“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 slaywith 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.
