Chapter Twelve

THE BATTLE

As soon as Horace disappeared across the street, Kargas hurried over to city hall to relate his conversation with the overlord to Juganhouse and Lattamore. All three agreed that they had no choice but to take Horace at his word. Besides, none could think of a good reason for him to lie. That being the case, they decided to evacuate the royal twins from the island immediately. Although Kargas had created a contingency plan for just such an occasion soon after he arrived on the island, implementing it proved maddening difficult. The boat that brought them to Kirkwell required refueling and provisioning, both of which took longer than expected. Iona packed her things with catatonic efficiency, but Rael was initially nowhere to be found. When Frederick finally located him at the house of one of his female friends, he was too inebriated to comprehend the gravity of the situation. By the time everyone gathered at the boat – Kargas, Iona, Rael, Frederick, Lattamore, and Iona’s servant girl Lana – the sun was starting to set.

As they boarded the boat, Juganhouse rushed down the jetty calling Kargas’s name. He handed Kargas a set of binoculars and explained that Rowowan warships were surrounding the island. He and Kargas climbed to the roof of a nearby building to confirm the news. Indeed, Kargas saw a half dozen vessels stationed ominously up and down the coast. He rejected as too risky Juganhouse’s suggestion that they depart under the cover of darkness. Thinking quickly, Kargas ordered Lattamore to drive the boat to a tiny cove on the island’s western tip near Sorrel’s Point after sunset. The rest of the party would hike overland to join him. He explained that from there it should be a simple matter for them to disappear into the foggy waters along the Heath’s northern coast. The problem was that there might be Rowowan warships in the vicinity of the cove. Kargas understood that he needed a diversion to draw all the Rowowan vessels back to Kirkwell’s harbor. There was only one way to do that. He turned to Juganhouse and said, “Call out the home guard.”

King Nathaniel I had established the home guard two centuries earlier. By law, all adult males were members. They were required to train periodically in the maintenance and use of weapons. The home guard’s purpose was to repel invaders, maintain law and order, and assist in disaster relief. Unfortunately, the war had wrecked the home guard because the Allerian government had drafted so many of its members into the regular army. By the war’s end, the home guard was a shell of its former self, containing a small number of mostly infirm, injured, and elderly men armed with antiquated weapons. Kirkwell’s home guard, though, was the exception. With his usual foresight, Kargas had before the Siege of Aurora persuaded the army’s high command to demobilize the Kirkwell battalion and send its soldiers home with their weapons. As a result, Kirkwell’s home guard contained well-equipped, well-organized, well-trained, and battle-hardened men who could protect the royal twins. Kargas’s impromptu plan called for the island’s home guard to fight Rowowan forces coming ashore to seize Rael and Iona. Doing so would hopefully draw off Rowowan vessels on the island’s western shore so the royals could escape in that direction. Kargas hated to ask men who had already given so much to their kingdom to put themselves in harm’s way again, but he could think of no other way to safely evacuate the royal twins.

The party hurried back to city hall, from where Kargas and Juganhouse barked a rapid series of orders. Within minutes church bells throughout the city began ringing to summon the home guard. Men in uniforms and helmets carrying rifles, machine guns, and ammunition soon filled the council chambers. Fitzgerald Hollander was among the first to arrive. Although Hollander had been a lowly bank clerk at the war’s start, he rose through the ranks to lead the Kirkwell battalion in the conflict’s last year. For that reason Juganhouse had appointed him commander of the island’s home guard. Juganhouse introduced him to Kargas, who briefly explained the situation and plan. Hollander looked sharply at Rael and Iona, huddled in chairs near the wall, but did not speak to them. Nor did he show Kargas any particular deference. Indeed, the war had taught Hollander that respect must be earned, not assumed. He did not want to unconditionally commit himself and his men to a design that would undoubtedly kill people.

After Kargas finished talking, Hollander said, “Adviser, I don’t know you. I’m not about to order or force anyone here to take up arms in a war that’s over on your say so. However, I want Allerian independence as much as anyone.” He pointed at Rael and exclaimed, “If he can persuade these men to fight, then I’ll lead them in this battle.”

If anyone was going to rally the home guard to fight, Kargas felt, it should be him. After all, he had a knack for persuasion honed by years of government service. Unfortunately, Hollander’s comments made this impossible. All eyes turned to Rael, still seated in his chair. Although Rael had by then sobered up, his eyes were still red and his gait unsteady. Nevertheless, he pushed himself out of his chair and nervously approached the podium in the front of the room. Everyone fell silent as he gathered his thoughts for what was obviously the most important speech in his life.

Rael gripped the podium, blinked hard several times, and stared straight ahead. “My name is Prince Rael. I am the son of King Bartholomew and rightful heir to his throne. My sister Iona and I have been on this island for several months. We have been waiting for the right moment to emerge and lead our people to independence. The Rowowans have discovered our whereabouts, so we must leave Kirkwell and bide our time elsewhere. You have all sworn an oath to support and protect the royal family. I now call upon you to fulfill that oath by resisting the Rowowan soldiers who will undoubtedly land at dawn so we can escape. I am confident that you will live up to your obligations, as you always have.”

It was not a terrible speech, thought Kargas. The problem was not so much its content as its delivery. Rael confused entitlement and haughtiness with command presence and authority, and it showed in his demeanor. The crowd obviously felt the same way. Although everyone was curious about Rael and Iona, no one responded to his appeal. Instead, the clanging of equipment, shuffling of boots, and coughs punctured the long silence. Rael turned and looked plaintively at Kargas and Hollander.

Iona had spent the past twenty-four hours in a daze. Her last conversation with Royo, her ensuing sexual trauma, Royo’s unexpected reprieve, and word that the Rowowans had located her and her brother had emotionally shattered her. Indeed, she felt as if her life had been emptied out of her body, leaving the husk behind. Now, as she listened to her brother plead for support, it occurred to her that for all the supposed power and influence she possessed as a princess, she had always been like a cork floating in the sea of life, buffeted by the waves, winds, and current. She realized that acting like a princess was not the same as being one. Before she knew it, she found herself getting out of her chair, walking to the podium, and edging her brother aside.

Considering her looks and regal bearing, it was hardly surprising that all eyes in the room quickly fell on Iona. As she scrutinized her audience, Iona felt humbled by the sacrifices these men had made. She channeled that humility into her extemporaneous speech. “My name,” she said, “is Princess Iona. My brother and I represent the kingdom, but you all are the kingdom. For ten years you sacrificed for us and our kingdom. You sacrificed your time and energy. You sacrificed your resources. And in all too many instances, you sacrificed your lives. My brother and I will always be in your debt for doing so.

“I therefore hesitate to ask one more sacrifice of you. As you all know, the Rowowans will land tomorrow morning. They want to capture my brother and me and parade us through their capital like caged animals. If they succeed, it will end our hopes of regaining our independence and freedom. It will be the end of Alleria as we understand it. On the other hand, if we escape, that dream will live on because we will live on to represent it and cherish it. We will hold it in trust for you. We will sacrifice for you. We might not realize the dream tomorrow or the next day, but it will remain alive for our children and grandchildren. If this happens, your sacrifices will not have been in vain. Will you fight, one last time, for your prince?”

Iona felt the sweat trickle down the small of her back. She looked around at the home guardsmen, almost willing them to commit to the cause. One by one, men walked forward and stood beside the podium next to her. Within minutes, all three hundred home guardsmen packed in the room had pledged themselves to put their lives on the line so the royal twins could escape. Iona wondered what to say, but settled on a simple, “Thank you.”

As the royal party left the room, Hollander saluted them before issuing a stream of orders. Soon soldiers were deploying in and around the docks in culverts, buildings, ditches, and walls. They established fields of fire, tied in their flanks, and checked their ammunition. When they saw Iona watching them, they rose and removed their hats and helmets. Iona felt a surge of pride and power as she walked through and out of the town with Rael, Kargas, and Frederick in tow.

While Iona was rallying the home guard, Horace was returning to Peter Manheim’s inn near Scrogwell’s Point after a long day of hiking across the wild western part of the island. Although he appreciated the opportunity to familiarize himself with the area’s flora and fauna, the main reason for his trip was to get out of the way so Kargas could implement unhindered whatever plans he had for evacuating the royal twins. His absence would also provide him with some plausible deniability whenever whichever intelligence agency that uncovered the royals’ whereabouts criticized him for not locating them and preventing their escape. He did not know where Kargas planned to take Rael and Iona. Nor, really, did he care. He instead hoped that their departure would persuade his superiors that his services were no longer “invaluable” and permit him to return home to resume his life.

Hating the war came easily for Horace. It had not only taken him away from everything and everyone he held dear, but it had also systematically destroyed some of those things in his absence. Because he had not been home in years, he did not know the extent of that destruction or have an opportunity to repair it. Eventually he learned to let go of his fears and concerns about that other life, in part by simply assuming that it was all gone. As he drifted off to sleep, though, he thought that he might soon be home. Home, with its familiar odors, tastes, and sounds all connected with his past. Indeed, he could almost smell autumn’s burning leaves, taste the coffee cake, and hear the nasal twang of his friends and neighbors.

The sounds of distant machine gun and rifle fire startled Horace awake early next morning. It had been months since he had heard such noises, but time had done nothing to dim the fear he invariably felt under such occasions. He lay in bed for a few seconds until he pieced it together: Kirkwellians were resisting the Rowowan army’s arrival. Horace had not expected that. Horrified by the thought of a bloodbath, Horace dressed as quickly as possible and ran out of the room. As he did so, he saw Peter Mannheim suddenly stand up from his chair, position himself between Horace and the front door, and point a shotgun directly at him.

Horace stopped immediately and threw up his hands. “What the hell, Peter?” he yelled. “Get out of my way!”

Peter pumped the shotgun. “No, sir. Mr. Lattamore sent word for me to keep you in this inn until noon, and to kill you if you try to escape.”

Horace was confused. “Why?”

“I don’t know, overlord, but orders is orders.”

Horace briefly weighed his options. He could wait until Peter let his guard down and try to overpower him. Doing so, however, required a strength and courage he did not have. He had no intention of dying on this particular hill. He instead resorted to logic.

“Look Peter,” he said. “If you let me go I might be able to stop the fighting. Otherwise dozens may die.”

Peter held up his hand. “You can give me all the reasons you want as to why I should let you go, even good ones, but it ain’t going to change anything. I have my orders. Now take a seat and eat breakfast.”

Horace sat down and tried to be pleasant while Mrs. Mannheim fed him hotcakes. After he finished his breakfast, he retrieved a book and tried to read it while Peter glowered at him from behind his shotgun. Horace periodically got up and peered out the window to gauge the battle’s progress by its sound, even though Peter tensed and glared at him as he did so. Horace was especially alarmed by the retort of the six-inch guns from the light cruiser offshore that indicated fierce fighting. Horace remembered that patience was a virtue, especially in his line of work, but it was not an easy lesson. For several hours he cooled his heels in the Mannheim living room. The fighting finally stopped at around eleven o’clock. An agonizing hour later, Peter took out his pocket watch, looked at it for a long moment, and said, “You’re free to go, overlord. I hope you’ll visit us again if you’re on this side of the island. We appreciate your patronage.”

Horace did not bother to reply, but instead bolted out of the inn and down the road. After a couple hundred yards, though, he slowed to a trot to catch his breath. The city was two miles away, much of it uphill, so it took him a half hour to get there. He became more cautious as he approached the outskirts because he did not want some trigger-happy soldier on either side shooting him. Although Kirkwell appeared deserted, he put his hands in the air anyway as he warily walked down the main street until two Rowowan soldiers appeared.

“Don’t shoot!” Horace yelled. “I’m unarmed.”

The two soldiers eyed him suspiciously. After looking around, they ordered him to approach. One of the soldiers frisked him, removed his wallet, and pocketed the cash. When Horace protested, the other soldier hit him hard in his stomach with his rifle butt and told him to shut up.

Horace fell to the ground, gasping for air. “I’m Rowowan, you assholes. I’m the town overlord. Take me to your commanding officer.”

One of the soldiers laughed and said, “The hell you are.”

Before Horace could reply, a sergeant appeared to investigate the hubbub. Although dubious of Horace’s story, he ordered the two soldiers to escort him to battalion headquarters.

Horace felt the tension draining out of him as he climbed to his feet. He had spent years operating in Rowowan-occupied Allerian towns, so he knew how things worked. As he and his guards walked down the street he noticed plenty of Rowowan troops about, but no civilians or home guardsmen. The closer they got to the downtown and docks, the more extensive the destruction became. In fact, there was rubble everywhere: bricks, wood, stones, and glass scattered on the streets, yards, porches and patios, and roofs. Familiar buildings and shops were now blasted shells. The lot by Wallace McWoodsen’s blacksmith shop contained about sixty corpses divided into two groups, one Rowowan and the other Kirkwellian. The Rowowans had already covered up their dead, but the Kirkwellians remained exposed. Horace stopped to look at them. He saw Deputy Braxton with his eyes wide open and a bullet hole in his forehead. Little Billy Nunn, the young marksman who had cost Horace a great deal of money, was five feet away, or at least most of him was. Horace had of course seen plenty of dead bodies over the past eight years, including more friends than he cared to remember, but these were particularly upsetting because the war was supposed to be over. Moreover, as overlord he felt a proprietary bond with the town’s citizens. Before he could process these emotions, though, one of the Rowowan soldiers pushed him hard in the back and told him to keep moving.

After picking their way through the debris, they finally reached the Rowowan battalion’s headquarters at city hall. There Horace saw an old colleague, Captain Louis Decker, standing out front smoking a cigarette and watching soldiers conduct house-to-house searches.

“Hello, Louis,” Horace said.

Decker took a long last drag of his cigarette, flicked it to the ground, and stepped on it with his boot. “Hello, Horace. We figured we would find your body in all this rubble.”

“Nope,” Horace responded. “Is he here? Can I see him?”

Decker stretched his arms over his head. “Sure, follow me.” He ordered the two soldiers who had brought Horace there to remain behind. He and Horace entered the building and made their way down the hallway. As they walked, Decker said, “By the way, our favorite mailman is here too.”

The battalion commander, Lieutenant Colonel Myron Kean, had established his headquarters in the city council chambers. He was a short, peppery, and bandy-legged man with a long combat record who had been Horace’s friend for years. When he saw Horace, though, he grunted a restrained hello.

“So what happened?” asked Horace.

Kean did not offer Horace a seat. “A few days ago we received word that the royal family was on Kirkwell. General Mancusso decided to go in in force, so he ordered the battalion concentrated at Rahway for a surprise attack. We figured that there would be some opposition, but not the kind we encountered. We didn’t expect the island’s home guard to have machine guns. It took us all morning to overcome them, and cost us thirty dead and ninety wounded. Seems like that is the kind of thing about which the island’s overlord should have warned us.”

Horace now understood the chilly welcome. “Well, I’m sorry about that, but I had my orders too. If you don’t like them, take it up with General Embry, not with me.”

Horace was so rattled by Kean’s hostility that he did not notice the beady-eyed man standing nearby. Walter Lowenbraugh was Horace’s counterpart in the Rowowan Post Office Security Force. When the Post Office unexpectedly secured the imperial council’s approval to create its own information gathering arm early in the war, the members of Rowowa’s other intelligence agencies initially greeted the news with mirth and derision. Since then, though, postal security had become one of the most ruthless and brutal parts of the Rowowan government. Its success was due to cold-blooded men like Lowenbraugh. Although Horace tried with varying degrees of success to maintain a professional relationship with Lowenbraugh, he disapproved of his duplicitous and vicious methods. Indeed, he was the only man Horace had ever met who was truly shifty-eyed.

Lowenbraugh extended his hand in an unconvincing gesture of goodwill. “How is it that a well-trained and loyal agent such as yourself was unable to uncover the presence of the royal twins on Kirkwell Island?” he asked.

Fortunately for Horace, he could fall back on a long track record of success for protection, though he preferred to leave it implied. “Well,” he said blandly, “I guess I’m just not as smart and successful as you.”

Lowenbraugh smiled. “This won’t look good to the imperial council. They will want to know whether to blame your actions on incompetence or disloyalty.”

Kean interrupted. “Okay, enough. Put your pricks away.”

Lowenbraugh redirected his plastic smile to Kean. “My apologies, colonel. With your permission, I’ll return to Rahway. I’m sure the royals escaped, but they can’t run forever.”

As Lowenbraugh turned to leave, Horace’s curiosity got the better of him. “Hey, Lowenbraugh. How did you guys learn that they were here?”

As Horace expected, Lowenbraugh could not refrain from bragging. “An agent informed us.”

“Was it Royo di Czezarchek?”

“Yes,” responded Lowenbraugh.

Horace rolled his eyes. “He’s not really your agent, is he? Did you just intercept his mail?”

Lowenbraugh arched his eyebrows. “How we got the information won’t matter to anyone back at the capital. The point is that we located the royal twins hiding right under your nose.”

After Horace and Kean watched Lowenbraugh leave the chambers, Kean asked, “Did you know they were here?

“Officially or unofficially?” Horace responded.

“Oh, first officially.”

“Of course not,” Horace deadpanned.

“Unofficially.”

“Of course,” Horace said.

Kean scowled. “More interagency bullshit. The problem is that my soldiers got caught in the middle of it.”

Horace nodded. “I’m sorry about the loss of life. Working at cross-purposes makes things difficult for everyone.”

“Well,” said Kean, “it’s not surprising. The imperial council is a mess. It’s so paralyzed that it can’t make timely decisions. One half of it spends all its time accusing the other half of collaboration with the Allerians. Even though the war is over.”

Horace suddenly changed the subject. “What are you going to do with all the home guardsmen you captured here?”

“What else? We’ll ship them back to the mainland and try them. They’ll probably end up breaking rocks in the tundra.”

“Whose decision is it?” Horace asked.

“Mine, I suppose.”

“Don’t do it,” Horace said. “These are law-abiding people no more predisposed against Rowowa than anyone else.”

“I have thirty dead soldiers who would say differently,” Kean responded. “And now they’ll pay for it as an example to other Allerians resisting the imposition of Rowowan authority.”

Horace persisted. “But these weren’t ordinary circumstances. They weren’t guerrillas fighting in the hills to kill and be killed. They fought for a specific reason, out in the open, and now they’re done.”

Kean’s temper flared. “And now we’ll punish them for it.”

Horace tried another tack. “Remember that these people are now legally members of the Rowowan empire. That means that they have certain rights. Do you know how much paperwork trying them will entail? And as the commanding officer in this operation, much of it will fall on your shoulders. Sure, your staff can write the reports, but you will have to testify. That will become your life. How will it help your career?”

Kean scratched his chin. “Yeah, I hadn’t thought of that. But there must be some accountability for what they did.”

“Can’t they just admit their wrongdoing and promise to behave in the future?” Horace asked.

Kean looked out the shattered window. “Okay, if you get them to admit that they took up arms against Rowowa and swear an oath to the empire, I won’t bring them to trial.” He paused. “Except for one of them. One guy shot one of our soldiers after he raised a white flag. I’ll testify as often as necessary to see him rot.”

“Okay,” Horace said. “Also, do you mind if I look after their medical needs…get them food, water, and so forth?”

Kean looked sharply at Horace. “No, that’s fine. Since when do you care so much about the fucking Allerians?”

Horace shrugged. “The war’s over. I want my actions to reflect that.”

Horace took Kean’s shuffling of papers as a sign to leave, so he saluted and departed. Captain Decker was standing outside the building, smoking another cigarette and looking pensive.

“Captain,” Horace said, “the colonel gave me permission to help the prisoners. Please make sure your men don’t shoot me while I’m walking up and down the street.”

Decker detailed one of his soldiers to accompany Horace. After Horace thanked him, he noticed that the soldier who had escorted him to headquarters – the one who had butted him in the stomach with his rifle – was standing nearby. Horace walked over to him and punched him in the face, knocking him sprawling to the ground.

“What the hell, Horace?” yelled Decker.

Horace turned to Decker. “And tell your men to respect the local population.”

Horace summoned his escort and walked across the street to an enclosed yard next to a livery that the Rowowans had converted into a detention center for the home guardsmen captured in the morning’s battle. Despite its small size, there were more than two hundred men confined there, including several dozen wounded awaiting treatment. When the home guardsmen saw Horace climb onto a nearby crate, they crowded around the barbed wire fence the Rowowans had strung up and cursed him.

“Listen to me!” Horace yelled. After the crowd fell silent, he continued. “The Rowowan commander has given me permission to assist in attending to your medical needs. Where are the doctors? Doctor Wesley? Doctor Morrison? Please come up here.” As they threaded their way to the front, Horace called for more help. “Does anyone else have medical experience? Mr. Hollins, weren’t you a medic? Please come up here too.”

Horace huddled with the three men after they stepped through the barbed wire. He recommended that they establish an aid station in the Apostolic Church two doors down. When Doctor Wesley asked about the equipment, medicines, and instruments they needed, Morrison suggested that Horace fetch his nurse, Ethyl Craddock, who lived nearby, and that the two of them go to his office to gather all the materials they needed.

Horace realized that they required help moving all this paraphernalia, so he recruited a boy he spotted gawking at them from behind a door. When Captain Decker saw this, he called out to Horace, “Hey, Horace, did you shoot his dad, too?”

Ignoring Decker, Horace and his companions trotted down the street to Ethyl Craddock’s small cottage and knocked on her door. Ethyl was a small, mousy woman, but she understood immediately what needed to be done. While Horace waited for Ethyl to gather her things, Ethyl’s sister Norma suddenly appeared in the foyer. Before Horace could react, she slapped him hard across the face and called him a son-of-a-bitch. Horace pushed her hard into the wall with his arm against her throat to prevent her from hitting him again.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” he yelled.

“You Rowowan bastard!” she screamed, gesturing out the window at the surrounding destruction. “Look what you did! I hope we kill every one of you!”

Horace exerted more pressure on her throat. “I’m trying to help.”

Horace let go of her when Ethyl appeared. The three stood in awkward silence until Ethyl pulled Horace out the door. As they left, Norma hissed at him, “You’ll get yours, overlord.” Horace ignored her and focused on the task at hand. He spent the rest of the afternoon and evening locating and shuttling medical supplies, equipment, and instruments to the impromptu aid station at the church. When all the wounded had been taken care of, he turned his attention to the remaining captives. He scurried about to secure them food and drink before bedding down for the night on the floor of city hall.

Horace woke early next morning. As he laced on his boots, it occurred to him that often life’s big events are packed into a short time frame, sometimes a mere day or two. Forty-eight hours earlier, he had risen with the dawn to greet a company of soldiers at the docks who he had summoned with a kite to prevent Royo’s execution. Now, two days later, much of the downtown was rubble and debris, and Royo was gone. So were the royals who had set into motion this chain of events. He was still thinking on it a half hour later when he and Colonel Kean walked over to the yard containing the captive home guardsmen. They were milling about waiting for their breakfasts. Upon receiving Kean’s nod, Horace climbed up on the crate and called for their attention.

“Gentlemen,” he called. When they gathered around the front of the yard next to the barbed wire, he continued. “Here are the facts. You all took up arms against the Rowowan empire yesterday, and are therefore subject to arrest and trial for treason. If found guilty, you will undoubtedly spend years working in the gold mines in the tundra.”

Horace paused to let that information sink in. “However, Colonel Kean here has decided that the empire will not prosecute you if you confess to your crime and swear an oath to obey the laws of the Rowowan empire. Once you do so, you can go home. Do you have any questions?”

Preacher Leo Sellford hobbled forward, using a stick as a crutch, and raised his hand. “What about Leonard Walker?”

Horace looked at Kean, who shook his head. “Mr. Walker is the one exception,” Horace explained. “He fired on Rowowan soldiers after he surrendered, severely wounding a man.”

There were no other hands in the air. “Okay,” said Horace. “We’ll get started shortly.”

A few minutes later Horace, Captain Decker, and a clerk gathered in Juganhouse’s office to wait for Rowowan soldiers to bring the home guardsmen in one by one. Horace asked each one under oath if he had taken up arms against the Rowowan empire. Not surprisingly, all admitted their guilt. Upon saying yes, he directed them to sign a document attesting to the fact and pledging to obey Rowowan law from now on. For most it was as simple at that, and they were back with their families within the hour in what was left of their homes.

However, Horace kept several others for more detailed questioning. He wanted to use the opportunity to ferret out as much information as possible about Anna Mullins’s murder. He figured that if he could not arrest Prince Rael for homicide, then he could at least build a record to help someone else bring him to justice someday. Moreover, he recognized that he possessed the necessary skills to elicit the truth. Horace had interrogated enough people during the war to know that it was more an art than a science. Unlike his post office colleagues, he believed that torture and physical intimidation were of little use in extracting useful information. He instead relied on ego. Horace always feigned boredom and routine at the start of every interview. Because no one wanted to be considered monotonous, to show their importance they often divulged material they would not otherwise have volunteered in response to Horace’s matter-of-fact questions.

In Juganhouse’s office, though, such skills were hardly necessary. Everyone was talking about the royal twins and the battle their departure had provoked, and now that the fighting was over and they had escaped, attaining information was simply a matter of asking the right people the right questions. Because Kargas had ordered Lattamore to shut down his investigation into Anna Mullins’s murder as soon as Lattamore located the two girls who claimed to have seen Royo around her house, there were many people with pertinent information who the police failed to interview. As a result, Horace quickly learned that the two girls who identified Royo were so inebriated that night that they could barely stand. He also developed a rough timeline of Rael’s activities that included two unaccounted for hours. Finally, and most importantly, a local fisherman who survived the battle insisted that he saw someone matching Rael’s description talking with Anna Mullins outside of the Mermaid on the night of her murder. Horace had the clerk transcribe all this material and ordered Captain Decker to send a copy to army intelligence as soon as he returned to the mainland.

Three days later, the Rowowan battalion marched down to the waterfront and embarked for the mainland with Leonard Walker in tow. Horace was there, but as a spectator, not a participant. He had hoped that army intelligence would recall him to Aurora, but no such directive had arrived.

“You really ought to come with us,” said Captain Decker as he and Horace watched the soldiers trudge onboard the transports. “If you remain behind, these folks will surely kill you the first chance they get. If you think they hated the Rowowans before….”

Horace sighed. “I haven’t gotten orders to do so. If I go, they might postpone my discharge, and I’ll end up overlording Allerian towns forever.”

“Suit yourself.” Decker watched his last soldier embark, then jumped over to the transport. As the vessel pulled away from the dock, he hollered at Horace, “Someone will return for your corpse!”

Donald Ollenright ambled over to Horace. He had been wounded in the battle and could only get around with a crutch, but that had not prevented him from visiting the waterfront to watch the soldiers depart. “What’s he talking about?” he asked as Decker’s boat motored away.

“Well,” said Horace, “he thinks you all will kill me at the first opportunity.”

Ollenright adjusted his crutch to turn to face Horace. “Overlord, if it was up to me, I would kill you right now. If you had stayed away from this island, none of this would have happened.”

Horace continued looking at the sea. “Don’t sugarcoat it, Mr. Ollenright. Tell me what you really think.”

“Fuck you, overlord.”

The two men stood in silence for several minutes. Finally, Horace asked, “How is your foot?”

“It hurts,” Ollenright replied.

“I understand you got through the entire war without an injury.”

“Yeah.”

Horace glanced at Ollenright’s foot. “Kind of ironic that you got wounded in battle after the war was over.”

The expression on Ollenright’s face changed. “Actually, it isn’t really a battle injury. I dropped a cinderblock on it before the first Rowowan boat hit the beach.”

Horace laughed. “Now that’s funny. Well, I got my first wound because I got drunk and wandered into our own minefield.”

Ollenright grunted. “I can’t believe you bastards won the war.”

After a couple more minutes of ocean-gazing, Horace walked back into town.

As Horace trudged up the hill, he felt depression settle on him like an impenetrable fog. It seemed to him that his superiors had decided to let him rot on this remote island. He wondered if they intended to keep him here for weeks, months…years. And of course there was no guarantee that he would live that long. As Ollenright demonstrated, a good many of the locals blamed him for the battle that had destroyed part of the city and killed their family and friends. Now that the royals were gone, he could no longer count on police protection. Although he appreciated the irony of waging a war after it was over, it did not erase the resentment, bitterness, and anger he felt about his situation. He was tired – tired of the duplicity, intrigue, bureaucracy, and bloodshed that had been part and parcel of his life for the past eight years. The simple truth was that he wanted to go home. He knew that there was not much there for him, but it was still home.

Returning to his hotel for the first time since the battle, Horace found a hostile Mrs. Wendig and a wrecked room. Fortunately for Horace, his few possessions were scattered, but otherwise undamaged. He retrieved a broom and swept away as much of the debris and glass as he could. When he finished, he located one of his books, sat on the floor, and read it until he heard the Royal Church’s bells announce the beginning of a memorial for those home guardsmen who had died in the battle. He waited until the service was well under way to slip in unnoticed and took a seat in the back of the packed sanctuary. Reverend McCormick preached on sacrifice. He said that God appreciated and honored suffering even if He did not explain the reasons behind it. Although the reverend aimed his message at those who had lost loved ones earlier in the week, Horace took comfort in applying it to his own life. He departed before the ceremony ended, ate a late lunch at an undamaged diner on the outskirts of town, and took a long walk along the shoreline. On his way back to town, though, he became increasingly convinced that some aggrieved townsmen would kill him sooner rather than later – it was simply a matter of when. This realization, as well as the stress of the last few days and his long walk, exhausted him. When he returned to what was left of his hotel room, he placed a blanket on the floor and fell asleep.

It was dark outside when Horace woke up. Because the electricity was not working, Horace sat on the floor in the dark and thought about the emotional costs of constantly looking over his shoulder for the remainder of his tenure on the island. He concluded that the stress would kill him long before a Kirkwellian did. After a while he got up, put on his jacket, and walked over to the Scrapyard. Although the bar had been damaged in the battle, its owner had restored electricity, cleared away the debris and glass, and reopened for business. His resourcefulness lured in a large number of people looking to enjoy modern amenities. The crowd became quiet when Horace entered, ordered whisky at the bar, and parked himself at the first open table. He forewent his usual practice of sitting with his back to the wall. Horace nursed his drink until he sensed someone approaching behind him. He shut his eyes, took a deep breath, commended his soul to God, and waited.

Instead of a bullet in the back of his head, Horace felt an arm on his shoulder. He looked up and saw Reverend Leo Sellford standing behind him.

“Hello, overlord,” Sellford said. “Do you mind if I have a seat?”

“No, no, of course,” Horace responded as he felt his heart rate settle.

Sellford sat down and beckoned a bartender for another drink. “I want you to know that a lot of us noticed what you did to help this town after the battle, and we appreciate it.” He paused as the bartender brought his beer over. “Because you’re Rowowan, it’s easy for people to take their hatred of the empire out on you, so don’t take it personally.”

“Thanks,” said Horace. “I thought that someone would kill me here tonight.”

“Then why did you come here?” Sellford asked.

Horace held up his whiskey.

Sellford guffawed. “No, I don’t think you need to worry about that. Someone might punch you, but I promise no one will kill you.”

Horace was relieved, but he still felt anxious for reasons of which he was unsure. He tried to explain to Sellford. “I didn’t expect the battle to happen. I figured Kargas would escape with the royals before the soldiers landed. Maybe I should have foreseen that he would deploy the home guardsmen. I should have tried to prevent it.”

Sellford sipped his beer. “I don’t know you very well, overlord. But I know enough to realize that you’re more important than you let on. It’s my experience that important people often feel that they have more control over events than is actually the case. You and I – and Mr. Kargas – were just flawed cogs in this particularly unfortunate wheel. It took a lot of mistakes by a lot of people, including myself, to make the battle possible. Accepting responsibility for everything that happened is just plain egotistical.”

Horace thought it over for a minute. “During the war I did some awful things. But I could always rationalize them by telling myself that all is fair in war, or that they were necessary to win the war and protect our men. Now that the war is over, though, I’m ashamed of my actions. Looking back, I don’t know what else I could have done. I mean, someone was usually going to die no matter what decision I made. I feel like God put me in one awful conundrum after another for eight years. Should I ask for forgiveness for no win situations? Would He even grant it?”

Sellford cocked his head. “Yes and yes.”

“Well, you don’t know some of the things I did,” Horace said.

“Doesn’t matter,” replied Sellford. “All that matters is that you ask for it.”

Horace sighed. “I hope you’re right.”

“I don’t mean to change the subject, but, speaking of forgiveness, is there anything you can do for Leonard Walker?”

Horace shrugged. “Unpleasant man. No, not really. I don’t have much influence over such things. Besides, he shot a Rowowan soldier after he surrendered.”

Sellford nodded. “But he also has a wife and children.”

Horace scratched his eyepatch. “Remember that the Rowowan empire is highly bureaucratic. Those in power like everything according to the rules, even if the rules don’t make sense. They get nervous with anything out of the ordinary. Best thing you all can do is hire a lawyer for Mr. Walker in Emerald City, and have the lawyer point out everything anomalous about this situation. Prosecutors might go easy on him because they don’t want to deal with something this unique.”

Sellford thanked him, then asked, “How long do you plan to stay on the island?”

Horace shrugged. “Don’t know. Until my bosses relieve me, I guess. I don’t know when that will be. I want to go home.”

Sellford got up. “Well, I have to get home to the wife. To what’s left of my home, that is. If you want my advice, overlord, you should use your remaining time here to get ready for civilian life. Read your books and take your walks. Get reacquainted with God. Whatever you want.”

Taking Sellford’s advice did not require Horace to significantly change his daily routine. As the preacher recommended, Horace continued walking and reading, attending church, and interacting with a wide range of people throughout the island’s community. Indeed, he made it his business to go to one event each evening. To his great relief, the locals treated him kindly. Several even offered him jobs if he decided to settle permanently on the island after the Rowowan army demobilized him. He ignored the interior ministry’s weekly letters promulgating new rules and demanding data he was unwilling or unable to provide. All this activity prevented him from dwelling on the circumstances that had brought him to Kirkwell. However, the night invariably brought out demons who tortured his soul. As he lay in bed trying to sleep, he repeatedly replayed in his mind all those actions in the war he regretted, as if doing so would somehow change the outcome. His gnawing guilt metastasized into bitterness, resentment, and depression that he did his best to hide. He felt trapped on Kirkwell, and longed to return home to wrap up his old life and start a new one. Then one morning, about three months after the royals fled the island, Horace opened his weekly package from the interior ministry and discovered at the end of the usual sheaf of documents a single unattached sheet of paper containing one typewritten word: Wonderful. Army intelligence had finally called Horace home.

The emotions and attention that accompanied goodbyes made Horace uncomfortable. Although he had become fond of many Kirkwellians, he hoped to avoid any farewell parties. The morning after he received the coded message from army intelligence, he rose before first light, packed his few belongings in his duffel bag, and slipped unnoticed out of the hotel. He walked down to the jetty from where Milo Jennings ferried people across the channel to and from Fillipin.

Although a fair number of mainlanders worked on the island, there were not many job opportunities for Kirkwellians in squalid little Fillipin. As a result, Horace was the only person there. Milo took Horace’s money and asked, “Why are you going to the mainland, overlord?”

Horace thought about telling him to mind his own business, but knew that would offend Milo, and he did not want to end his mission on a sour note. “I’m going back to Aurora.”

“For good?”

Horace had been so intent on avoiding maudlin goodbyes that he had forgotten that he would never return to the island. “Yeah,” he said. “For good.”

After returning to his nearby house to retrieve his keys, Milo started the boat’s engine and pulled away from the jetty. “Overlord,” Milo said, “Do you mind if we go up the coast a bit to fetch Lee Dunfor first?”

“Sure,” Horace replied. He thought a moment and asked, “Why can’t Lee Dunfor walk down here?”

“He usually does, but not when his knee acts up. Old war injury.”

Lee Dunfor was in his late twenties, and the fact that someone so young had bad knees was just another reminder of the war’s costs. Horace pushed the sad realization out of his mind and thought about home. If he was lucky, he might be back in Ippolacia in a week. After a half hour of watching the boat fight its way up the island’s east coast against the strong choppy current, though, Horace wondered if he would even reach the mainland by then. The unexpected delay made Horace anxious, but he tried to remember that his timetable was self-imposed. Finally, Milo reached a small dock, tied up the boat, and walked up to Lee Dunfor’s house. The two men did not emerge for another twenty minutes. Lee held onto Milo as the two men slowly made their way down to the dock.

“Sorry for the delay, overlord,” Milo said as he helped Lee into the boat.

“Me too,” Lee added. “Although for all I know you were the one who put that bullet through my knees, in which case it serves you right to wait.”

Once again the boat coughed to life and slowly distanced itself from the dock. As the boat motored around the cove, the seawall on the island’s southeasternmost point came into view. Horace noticed a small but growing crowd lining it. He wondered why so many people had gathered on such a chilly morning. More and more bodies joined the crowd until they completely filled the seawall. When the boat came by, everyone removed their hats in a silent gesture of respect for Horace. Deeply moved, Horace stood in the boat and doffed his hat in return. The crowd remained there until the boat disappeared down the coast toward Fillipin.