Queenmaker 28-29

Sorry about the delay – I caught something nasty and spent two days feeling sick.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

“Go back to your sister,” I ordered, as we reached the army lines. “Tell her we’re taking the offensive. Now.”

Lord Jacob hesitated, noticeably. He’d kept his mouth shut as we walked home, somewhat to my surprise, although it was quite possible I’d intimidated him into silence. He’d just seen me kill a young woman with my bare hands, after she killed my future wife and the mother of my unborn child … my rage turned cold, dark and dangerous as I pointed him at the city walls and hurried to the command tent. He didn’t follow. I guessed he thought the whole affair was well above his pay grade.

Which makes a pleasant change, I reflected, sourly. God knew, I’d met far too many male officers who didn’t think their female superiors could be trusted with the details. They disobeyed orders and justified it to themselves by insisting they were only doing what she would have ordered done, if she were a man. But right now I need him to stay out of my way.

I hadn’t taken the parley agreement entirely on trust. My men had rested, rearmed and remained on guard, weapons at the ready, as the ill-fated party headed south to the parley ground. Horst, Fallows and a bunch of other officers had strict orders to keep an eye on the enemy positions, watching for an attempt to rush the city’s defences or simply do unto us as we’d done unto Cuthbert. I didn’t think the three warlords – two really, unless Renweard had pulled his army back together quicker than I’d expected – could coordinate their armies well enough to pull it off, but I’d been surprised before. They still outnumbered us badly enough to give quantity a quality all of its own.

As Stalin made clear to Hitler, I thought. The Germans had been better at war than the Russians, but there had been so many Russians … The Germans simply ran out of men and material.

Horst jumped to his feet as I strode into the tent, his eyes going wide as he saw my face. The rest of the war council – my senior officers – crashed to attention … I forced myself to calm down, just a little, at their expressions. I wasn’t the sort of officer who demanded everyone bow and scrape before me – in my experience, officers who demanded everyone kiss their ass were worthless – but they knew better than to push me too far. They didn’t know what had happened, not yet …

“They broke the parley,” I said, flatly. “Fallon is dead.”

The room seemed to chill, to grow colder despite the ever-present heat. Half of my officers were cityfolk, all too aware the warlords were rather less trustworthy than Darth Vader; the other half were aristocrats, shocked at the mere suggestion of breaking a parley. They’d have been less shocked if someone had approached under a white flag, then opened fire the moment they got into range. Anger burned in my gut. The rules had been devised to minimise bloodshed – specifically, aristocratic blood – but rules were for equals. They’d no doubt justified themselves by arguing they had no obligation to keep their agreements with me.

Or Helen, I thought. No one will ever trust them again.

“We are going on the offensive,” I snapped.  I drew a line on the map. The one advantage of fighting so close to Roxanna was that our maps were, for once, surprisingly accurate. I knew enough about the local terrain to compensate for their deficiencies. “Sound the bugles. We march in twenty minutes.”

There was no argument. I could tell some wanted to argue, some wanted to disagree, but they didn’t quite dare. Others wanted revenge. Horst and Fallows had known Fallon when she’d joined the army, then followed me to Roxanna … they’d have sought revenge for her death even if she hadn’t been engaged to me. And none of them were prepared to let the warlords get away with breaking the parley. It would be a terrible precedent to let stand.

No one will ever trust them again, I reminded myself. But given time, I’m sure they’ll find some way to justify their crimes to themselves.

I outlined the plan, such as it was. The old army could never have pulled it off. I wouldn’t have dared try, not elsewhere, but here … we had a lot of supplies stockpiled inside the city walls. We could afford to take some risks … and besides, we needed to take revenge, to teach the warlords a lesson they would never forget. I wondered, numbly, if they’d realise just how far they’d stepped over the line. It wasn’t the social inequality that got to people, not here and not back home; it was the freaking double standards, the lack of any certainty about the rules. There was only so many times you could change the rules, to make sure you stayed on top, before you discovered no one was following them.

“Dismissed,” I snapped. Outside, the bugles were already blaring, calling the men to arms. “We march in twenty minutes.”

Black rage threatened to overcome me as the council stood and left the tent. Fallon was dead … I was going to make her murderers pay. The warlords were going to regret the days they ever sought to rule the kingdom, to turn back the clock … I gritted my teeth, telling myself it didn’t matter even if I lost the coming battle. Gunpowder was on the loose now, gunpowder and firearms and steam engines and a hundred other innovations that would turn their world upside down, ensuring their eventual defeat. The warlords belonged to the past … I understood, intellectually, why they’d sought to turn back the clock, but I found it hard to have any sympathy. The bastards belonged in history’s trashcan.

I gathered myself with an effort, tapering down my feelings. My men needed me to be cool, collected and in command, even as we launched ourselves into a thunder run. I had to keep one eye on the greater picture, one eye on the …

The flap opened. A messenger stepped into the tent, decked out in royal livery. I felt a surge of sudden hatred, even though I knew it was probably misplaced. The messengers were almost all minor aristocracy, protected by their family names … this one looked more pompous than most, his carefully-tailored uniform failing to hide his paunch. I glowered at him and he flinched. It wasn’t good news.

“My Lord,” the messenger said. His voice had a nasal twang that grated on my ears. “Her Majesty the Queen commands you to stand down and wait…”

I hit him instinctively, knocking him out before my conscious mind quite caught up with what he was saying. Helen had ordered me to stand down …? Or Sir Jacob?  It was quite possible he’d told the messenger Helen had issued the orders, or … my mind raced as the man hit the ground. The latest reports from my scouts suggested one of the warlords had acted alone, rather than in unison with the other two. They hadn’t shuffled their forces to prepare for an immediate attack, unless they were confident Helen wouldn’t take command herself. Perhaps they had thought she wouldn’t … it made a certain kind of sense. The warlords didn’t train officers to act independently, without orders, let alone take their place when they died. I had. My officers weren’t as seasoned as me, but they could take my place if necessary.

“Sleep well,” I muttered. Helen could blame everything on me if the plan failed, or Jacob if the plan succeeded. “Goodnight.”

I left, pulling the flap closed and tying it, then made my way down to the makeshift assembly ground. The men were already lining up, looking murderous. Word was already spreading, I guessed. The soldiers might not give a damn about aristocratic pretensions, but Fallon had been popular and I’d led them from victory to victory. They wanted to fight for us both … I walked forward, eyes flickering from side to side. The mounted infantry were moving into lead spot, backed up by loyalist cavalry; the infantry were assembling behind them. They were already faster than any other marching infantry, and without the baggage train they would be faster still. Smaller units escorted the cannoneers and the archers, covering them from enemy attack.  I’d given them their orders earlier. The trick might not work, I reflected, as I stood on the podium to address the men, but it was worth a try.

“They came to his city to destroy everything we’ve built, to kill our fathers and brothers and rape our mothers and sisters, to leave the kingdom in ashes and destroy all hope of a better future,” I said. “We kicked their asses so badly they attacked us with treachery, meeting us in honourable parley and dishonourably trying to kill us! We are going to kick their asses again, so badly they will never recover. March!”

I turned and led the way out of the camp. The men followed, their formation rough and ready and yet far more adaptable than anything the warlords could produce. A handful of messengers circled me, taking orders to the city walls and other places … I didn’t know if Helen – or Jacob would manage to squash them in time, but it didn’t matter. They’d turned geography against us, when we’d tried to raise the siege; now, it worked against them. They could have real-time awareness of our movements – they certainly had something very close to it – but they’d still have to strike camp and give chase. They couldn’t do that in a hurry.

They erected earthworks to protect their flanks from me, I reflected as we marched onwards. But now they have to come out if they don’t want me to wreak havoc in their rear.

My mood darkened, despite the prospect of action. The plan was relatively simple. The main body would make a beeline for Renweard’s camp, while smaller forces would target the other two camps. The warlords would have a flat choice between marching to stop me, and being caught in the open, or letting me isolate their troops from their bases and condemn them to death. They might risk an all-out attack on the city … I wondered, numbly, just how many of their vassals were already looking for a way out. We’d spread plenty of black propaganda – sly suggestions a handful of vassals had taken bribes, others quietly opening up lines of communication with Helen – in hope of fuelling enemy paranoia …who knew? Richard III might have won at Bosworth, if some of his so-called supporters hadn’t sat on their hands at a crucial moment. And perhaps the Russian Civil War might have gone the other way, if the Whites hadn’t had more aristocrats and reactionaries than common soldiers. It wasn’t literally true, but there was a great deal of truth to it.

And we have been inviting the infantry to desert, I thought. Very few of the enemy soldiers had wanted to be there, fighting for a warlord who couldn’t be bothered to give them something to fight for. I’d had agents slipping in and out of the enemy camps, spreading the word. Anyone who deserted and came to us would be welcome. Not trusted, not yet – it was just a matter of time before they started trying to slip infiltrators into the city – but they’d have a chance to rebuild their lives elsewhere. Give us a few weeks and their army will be all officers and no enlisted men.

My lips twisted in dark amusement. The officers will have to do their own dirty work.

A messenger galloped up to me. “My Lord, Lord Royce reports he’s on the verge of hitting Camp Two.”

“Good,” I said. Lord Royce was a loyalist cavalry officer … I hoped he could be trusted to carry out his orders, without any embellishments along the way. I’d have preferred to give the task to Horst, and the mounted infantry, but I needed Horst with me. “Inform him I need an accurate report as soon as the attack is completed.”

“Aye, sir.”

I put the thought out of my head as the enemy camp came into view. It was oddly disappointing. Renweard hadn’t bothered with any real earthworks, not until I’d kicked his ass and scattered his army, and it showed. He’d thrown up trenches and palisades in the last few hours, once he’d managed to regroup and preserve what he could, but it wasn’t anything like enough. His camp was … insane, by my standards. The fancy tents were clearly visible, the banners outside making it clear who was sleeping in them; I wished, not for the first time, that I had a modern sniper rifle and plenty of ammo. I could have wiped out their leadership so quickly their entire army came apart at the seams.

“They spent more effort building the stockade than providing space for the men,” Horst commented. “Bastards.”

“Yeah.” I shook my head in amused disbelief. It said something about Renweard’s priorities that he took better care of his prisoners than the men who fought and bled for him. There was no medical tent, as far as I could tell; there was no suggestion he even bothered to try to take care of the wounded. I shuddered in disgust. The chirurgeons might be worse than useless – in many cases – but at least they tried to take care of the injured. “Deploy the archers.”

Horst shot me a surprised look. “You really want to …”

“Yes,” I growled. The enemy lines weren’t that tough, and I might have been tempted to risk a charge if there weren’t two armies behind me, but I wasn’t going to waste lives and resources on a pointless mission. We didn’t need to capture their supplies. “Do it.”

The enemy trumpets blared. Their troops hurried to their positions. I wondered, grimly, just how much they knew. Did they know what had happened? It was quite possible their superiors had told them the truth, or at least part of it, to make it clear surrender was no longer an option. Not for the commoners, at any rate. I’d bet good money the aristocrats were consoling themselves they were still worth a king’s ransom or two. Any normal army – local army – would think twice about slaughtering aristos, not out of anything resembling morality but because their men wanted ransoms. Me?

By the time I’m finished, the aristocracy will be broken beyond any hope of repair, I thought, coldly. There’ll be no one left to pay the ransoms.

Horst returned, looking grim. “Sir, the archers are ready.”

“Deploy the men, defensive formation,” I ordered. “And order the archers to open fire.”

I braced myself. It was quite possible the enemy would risk a charge, when they realised what we were doing.  If we caught them in the open, we’d wipe them out before they could reach our lines. The nasty part of my mind wondered if they’d be able to wrap their heads around what we were doing, even as it became blatantly obvious. It had been difficult to believe, at times, that the terrorists and insurgents back home were willing to do ghastly things, in the name of their cause. I understood the logic of using brutality to terrify people into submission, to keep them from realising they outnumbered the terrorists thousands to one, but it was still ghastly. It would be a cold day in hell before I let my men do anything of the sort.

They’re going to accuse you of using terrorist tactics, my thoughts pointed out, as the first arrows lanced overhead and plunged into the enemy camp. They left trails of fire behind them … fire arrows really were terror weapons, by local standards. And …

I gritted my teeth and watched as the flames spread rapidly, moving from tent to tent. The fires would be difficult to fight, even with magic … I suspected the mistresses, camp followers and REMFs were already running for their lives, if they realised what was about to happen. The flames washed over the supply dump …

The ground heaved. I found myself on my back, staring up at a mushroom cloud. The warlord had been wary of giving his troops too much gunpowder, perhaps aware he was about as popular as a kick to the groin, and he’d kept the barrels stored within the camp, under heavy guard, rather than spread them out a little. It wouldn’t have been that stupid, by local standards – enemy armies did want to capture supplies and steal baggage trains – but my supplies were only a few short miles to the north and my men were forbidden to loot. I had nothing to lose by burning the camp to the ground, setting off the gunpowder. The fact they’d never even considered the possibility was the icing on the cake.

They probably didn’t insist their safety officer slept next to the gunpowder, I reflected, as the sound died away. The fireball would have been visible for dozens – perhaps hundreds – of miles. If they had, the poor bastard would have been a little more careful.

“Their lines are gone,” Horst said. He sounded stunned. I didn’t have the heart to tell him I’d seen bigger explosions … and my world had produced bigger still. “They’re just …”

“Order the cavalry to look for survivors,” I said, curtly. I doubted the enemy would be in any state to put up a fight. The odds were good the aristos were already dead. “If you find any, do what you can for them.”

Another fireball erupted, several miles away. I smirked, coldly. The cavalry had done its job. Two camps nothing more than smoking craters … a third, either on the verge of being destroyed or neatly isolated from the armies it was supposed to support. And that meant …

“Prepare the men,” I ordered. I hadn’t heard anything from the scouts, but I knew. “The enemy is coming for one final battle.”

Chapter Twenty-Nine

My men dug frantically, preparing themselves.

I forced myself to think as I barked orders, rearranging my lines.  The warlords were fucked. There was no way to take the city now, and no way to get past me without a pitched battle. Their forces would start coming apart the moment their vassals – and soldiers – realised how screwed they were … there was no way to surrender and no way, unlike Cuthbert, to abandon the army and flee south. There was certainly no way they could rebuild before I regrouped, marched south, and crushed them. Their vassals would probably betray them well before I reached their border.

The smart thing to do would be to surrender, I thought. Or flee the country.

My lips twisted as the scouts reported back, proving my predictions correct. The warlords had neither loyalty nor legitimacy. There was no hope of setting up a government in exile, let alone returning home … I doubted any neighbouring kingdom would shelter them, not when they realised the most powerful army the world had yet seen was on their borders, daring them to do something stupid. No, exile wasn’t an option unless the warlords wanted to give up everything. Their only hope was to punch their way through my lines and hope they could do enough damage to buy time, enough time to rebuild and resume the offensive …

It wasn’t going to happen.

A scout galloped up to me. “My Lord, the enemy army is advancing under all three banners!”

I hid my surprise with an effort. The locals didn’t let anyone mess with the symbols of power and legitimacy. A man who put his king’s crown on his head to save it from being lost in the river would be beheaded as a de facto usurper, even though he’d been trying to help his monarch. Had they abandoned that taboo, after the shock of losing two of their supply camps? Or were all three warlords marching towards me? I’d thought we’d killed Renweard, when we’d blown up his camp, but I might have been wrong. I really had, if it was his banner. Renweard had no heir, no one with the automatic right to fly the banner himself …

Don’t worry about it, I told myself, firmly. Either way, that army has to be destroyed.

More reports came in as the enemy armies merged and advanced. The enemy soldiers didn’t appear very enthusiastic. Their cavalry were spending a lot of time pushing the infantry back into formation, rather than scouting ahead. I’d heard stories about political commissioners shooting men for refusing to advance, and I’d seen terrorists and insurgents doing the same, but it was the first time I’d seen it here.  The infantry didn’t appear to be the only ones suffering from demoralisation, given how many banners appeared to be missing. They might have wised up, and hidden their banners to avoid drawing fire, but I suspected they’d actually deserted. Or headed north to reach our lines and surrender before it was too late.

It is already too late, my thoughts reminded me.

“Hoist the red and black pennant,” I ordered, curtly. “And make sure they can see it.”

Horst nodded. “Aye, sir.”

I smiled coldly as the seconds ticked away. The red pennant meant no surrenders would be accepted. The red and black pennant meant we’d only accept unconditional surrenders. I was tempted to raise the red instead, but … I sighed, inwardly. Back home, my superiors hadn’t understood the realities of life in a third world dictatorship, or how few options the locals had had. Here … the men marching towards me, by and large, hadn’t had any real choice. If they surrendered, I’d treat them well.

“And send in the cavalry,” I added. The irony was killing me. “Tell them to harass, but not to get too close.”

My mood darkened as the cavalry galloped away. They were going to bait the enemy, jabbing at exposed flanks and harassing the enemy horsemen, forcing them to either grin and bear it or give chase. Either way, they’d be badly worn down … worse, perhaps, as my men opened gaps for enemy infantrymen to desert. There was a reason they called it the death of a thousand cuts. One cut wouldn’t be fatal, but a thousand …?

Horst gave me a grim look. “You think they’ll make it here?”

I shrugged. There was no way to know. The three warlords had to hang together or hang – or be beheaded – together, and they had to know it, but could they work together? I suspected they’d already been arguing over the wisdom of breaking parley, if only because their treacherous attack had failed. Victory had a thousand fathers, defeat – and failure – was an orphan. I hadn’t given them the time to sort out the mess either. But I wasn’t going to gamble everything on their army coming apart before it reached my lines.

“Ready the mounted infantry for a charge,” I ordered, instead. It was possible the enemy army might stagger, teetering on the brink of collapse. “But keep them behind the lines until I give the word.”

Horst nodded and hurried off. I braced myself, waiting for the enemy army to come into view. I had no idea if the city’s defenders had followed my orders or not – I’d refrained from sending messages back to the walls – but if I was lucky they’d hit the enemy too, perhaps even come out from behind the walls to give chase. A third explosion shook the ground and I smiled, knowing it meant the end of the war. The warlords had gambled everything on reaching the third camp before we blew it up, perhaps believing we wouldn’t throw all three camps into the flames. They’d been wrong, and they’d lost, and …

The enemy army slowly appeared in the distance. It looked … broken, half the banners already missing as it marched towards us. I suspected the warlords were in shock. Or that they’d deserted their men already. It wasn’t impossible … my guns opened fire, hurling cannonballs and shells into the enemy formation. They scattered, too late, as the guns tore through them. They were so lethargic that I couldn’t help wondering if one of my agents had destroyed or poisoned their food supplies.

An enemy horseman reared up, then charged towards our lines. A tired shout echoed through the air as the rest of the cavalry, and some of the infantry, lumbered after him. I felt a surge of naked anger and disgust, wondering just what the common-born infantrymen had done to deserve such a moronic commanding officer. The men were caught in a trap, tormented to the brink of endurance, but they should have known better than to join a charge right into the teeth of our weapons. My anger burned brighter as I realised what the fucker was doing. He was dead, he knew he was dead, and he wanted to go out in a blaze of glory. And he was going to get the rest of his men killed too!

I gritted my teeth. If they were intent on charging, they should have waited. They’d given us far too much warning, more than enough time to meet them with fire. My men were drilled to stand their ground, the simplest tactic one could use against a cavalry charge, but … my rage grew as the distance closed rapidly, yet not rapidly enough. It was pointless petty spite, a final gasp of defiance, one that was going to get hundreds of men killed for nothing … I wondered, numbly, why they were following him into hell. I’d had officers I’d let send me to certain death, because I trusted them enough to believe it was necessary, but I had never seen that kind of loyalty here. Of course not. What had the warlord’s done to deserve loyalty?

The command leapt to my lips. I hated myself – and them – even as I spoke.

“Fire.”

The gunners opened fire as one, a ragged wave of bullets and balls washing across the enemy line. The leader fell from his horse and landed badly, lost in the chaos as his men reeled under the blow … I almost hoped he’d survived, just so I could have the pleasure of hanging him myself. The aristos would make a fuss over him being hanged –  apparently, aristos were meant to be beheaded; hanging was for commoners – but I didn’t care. He’d led at least three hundred men to their deaths, a death that was both predictable and avoidable. The enemy charge came apart, a handful of men dropping to the ground and crawling away. They didn’t even get close to my lines.

I gritted my teeth as I looked at the remaining enemy army. It should be deploying now … they had the numbers, still, and they could certainly try to outflank and turn my lines. If I’d been in their shoes … my lips twisted in dark amusement. I wouldn’t have left my supply camps so unguarded, even if I thought the enemy would prefer to loot rather than destroy; hell, even if I had been a selfish bastard with entitlement issues, I would have ordered my men to surrender and then fled. But they’d broken parley. The local rules of war were quite clear. Anyone who broke parley had to be taught the error of his ways.

“It looks like they’re fighting each other,” Fallows said. “Sir …?”

“Looks that way,” I agreed. The enemy armies hadn’t taken very well to being told to work together. I guessed the warlords were blaming each other for the disaster, then trying to find a way to cut their own vassals free and run. The vassals themselves would be running too, if they had any sense … as I watched, a handful of horsemen galloped out of the enemy mass and raced into the distance. “I wonder …”

I shook my head. Napoleon had decreed it was unwise to interrupt the enemy when he was making a mistake, and letting the enemy troops kill each other suited us perfectly, but I needed a clear and decisive victory. If the army broke apart and went to ground, it might rise again from the ashes. Might. I doubted any of the warlords commanded enough loyalty to keep the army together, after this disaster, but I had to be sure. And besides, I wanted them to pay.

“Sound the charge,” I ordered, roughly.

The mounted infantry cantered past the lines,  then broke into a gallop and charged right at the enemy mass. My heart skipped a beat – if I’d misjudged the situation, the enemy was going to have an excellent chance to give me a bloody nose – as the range closed with terrifying speed. I’d trained my men to deploy instantly, if they were charged … I breathed a sigh of relief as the enemy lines shattered, men throwing their weapons to the ground or scrambling to get away, even shooting down their own officers when they tried to stop the rout. I guessed they must have been even more demoralised than I’d thought. Some later historian was going to have a field day, trying to determine how much of my black propaganda had actually worked.

But it wouldn’t have taken root so effectively if they’d thought themselves a winning army, I reflected. They could have shrugged it off if it was clear they were winning.

My infantry joined the charge, weapons at the ready. They had orders to take prisoners were possible, but not to put themselves in any further danger. A handful of enemy soldiers tried to feign surrender, only to be cut down ruthlessly; I was amused to note several more tried the same trick, before their peers realised what they were doing and stopped them. They were hardly as fanatical as Islamic State, hardly willing to give their lives for a pointless cause; the war was over, and they knew it, and they didn’t want to be the last ones to die.

I forced myself to survey the battlefield as the prisoners were herded into small groups and kept under heavy guard. The common soldiers could go back home, as far as I was concerned, but the aristos were a different story. They could cause real trouble if we let them go … after the disastrous parley, I wouldn’t have trusted their parole even if they’d been inclined to give it. My anger boiled up again, as the tension of the battlefield flowed away. I’d gambled and won and now all I had to do was mop up.

“Dispatch the remainder of the cavalry to track down the fleeing men,” I ordered, shortly. I didn’t want them to stop running, not yet. The longer they fled, the less time they’d have to reorganise. “And …”

“Sir,” Horst interrupted. “I have three prisoners who insist on being presented to you.”

I knew what – or who – I was going to see even before I laid eyes on them. The warlords didn’t look very martial, not now. Eldred was old and sly; I knew, even as I met his eyes, that there was no way we could risk letting him go home. Hlaford was younger, trying desperately to keep his face under control; Renweard was surprisingly young, but … I told myself it wasn’t really a surprise. The idea of a boy barely out of his teens leading an army seemed absurd, by modern standards, yet it was the inevitable outcome of hereditary rule. He glared at me and I glared back, suddenly convinced breaking parley had been his idea. Back home, most junior officers managed to get through their dunderheaded mistakes before they found entire divisions under their command. Here …

“My Lord,” Eldred said. “I must protest this treatment …”

“You protest?” I’d heard some nonsense in my time – mostly from junior officers who’d had bright ideas, then realised they were impractical even as they were trying to impress their superiors – but that took the cake. Eldred and his peers hadn’t been tied up, or roughed up, or killed on the spot … “You protest?”

“We are aristocrats,” Renweard snapped. “We demand you present us to Her Ladyship!”

“Her Majesty,” I corrected, curtly. My anger threatened to boil over. I was so sick of entitled young aristocrats. “On your knees!”

They gaped at me. It would have been funny, if Fallon hadn’t been dead. They were aristos … amongst the wealthiest and most powerful men in the kingdom. They had known, going into battle, that they could expect to be treated as honoured guests if they were taken prisoner, to be held in comfortable captivity or send home on parole to collect their ransom. No wonder they’d been so willing to take risks, part of me noted coldly. They’d thought they’d never have to face any real consequences, if their gambles failed. Sure, they might be killed by accident …

I scowled at their uniforms. They were absurdly fancy, nothing more than sniper bait. But they served a purpose.

“Kneel,” I repeated. “Now!”

They looked uncertain. I motioned to the infantry to force them to their knees. Their eyes filled with honest outrage … it would have been funny, I reflected sourly, if they hadn’t killed Fallon and thousands of other innocent victims, including men under their command. They were more upset about being pushed around than the deaths of hundreds of their men …

Hlaford gathered himself. “My Lord, we are amongst the first of the realm,” he managed, his voice taking on an integrating tone. I half-expected him to say we were all men of the world next, men who could surely come to some kind of agreement. “I think you’ll find our clients will pay …”

My temper snapped. “They’ll pay? They’ll pay?”

They flinched. I went on. “How many men are dead, because of you? How many women have been raped, because of you? How many children will starve to death, or grow up without their families, because of you? How many people are wounded beyond all hope of recovery, condemned to beg in the streets, because of you? How many …?

I clenched my fists. “You thought you could put the clock back and …”

It was hard to form words. I was looking at the eternal enemies of humanity, the men who were on top and stanchly resisted any sort of change. Aristocrats, slave-owning plantation masters, industrialists and party bosses and everyone else who climbed to the top, or inherited their position from their parents, and then kicked the ladder away, in the delusion they could stop the lower classes from demanding change. And then the inevitable revolutions came and created far worse worlds …

“You killed my wife and child,” I told them. Fallon had been nothing to them, just another commoner woman with a slight talent for magic, but she’d been everything to me. “Die.”

I drew my sword and cut off their heads, one by one. Their bodies collapsed, spilling blood … no one said a word, not as the warlords breathed their last. I knew none of my people would object, not really. The warlords had been a blight on the kingdom for longer than any of them had been alive.

Horst cleared his throat. “Sir, we captured forty-seven other aristocrats,” he said. “What do we …?”

I met his eyes. The commoners could go home, but the aristocrats … they were guilty, guilty as sin. They had had far more options than any of their serfs and yet they’d chosen to stand against progress, against the changes that would sweep over the world like the waves had swept over King Canute. They had to pay for their crimes. If we didn’t end it now, we’d wind up fighting the same war again and again and again …

My voice was cold. “Kill them all.”