“Whatever he says, lad-whatever he says.”
Renwick placed the helm on his head. It fit snug around the forehead and the thick batten felt soft and cushioning. He banged his head with the heel of his fist. The helm absorbed the blow. He felt almost nothing.
“It’s good.”
“You’ll be all right. Now get back to Breckton. I have more work to do, as I suspect you do too.”
Outside, the streets were wet; warmer air had melted some of the snow. Icicles dripped, sounding like rain, as overhead the sky swirled and thunder crashed.
He jumped a large puddle but did not account for the added weight of the armor. He had never worn any before. It was only a breastplate and helm, but with the shield and sword added, it was enough to throw off his balance. He came up short and splashed in the middle, soaking his foot with ice-cold water. He felt foolish holding the shield as if he expected to be attacked at any moment. The other soldiers wore shields slung on their backs. He paused in the street, examining the straps and trying to determine how to do that, when a flash of lightning arced across the sky and he heard a terrible crack. People on the street ducked into doorways, their eyes skyward. This got him moving again and he jogged the rest of the way to Imperial Square.
Men filled the open area. Soldiers and knights sat on the dry sections of cobblestone or stood in puddles. He worked his way in, trying not to hit anyone with either his shield or his sword. Renwick felt conspicuous. Men with missing teeth and scarred faces glared at him as he picked his way through the crowd. He felt a heat building on his skin, his face flushing with embarrassment as he realized how ridiculous he must look. Renwick knew he did not belong there and so did they.
“Renwick! Over here, lad!” He heard a familiar voice and saw Sir Elgar waving from the center of the square. Never before had he been happy to see him.
“Make room!” Elgar bellowed, and kicked Sir Gilbert and Sir Murthas until they shifted over. Renwick quickly sat down, trying to become invisible.
“Here, lad.” Elgar took the shield from him. “Carry it like this.” He pulled his arm out roughly and slipped the long strap over his shoulder. “A lot easier that way.”
“Thanks,” he said, making sure his sword lay flat behind him and was not in anyone’s way. Suddenly he felt a jolt as Elgar struck him hard in the chest with his fist like a hammer. Renwick rocked back and looked up, stunned.
“Good armor!” The knight grinned at him and nodded.
A moment later Murthas drew his dagger and hit him hard with the pommel. The sound rang and again Renwick rocked back, shocked, but unharmed. “Excellent.”
“Stop!” Renwick shouted, looking at them fearfully.
The two laughed.
“Tradition, boy,” Elgar told him. “It is good luck to have new armor tested by friends before enemies. Just praise Novron we’re sitting down!”
“Aye!” Sir Gilbert said. “When I got my first helm, Sir Biffard rang it so hard I passed out, but I woke up in the care of Lady Bethany, so I can attest to the good luck of a sound beating on new armor!”
The knights all laughed again.
“Who is this pup?” the man seated across from Renwick asked. His blond hair came nearly to his shoulders, his blue eyes as bright as sapphires. He wore ornate armor inlaid with gold designs of ivy and roses. Over his shoulders he wore a purple velvet cape, held by a solid-gold broach.
“This is Renwick, Your Highness,” Murthas replied. “I don’t know if he has any other name. He was a page in the palace until recently. Now he is aide-de-camp to Sir Breckton.”
“Ah!” the man said. “The fearless rider!”
“Indeed, Your Highness-the same.”
“You’ve done a great service for us, Renwick. I shall be pleased to fight beside you.”
“Ah-thank you-ah-”
“You have no idea who I am, do you?” he chuckled, and the rest followed him.
“This is Prince Rudolf of Alburn, son of King Armand,” Murthas told him.
“Oh!” Renwick said. “I am honored, Your Highness.”
“And well you should be,” Murthas said. “There are precious few princes willing to fight beside their knights these days, much less sit with us before the battle.”
“Ha!” Rudolf laughed. “Don’t flatter me, Murthas. I’m here only to get away from the smothering chatter of women and children. There’s a stuffiness to the castle these days. She has them filling the corridors, packed like sausage. You can’t piss without a child or woman passing by. And they don’t appreciate fine liquor!”
The prince drew forth a crystal decanter of amber liquid, which he sloshed about merrily. He took the first swallow, smacked his lips loudly, then passed it to Sir Elgar on his right. “From the empress’s private stash,” the prince told them in an exaggerated whisper. “But I hear she doesn’t drink and I’m certain she will not begrudge her knights a bit of warmth on this day.”
Elgar took a mouthful and handed Renwick the bottle, which he held but did not drink from.
“Ha-ha!” Elgar said, looking at him. “The lad is afraid of getting drunk before his first fight! Drink up, lad, I guarantee that won’t be a problem. You could down two such bottles and the fire in your belly would burn up that liquor before it ever reached your head.”
Renwick tipped the bottle, swallowed, and felt the liquor burn its way down his throat.
“That-a-boy!” Elgar cheered. “We’ll make a man of you today, that’s for sure!”
He passed the bottle on to Murthas as overhead huge black clouds swirled and the sky grew dark until it appeared as if dusk had fallen at midday. What light remained cast an eerie green radiance. Lightning continued to flash and thunder cracked. Yet sitting shoulder to shoulder among the stable of men, smelling their sweat, listening to their carefree laughter and the sounds of their belches, curses, and dirty jokes, Renwick felt safe. The liquor warmed him, relaxed him. He placed his hand on the grip of his new sword and squeezed. He thought they could win this battle. He felt that they would win, and he would stand among the victors.
“Hide the bottle!” the prince shouted, and Sir Gilbert guiltily stowed it under his shield with a comical look on his face just as Sir Breckton arrived and walked into the center of the circle.
“So there you are!” he said, spotting Renwick. “Got your armor and sword, I see. Good.” He raised his hands to quiet the crowd. “Men! I have called you together here on behalf of the empress. Everyone take a knee!”
The soldiers made a loud shuffling of feet and swords. Renwick saw the small, slender figure of the empress Modina dressed all in white enter the mass of men like a flake of snow amidst a mound of mud and ash. She stepped up on a box placed at the center and looked around her, smiling. Several of the men bowed their heads, but Renwick could not; it was impossible to take his eyes off her. She was the most beautiful thing he had ever beheld and he still felt the kiss she had left on his cheeks. Before that day, he had seen her only once, when she had addressed the city from the balcony. That day he had stood in awe like the rest, marveling at her-so impressive, so powerful. Now, like in the fourth-floor office, what he saw before him was a woman. The picture of innocence wrapped in a pristine white dress that hung from her as if she were bathed in light. Modina wore no coat or cloak. Her unbound hair, glimmering like gold, fell to her shoulders. She appeared so young, not much older than him, and yet in her eyes was the aging from years of pain and hard-won wisdom.
“The elves are coming,” she began, her voice soft and faint against the wind. “Reports tell of a host moving up the road from the south. No one has yet provided an accurate number or assessment of troops.” She looked to the sky and took a breath. “We are the last stronghold of mankind. You are the last army, the last warriors, the last defenders of our race. If they should take this city…” She hesitated and a few bowed heads looked up.
She looked back as if taking in each face.
“None of you know me,” she said, her voice changing, losing its formal tone. “Some have seen me on a balcony or in a corridor. Some have heard stories about me, of me being a goddess and the daughter of Novron-your savior. But you don’t know me.” She raised her arms out at her sides and slowly turned around. “I am Thrace Wood of Dahlgren Village, daughter of Theron and Addie. I was but a poor peasant from a family of farmers. My brother Thaddeus-Thad-was going to be a cooper until one night I left the door to my home open when I went to find my father. The light…” She hesitated and the pause gripped Renwick’s heart. “The light through the open door attracted an elven monster. It ripped my home apart and killed my family. It killed the boy I hoped that I might one day marry. It killed my best friends, their parents, even the livestock. Then it killed my father-the last reason I had to live. But it did not kill me. I survived. I did not want to. My family-my life-was gone.”
