo said. ‘Because it means her throat’s already been cut.’
Chapter 38
Almost two days after Donashe’s men stormed their hiding place, Phaedra sat in their prison cave with an arm around Quintana and a tremble in her body that refused to stop. Despite Donashe’s men standing guard outside their cave, she knew they were prisoners of a man more powerful than the street lord. Harker had been given permission to see them for a short time that day. He had warned them that a messenger had been dispatched to advise Bestiano that the Princess was in the valley.
‘Will they take us to the Citavita?’ Jorja asked her husband.
He shook his head. ‘They reveal little.’
He glanced at Phaedra. ‘I’ve sent word to your father. Perhaps an army from Alonso will secure your release.’
‘There is no army in Alonso,’ she said quietly. ‘And why would my father believe I lived after being told I was dead all this time?’
Harker ushered his wife and Phaedra to the outer cave under the suspicious stare of Quintana. She had been frighteningly quiet since Rafuel had been dragged away.
