She scanned the faces of the captains, seeking sign of dissent, but whatever feelings they might have harboured towards the elevation of a man named a traitor were kept well hidden.
“Lord Marshal Nortah will assume command of the Dead Company in his stead,” she went on. “The Queen’s Daggers are hereby enrolled in the Mounted Guard under command of Lord Iltis.”
She turned to Al Hestian, “Battle Lord, your report on the state of the Queen’s Host, if you please.”
“Our full losses amount to little over fifteen hundred men, Highness,” he replied. “Plus three hundred wounded and unable to fight. Three regiments besides the Queen’s Daggers were so badly mauled I must advise they be merged into one. However, our losses may be considered slight in comparison to the enemy. More than thirty thousand slain and a thousand captured, the remainder fled and in no state to fight again. Count Marven deserves great credit for such a victory.”
One of the Nilsaelin twins spoke up, the one with the red-enamelled breastplate though Lyrna still found it of little help in distinguishing between the two. “Our noble grandfather will ensure his memory is honoured the length and breadth of Nilsael. My brother and I will personally fund the construction of a statue in Meanshall.”
Lyrna pushed away the image of Marven’s bleached, panicked face, weeping as she pressed the cloth to his burning brow.
“A thousand prisoners?” she asked Al Hestian.
“Indeed, Highness. I intended to ask what you wanted done with them.”
“The river’s deep and fast-flowing,” Baron Banders pointed out. “Spare us the effort of cutting so many throats.”
The other captains exchanged nods and murmurs of agreement, though she noted Nortah’s grimace of disgust. “No,” she said. “They are to be preserved. Wounded are to be cared for and food provided. I understand from Brother Hollun most hail from this province.”
“They do, Highness,” Al Hestian confirmed. “They’re an uncommonly poor lot for Volarian soldiery, I must say. Few veterans among them, most little more than boys conscripted barely two months ago.”
“I believe there is a town several days’ march along our road, I assume many will hail from there.”
“Urvesk, Highness. A sizeable place from all reports. I was going to advise we bypass it, the garrison is unlikely to be numerous enough to threaten us and a siege would cost time and lives we can’t afford.”
She shook her head. “No. We will march there with all dispatch. Please make the army ready to move by dawn tomorrow. We’ve lingered here too long.”
She dismissed them and stood regarding the view as they trooped down the winding stairwell, though, as expected, one decided to linger. “You have words for me, Lord Antesh?” she asked without turning.
He moved to stand at a respectful distance, though his darkened visage told of a simmering anger. “I cannot command my people to follow that man, Highness,” he stated. “When they hear of this . . .”
“Lady Reva would have followed him,” Lyrna said. “Wouldn’t you agree?”
“Lady Reva had a soul blessed by the Father himself. I do not, neither do my archers. When we lost her . . . we lost our heart.”
“Then you will no doubt rejoice to hear you have a chance to regain it.” She turned, meeting his gaze squarely. “I have sound intelligence from the Seventh Order that Lady Reva lives and is captive in Volar.”
She watched his face transform from dark anger to pale shock, soon followed by hope. “This . . . this has been confirmed?”
“Speak to Brother Lernial, he will provide assurance. Then I assume you will wish to share this joyous news with your people.”
“I . . . yes.” His head jerked in a bow and he backed away. “My thanks, Highness.”
She turned back to the view as his rapid footfalls echoed up the stairwell, stumbling occasionally in his haste. “They really think their god talks to her?” Murel wondered allowed.
“Who’s to say they are wrong.” Lyrna’s gaze tracked to the markings on the flat surface that topped this tower, the mass of meaningless symbols carved centuries before.
