The Reluctant Queen

The aroma of death, blood and excrement hung in a noxious pall over the killing field. Crows cawed as they hopped among the corpses and several buzzards circled in a hazy, cloud dotted sky. A few landed where signs of movement had ceased. Soldiers went through the task of killing the wounded and the groans and cries of the dying grew weaker with each stab. Looters hung around the edges, as they worked to strip the bodies of horses and men for anything of value. There had been a brief discussion of killing them as well, but it was dismissed as not worth the effort. King Felbert told his sons and officers that anyone willing to brave the mid-summer heat, smell and scavengers were welcome to what was there.

The rumble of distant thunder echoed off the nearby foothills as the party picked its way through the carnage. Felbert insisted that the vanquished king be found. A shift in the battle was evident when the king’s soldiers had given up hope once their leader had died. They tried to retreat as Felbert’s men chased them down. None of the Vernalle forces would return home.

It didn’t take long to find him. The dead king’s body had already begun to bloat, a thrown ax still in his chest, surrounded by his dead guards. Felbert dismounted from his warhorse, jerked the axe out of the dead king’s chest, then swung it down, severing the head. He sliced off a piece of the dead man’s cloak to wrap the head in, then tossed the bundle to Bashir, his oldest son, who laughed as he caught the grisly prize.

Felbert looked over to his youngest son who had positioned himself behind the rest of the group. The boy was nine and still gangly, with arms and legs waiting to grow into the rest of him. He resembled his mother more, a woman he had married after his first wife died after she gave birth to a daughter, her eighth child. Like half of Elsbeth’s infants, that one had not lasted for the day. Elsbeth had done her duty as queen, giving him five sons. Time would tell whether this youngest of his sons by his new wife would prove to be the worth of the others.

Jaxon had light brown hair, instead of the red-brown and oranges of his father, brown eyes instead of green, and a honey hued skin that made him stand out among the ruddy tones of his father’s people. He would be tall if he lived to manhood and yet showed no signs of the broad physique of his brothers.

The boy’s skin kept a shade of green ever since the first call of war. He had vomited up the contents of breakfast fifteen minutes into the battle that began just after dawn and lasted most of the day. Felbert knew that the boy would be a warrior like his brothers or not survive long. The boy showed promise as an archer, at least with targets and game but was still clumsy with a sword or a mace. To witness a battle from a safe distance would prepare him soon enough for the reality of protecting the kingdom and its vassal territories. Only Felbert’s oldest and heir had kept his food down when he witnessed his first battle. Bashir had wanted to join the battle even though he was only seven at the time. All the rest had vomited up their stomach contents at some point.

“I’m done here.” Felbert waited as General Yeager ordered his officers to prepare for the march home. He was ready to celebrate the swift end to the uprising of a rebellious vassal king, make love to his wife, and listen to the praises and complaints of his lords. Bashir and his brother Hakor would take part of the army into Vernalle to secure the capital and the rebellious kingdom. It would be up to Hakor to keep the place compliant.

Jaxon had wandered off, taking his horse deeper into the carnage. “Get back here stupid boy, or you are going to get left behind,” Hakor yelled.

Jaxon heard his brother, but he was more curious about the flash of silvery gold he had seen nearby. As he got closer, he was surprised to see it was a child, about four or five in a filthy tunic, bare feet with white-gold curls matted with dirt and blood. Jaxon got off his horse and walked to where the child stood, poised as if ready to run.

Surrounding the child were the bodies of women, slashed and bloodied. There were chairs, tables and food scattered near a collapsed tent. Other than the filth and blood covering most of her, the child was unharmed. Jaxon heard the horses of his father, brothers, and the king’s guard approach.

“Just kill it and let’s get out of here,” Bashir said, “it will take me a week to get the smell of this place out of my nostrils.”

“No,” Jaxon held out a hand to what he had determined was a little girl, who looked between him and the men on horses, her blue eyes large in her grubby face. “I’ll not murder innocents.”

“Her people revolted against us. They used magic to try to defeat us,” Bashir sneered, “none of them deserve to live.”

“And yet, we are not going through the countryside killing everyone who didn’t come to the battle,” Jaxon retorted as he snagged the little girl’s hand.

“Father,” Bashir’s voice was almost wheedling, the tone odd coming from a barrel of a man with flaming red hair and beard and a sword longer than Jaxon was tall. “Tell the brat to kill the camp follower’s spawn, and let’s go.”

Felbert let out a heavy exhale as he observed his three sons, they were all that remained of his children, either falling to battle, childbirth, or disease. He did not like that they were not close, and that there was mutual resentment towards the youngest. Jaxon had been a happy surprise to Felbert who was tired of burying offspring. The only thing Bashir and Hakor agreed on was needling Jaxon.

“Jaxon,” Felbert decided, “you have a choice. Either kill the brat and put it out of its misery or take it to someone to take care of them. It is not yours to keep.”

Jaxon nodded. He led the child to his horse and helped her climb up onto it. His face showed a quiet triumph, as he climbed up behind her.

“You have a week to dump it and find us,” Bashir ordered, looking to his father for rebuttal. “If you are late, even by a day, you will be my personal squire for the rest of the year.

“It’s fair,” Felbert announced in response to the outrage on Jaxon’s face. “Just don’t drop her off with those looters. That would be cheating.” He added with a grin.

Jaxon smiled at the challenge. “If I’m there on time, I want your horse, Bashir. You don’t appreciate it.” His own horse started at Felbert’s roar of laughter.

“I approve. The challenge is met. Now go prove yourself. boy,” Felbert’s voice boomed. He was still laughing as Jaxon turned his horse towards the edge of the battlefield.