Tomorrow's Kingdom (42 page)

“But … but my name is Edward!” he blurted in horror and anguish.

“
Ned
Bartok,” she repeated in a hard voice. “And you shall doff your cap and bend the knee to your betters— starting with the gentlemen who will be escorting you out of my tent.”

Lord Bartok heard the words the queen spoke but could not bring himself to believe them until he felt a heavy hand on his shoulder forcing him downward.

As Ned Bartok, the former greatest of the great lords of Glyndoria was driven to his knees before the tribal savages who were now his declared betters, he had a sudden nightmare vision of his descendants scratching out a living in the dirt.

And when he realized that the vision was no nightmare but that it was real and that a thousand years of history would remember him as the man who'd made it so, Ned Bartok fell face first to the ground so heavily that the ivory king in his doublet pocket snapped clean in half.

And the last thing he heard before he lost consciousness altogether was a voice saying, “The hour of the parlay fast approaches, Your Majesty. It is time to go.”

FIFTY-FOUR

“I
T IS TIME TO GO
, Your Grace.”

At the sound of Murdock's voice at the entrance of his tent, Mordecai jerked his head around. “She has arrived?” he asked.

“Not according to the report given by the scout most recently returned from his post overlooking the bridge,” said Murdock. “But it is nearing midday, and I would prefer us to arrive at the meeting place first that we might gain advantage by having our men in position when the queen arrives. That way, if she has decided to break faith and bring her entire army instead of just—”

“She will not break faith, Murdock,” interrupted Mordecai, turning back to the looking glass into which he'd been staring when his general had arrived. “She is too soft-hearted to risk unnecessary bloodshed—even if the blood that would be shed is worthless. She and the cockroach will suspect trickery, of course, but thanks to the added strength they believe Lord Bartok's knights
have brought to their fighting force, they will be confident of being able to defeat me should it come to that.”

Murdock hesitated for just a moment. Then, with a fleeting glance at Lady Aurelia's inert form beneath the covers of the camp bed, he bowed his head and departed the tent.

Mordecai smiled broadly at his beautiful reflection. He knew why Murdock had hesitated. It was because when Mordecai had ordered a message sent to the queen informing her that he would honour her request that they come to the meeting with only a few armed retainers, Murdock had assumed he was lying and that Mordecai yet intended to arrive with the entire New Man army at his back. Indeed, his repulsive henchman had been quite pleased by the turn of events, since it would allow them to eliminate the queen and her party first before marching onward to assist Lord Bartok in slaughtering the nowleaderless royal army.

But Mordecai had not been lying. Though he could obviously see the merit of Murdock's strategy, he'd not been able to resist the urge to play with the queen one last time. To make a great show of hemming and hawing and pretending that he was considering whatever she was offering; to watch her pretty face fall when she realized that they could not come to terms. To see her brimming with determination as she rode away to prepare for the battle she believed she could not lose.

To hear her whole world come crashing down around her ears when she realized that Lord Bartok was a traitor
and that every last hope she had for the future was as doomed as her pathetic army of nobodies.

Yes, the woman who'd played Mordecai for a fool so many times before was about to get played herself.

It took less than an hour for Mordecai, Murdock and their party of soldiers to ride to the meeting place. By the time they arrived, the day that had dawned so bright and clear had clouded over, and a chill wind had kicked up. Digging his spurs into the flanks of the wretched horse that had so jarred him during the ride, Mordecai galloped to the top of a small rise that he might look down on the meeting spot. As he did so, he could not help noting that Murdock had chosen the place well. The wooden bridge that spanned the river was easily defendable from both sides, and the river, though quite shallow, was broad enough to give both parties a sense of security. That being said, the slightly elevated bank on his side of the river would allow them the advantage of looking down on the queen, and the mostly open field on the queen's side of the river would prevent her from making a stealth approach.

Mordecai did not bother praising his general for a job well done. Instead, he drove his beast down to the water's edge and sat staring across the river with an expression that evidently did not encourage any in his party to approach him because none did until a quarter of an hour past midday when Murdock finally drew his horse alongside and murmured, “I fear the queen is not coming, Your Grace.”

“Your fears are misplaced,” snapped Mordecai, who'd begun to fear the same thing.

Even as he spoke the words, however, he spied movement in the copse of trees beyond the field on the far side of the river. The next instant, mounted archers began bursting into the clearing at a full gallop. Upon emerging from the trees, the first turned sharply right, the second left, the third right and so on until they were lined up facing the river, the exact same distance between each horse except for the two in the very middle. For several seconds no one moved and Mordecai could hear nothing but the rising wind whistling through the trees. Then a fierce female voice called out a command. As one, each archer drew an arrow from his quiver, notched it into the bow, drew back and aimed it skyward in Mordecai's direction.

As the archers froze once more, two beautiful caparisoned horses emerged from the wider space between the two middle horses.

That's when Mordecai saw her.

His breath caught at the sight of her riding toward him looking like something out of a fairy tale in her simple silver crown and suit of armour—her glossy dark hair bouncing gently with each step the horse took, a look of unmistakable determination on that face that had haunted his dreams since that first night he'd discovered her standing ankle-deep in alley muck all those months ago.

For a fleeting moment, Mordecai wondered if he loved her.

Then she reined up at the water's edge, and he noticed the gross swell of her pregnant belly and the broad shoulders of the cockroach who'd planted the seed. And Mordecai's insides turned to ice, and all he wondered was why he hadn't allowed his soldier to run a sword through her belly back in the alley when he'd had the chance.

And he vowed to rectify that error as soon as may be.

FIFTY-FIVE

P
ERSEPHONE STARED ACROSS
the river at Mordecai. She recalled their first meeting—he, sitting high upon his black horse staring down at her with his fathomless dark eyes; she, curtseying low on trembling legs, desperately hoping that her lies and her beauty would be enough to save Azriel, Rachel and Cur from discovery and death.

Even from across the river, Persephone could feel that Mordecai lusted for her now as he had back then. Unlike back then, however, now he also hated her—hated her to the deepest depths of his twisted black soul, hated her so intensely that she could feel it coming off him in waves.

In the sky overhead, dark clouds roiled and Ivan circled and screamed. Lightning flashed without thunder sounding. In her heavy belly, the baby shifted restlessly.

Persephone shivered and resisted the urge to look at Azriel.

“You wish to discuss terms of surrender?” she called to Mordecai as the wind whipped her hair.

“I am willing to explore the possibility,” he replied, sounding almost coy.

Persephone gritted her teeth. “Very well,” she shouted. “Here are my terms: surrender at once and I am willing that you should not immediately be beheaded but shall be granted a fair trial.”

Mordecai made a great show of pondering her offer— furrowing his brow, rubbing his chin, conferring with General Murdock. After a few moments, however, he shook his head—as Persephone had known he would— and called, “I'm afraid I need better terms than that, Your Majesty.”

In spite of his regretful tone, Persephone knew that he was enjoying himself. She also knew that Mordecai would be content to toy with her for a while yet—and that the longer they stood there, the more nervous Azriel was becoming.

So, eager to snuff out Mordecai's enjoyment and be away before Azriel had apoplexy—or Fayla gave in to the urge to turn the New Men across the river into bloody pincushions—Persephone cupped one hand around her mouth and called, “I thought you might be interested to learn that Lord Bartok has been arrested.”

Mordecai stiffened so abruptly that he could not entirely suppress his grunt of pain.

“His son, Lord Atticus, told us of your plans to sandwich my army between your New Man army and the sworn swords loyal to Lord Bartok—pardon me,
Ned
Bartok,” continued Persephone.

Mordecai let out a bark of laughter—presumably at the news that the greatest of the great lords had been reduced to a commoner—then his smile vanished. Sneering, he shouted, “Let me guess—Bartok's soldiers and the other noblemen are now under the command of that insufferable drunken worm he fathered.”

“No, they are now under my husband's command and entirely content to be so,” replied Persephone as the first fat droplet of rain pinged off her arm guard. “I confess that Lord Atticus was not best pleased when he realized that by stripping his father of his title, land and wealth, I'd also stripped him of his inheritance, but he cheered up remarkably when I told him that he'd be granted a suitable allowance and also be allowed to keep his head.”

Mordecai was breathing so hard now that Persephone could see his wasted chest heaving.

Lightning flashed again. This time it was followed by a crack of thunder so loud it seemed to shake the earth.

“I'm sure I do not need to tell you that without a second fighting force, you cannot make a sandwich,” Persephone shouted over the rising wind. “If we meet on the battlefield now, your army's defeat is a virtual certainty—as is your death. And if there has ever been a man who deserves death for his crimes it is you, Mordecai. Nay, you deserve a thousand deaths—each more hideous than the last.” She paused and pressed her hand against her belly before speaking the words she'd not discussed with her Council—or even with Azriel. “Nevertheless, if you surrender now, I … I will better my previous offer. Upon my word of honour, even if you are found guilty at your trial, you shall not be beheaded. Though you will
be imprisoned for the rest of your days, like Lord Atticus, you will be allowed to keep your head.”

Behind her, Fayla hissed angrily.

Beside her, Azriel stiffened and whispered,
“What are you doing?”

Persephone didn't look at him because she knew his eyes would be blazing with anger, and she didn't reply to him because she knew that he knew
exactly
what she was doing. She was looking for a way to save everyone; she was looking for a way to avoid having to answer the question of who and how many would die by her command.