Dragons and Destiny (46 page)

“You positive
about that?” asked a suspicious Zala.

“Heard it from
the General myself,” Matt lied.

“I’ve been told
they’re looking for more volunteers,” Zala accused him but who was
nevertheless beginning to calm down.

“Just a
precaution.”

“Against
what?”

“Civil unrest,”
Matt had that one ready.

Zala
sniffed.

“It’s always a
possibility. Councillor Anders is being careful, that’s all.”

“Mathieu wants
to join. He’s heard that they’ve lowered the age limit to fourteen.
Some of his friends told him.”

“Let him,”
advised Matt, thinking that if the war went badly Mathieu would be
as safe there as at home. “Emergency might even be over by the time
he gets his kit issued. Let’s put our brave faces on and go to the
children.” He felt her tremble and he lifted up her chin with one
finger, bent his head and kissed her, a long and lingering kiss
that he wished could last forever and a day.

Zala stood by
the door and watched as the children crowded round their father.
There was a lot of kissing, cuddling and giggling. Mathieu however
shook his father’s hand in what he felt was a manly way and Zala
felt her breath catch in her throat. He looked so grown up, almost
a man, old enough to join one of the volunteer companies who would
help keep the peace in Stewarton and the surrounding areas. Most of
the police and the road-watch were members of the Militia and had
exchanged lawman blue for militia black.

“Look after
your mother and your brothers and sisters,” she heard Matt telling
him.

“I will
Father.”

“Now I must
go,” said Matt who had spied the family coachman outside the front
door holding his horse. As an officer Matt had his own although she
was not a battle horse. Non-commissioned ranks usually marched on
their own arched insteps, but not this time. Every man and woman
was to ride. The horse fairs were empty of all but the oldest and
unsound. The horses that had belonged to their recently departed
southern guests were already waiting in the horse lines for their
riders, even the pack-mares who had been most surprised when a
saddle had been placed on their backs.

Matt rode down
the hill with a heavy heart. He felt sure he hadn’t been saying
goodbye to his wife and family but a final farewell.

He tethered his
horse at the end of the horse lines, responding to the cheerful
banter of the men as they prepared their mounts for the journey. He
did his best to respond in kind and did very well considering.

Only a select
few amongst the Militia knew they were heading for a real war. The
march east was in the nature of a holiday for the men, a time away
from their often humdrum lives. Even his Commanding Officer had
only been told part of the truth as Matt soon realised when he
reported for duty.

“Ah, Matt,”
Major Danielson greeted him. “Welcome. Ready for the fray eh?”

“Yes sir,” Matt
answered very properly. “Orders?”

“We’re to make
our way with the other Companies to Settlement.”

“I see
sir.”

“Don’t suppose
we’ll be staying there. In fact, I’m positive we’ll receive further
orders on route.”

That’s all you
know.

“They’ll not
need us there, mark my words, we’ll be kicking our heels in some
god-forsaken outpost up the coast before the tenday is out. Now
ready your men, we’re leaving at Fourth Bell.”

“Yes sir,” Matt
answered, his face bland.

* * * * *

The
Crown-Prince

Father is
dying. The doctors hold out no hope.
Crown-Prince Paul’s
thoughts were sombre as he left his father’s bedchamber.
I must
recall Elliot.

Thus far had
his thoughts gone when Peter Duchesne, wearing his fatigue uniform,
accosted him in the corridor.

Peter bowed and
Paul regarded his attire with astonishment.

“Didn’t think a
field exercise was scheduled.”

“It’s not an
exercise My Prince.”

Paul raised an
eyebrow.

“The Largan is
gathering his kohorts. I’m expecting he’ll make a move soon.”

Paul was no
longer thinking of his father. He took a deep breath. “Better go in
there,” he said, indicating the door to a nearby antechamber and
leading the way. Peter closed the door behind him.

Paul didn’t ask
the reason why. If Peter Duchesne thought that war with the Larg
was imminent that was good enough for him.

“Where?” he
demanded.

“We’re not
sure. Intelligence is scanty. I’ve sent out the usual alerts to the
border garrisons.”

“The
Regiments?”

“Cancelled all
leave and they’re on instant notice to march. Can’t do more until I
at least have some indication of possible targets.”

“Conclave?” the
Crown-Prince frowned, “no, of course, Summer Court hasn’t been
called yet, the Dukes?”

“I’ve sent
messengers,” Peter advised him, “at least they’ll be warned.”

“Good enough.
We’ll have to wait and see then?”

“The King?”
enquired Peter.

“Sinking fast,”
his son replied, “a few months at most. I’m calling Elliot
home.”

“Wise move.” He
paused to gather his thoughts. “I’m on my way to HQ to advise
Generals Ross and Karovitz. It won’t take long. I do need to speak
to you, with the King so ill you understand.”

“I’ll do what
needs doing,” Paul promised. “Don’t panic Peter, the Larg have
attacked before and we’ve beaten them off. Duchesne and Graham are
always ready.”

“I had a
visitor from Vadath.”

“Vadath or the
Vada?”

“Same thing.
The whole country is like one giant regiment. The news he brought
me was amazing, impossible even.”

“I should know
about it,” declared Crown-Prince Paul. “Meet me in my office when
you’ve finished with the Generals? Fifth Candle-mark?”

“Until Fifth
Candle-mark, as long as you promise to suspend all scepticism and
hear me out,” agreed Peter.

A troubled
Crown-Prince watched him leave. He then went to his own quarters to
instruct his servants to ready his own campaign uniform.

It was a
quarter candle-mark after the fifth when Crown-Prince Paul handed
over a glass of mulled wine to his visitor.

“You’ve
intrigued me,” he said to Peter Duchesne. “Why do you think that
this Larg attack will be any different?”

“My
Prince?”

“Call me Paul,
we’re on our own, we’re friends and it becomes very tedious having
the appellation Prince attached every time someone speaks to
me.”

“I couldn’t
possibly.”

“Let protocols
go hang,” said Paul with some heat, “try it out, Paul’s an easy
name to remember.”

“Where to begin
My … Paul,” said Peter. “Have you read any of the volumes written
by Tara Sullivan, ‘Tales of Rybak’ in particular?”

“When I was a
boy, but why?”

“There is a
story in one of the volumes, an old Lindish fable about creatures
that arrived from outer space and taught the Lind how to talk and
of how these creatures, the Lind call them the Lai, continue to
watch over them.”

“I suppose
you’re going to tell me that the fable is nothing of the kind and
that they exist,” laughed Paul. “Pull the other leg why don’t
you.”

“Well My …
Paul, actually I am. It is true. They do exist.”

“The wine must
have addled your wits.”

“On the
contrary, I am sure that the Ryzcka who visited me was telling the
truth.”

* * * * *

Zilla

Zak Talanson
ran as fast as his legs could take him up the hill from the town to
the inn. He shoved open the side door with scant attention to who
might be passing, so eager was he to shout out his news.

“You’ll never
guess,” he called out, “muster’s been called.”

“What?” shouted
his father, his head emerging from the wine cellar door. “Muster? I
don’t believe you.”

“Its true
Father,” answered Zak with suppressed excitement. “I met Joh
Smithson at the market and he told me. The Militia is to muster in
the town hall at Sixth Bell and we’re marching out at once.”

Talan frowned,
“now see here Zak,” he began, “you’re going nowhere. I need you. I
didn’t mind you joining the Militia with your friends and going to
drill every tenday but I’ll not countenance any more and you know
it.”

Zak shook his
head, “I’ve got to go Father, don’t you see? Joh said it’s a real
muster. I don’t have any choice.”

“I’ll see about
this,” declared Talan darkly, taking off his apron and hanging it
on a nearby hook. “You’re not real soldiers, none of you are. You
march up and down drill night a few times, play about with a sword
then decant to the pub. You’re of far more use here. None of the
beacons are lit or I’d have heard. No pirates are attacking that I
know of. The Larg can’t get here, the defences at Settlement are
too strong, there’s enough been spent on them.”

“I am
going.”

“Stuff and
nonsense,” scoffed Talan, picking up coat and hat and putting them
on. “You get the ale barrels ready for opening bell. I’m going into
town to find out what this is all about.”

Zak watched him
leave, shrugged and ignoring his father’s order ran three at a time
up the stairs to his room where he kept his uniform, including
helmet, sword, leather neck and shoulder protectors that were
standard issue in the Argyll Militia. As Zak readied his uniform,
cursing when he found that the thongs that kept the protectors in
place were all tangled up, Talan was walking with rapid steps down
the hill towards the town hall where he intended to put a stop to
Zak’s madness.

Zilla heard Zak
as he rootled round at the bottom of his wardrobe for the rest of
his kit and wondered what was happening.

“Zak?” She
knocked on his door. “It’s me, Zilla. May I come in?”

“Course,” Zak
called back and Zilla’s blonde head appeared.

“What are you
doing?”

“Militia has
been called up,” answered Zak, thrilling with excitement. “We’re
marching out.”

“Where to?”
Zilla enquired.

“Don’t know
yet,” he answered.

“You’re
enjoying this,” she accused. “How long do you think you’ll be
away?”

“Couple of
tendays at most.”

“Couple of
tendays.” exclaimed Zilla, “and who is going to do all the heavy
work around here while you’re gone? You and half the outside staff
are with the Militia.”

“You’ll have to
manage the best you can. I’m going and that’s that, despite what
Father says. It’s the best thing that’s happened to me for a long
time.”

“You hate it
here, don’t you?” asked Zilla.

“As usual, your
intuition is quite correct,” he answered, quirking an eyebrow at
her. Zilla entered the room, closing the door behind her, all her
exasperation at the extra work evaporating in a flash.

“Tell me,” she
encouraged.

“I’ve no time.
I’ve got to get ready,” he dissembled. He wasn’t sure he wanted his
baby sister to be the repository of all his inner angst.

“I’ll help you
get ready,” she said, “if you tell me about it. Zala used to tell
me things when I was little. Everyone tells me their problems
eventually, Mother says I’m a good listener, she calls it a gift.
Tell me what’s troubling
you
Zak. If I can help I will.”

“You’re not to
tell anyone else,” he warned.

“I never do,”
she answered with a gentle smile, “Mother says that’s another of my
gifts though I don’t see how. I suspect she was trying to make me
feel better when she said it. You see, everyone else, you, the
others, they have careers, Zala has her family, everyone has
something important to do except me.”

“That’s what
you think,” murmured Zak.

“That’s what I
did think about you, until now, but you’re not happy here, are
you?”

“No, I’m not,”
admitted Zak, “not for a long time.”

“Tell me.”

“No one asked
me,” said Zak, sitting on his bed and gazing up at the ceiling.
Zilla curled herself up at the bottom of the bed and composed
herself to listen.

“I suppose
really it’s because I’m the eldest and the only boy but I wasn’t
asked if I wanted to stay here and learn how to run the inn. Zala
understood, at least in part, she was going to ask Matt if there
was an opening for me with his father’s business but she
forgot.”

“Her first baby
did arrive soon,” said Zilla.

Zak nodded.

“And Tala is at
Stewarton doing what she wants to do and here I am, good old Zak,
morning, day and night, moving ale-barrels and mopping up spills.
The only break I ever get is on Militia nights. That’s where my
friends are, not here.”

“I understand,”
said a sympathetic Zilla and Zak looked at her. She had always been
the most outwardly childish of the triplets but now he realised she
had more common sense than the other two put together. When Hilla
had left for the Garda and Rilla for the Vada, Zilla had continued,
quietly doing the tasks that fell to her lot, never
complaining.

“Are
you
happy Zilla?” he asked.

It was Zilla’s
turn to shrug. “I don’t think about it very much, thinking can’t
change anything.”

“I suppose
you’re right.”

Zilla hadn’t
finished, “what can’t be cured must be endured,” she continued, “if
you don’t like the way it is you have to have the guts to do
something about it, like Tala and Hilla and even Rilla though I
don’t think she had much choice in the matter once Zawlei appeared.
You have the choice now, if you want to take it. You can go with
your friends, with the Militia. Father can’t stop you, not
really.”

“Do you think I
should go?” Zak felt that it was important that Zilla should have
her say, at this the crossroads of his future.