Chapter 45: A New Plan

Patrick didn’t need to see them squirm to know the council was sick with worry, although squirm they did. It was more than just the way commander Duuhard’s fingers twitched while he unraveled yet another map, or the way Sergeant Marcus rubbed at the spot under his eyes—it was as if the unease was powerful enough to feel, filling the air with a burning, prickly dust.

Servants had readied the room in a hurry, and now they shuffled back and forth, offering water and food, yet no one ate. The war-room hadn’t been used in ages, and thankfully so. Patrick couldn’t blame the trembling men. It wasn’t that they were cowards, or afraid of fighting—several of them were veterans. No, it was the suddenness of it all. To fall asleep one night, peacefully in your own bed, only to wake the next morning to find that not only your home, but your entire city would soon be up in flames...Patrick pitied the men.

“Shouldn’t we begin?” Seehara asked. She was a tiny, older woman, with wispy bangs of silver hair covering both of her eyes. Patrick had begged the woman to evacuate with the citizens, but the staunch old bird was hearing none of it, insisting she perform her duties as demanded by law. Archaic Kingdom policy required the city’s treasurer to be present during all battle, but it was seldom enforced. Patrick didn’t wish to see the old woman die.

Am I going to die too? He wondered.

“We’ll begin when everyone has arrived,” Patrick said. He stood from the round table and paced the room. He was agitated, unable to remain seated. At the moment he looked anything but princely. His elegant white tunic was stained yellow with sweat, his hair unraveled in an untidy mess, but Patrick didn’t care. What did appearance matter? In war, pretty-men died just as painfully as the ugly.

Hahl’s war-room was a tower built to withstand attack. Located directly in the center of the city, and defended by a hundred men at all times, the war-room granted a three-sixty degree viewing angle of Hahl. From here, commanders could issue orders directly to runners, who would then relay them further down the command line.

Patrick peered out of the open window in the tail-end of the room, a dozen stories above the ground. An ever growing number of soldiers filled the city, taking up reinforcing positions around the gates. Where earlier that morning a baker’s shop filled the city with its pleasant aromas, now, in its place, a fortified archers nest had been erected, with seven men lying prone on the roof, bows ready in hand.

By the dozens the soldiers scampered into the city. Patrick welled with pride. These were his men, his soldiers, and all were ready to die for the sake of their kingdom. One after another they entered the city, trailing behind the fading sunlight. Most would be dead by the end of the next day.

But they won’t die alone, Patrick thought. I’ll be with them until the end.

The sound of feet thumping rock announced yet another pair of arrivals, climbing the stairs to the top of the war-room. The door sprang open, and the two Elves entered. “It is good to see you again, Patrick,” Saerith said. “If you would kindly order your stubborn field-commanders to allow my men into the city, I’d greatly appreciate it.”

Patrick laughed. He nodded once, and a runner was dispatched. “It’s good to see you too, Saerith. Although, it surprises me how long these last few days have been.”

Princess Saerina pushed her way into the room, dressed her finest. She wore a blood-red gown embedded with rose petals, and golden threads ran across the neckline. Her fingers sparkled with the finest gems Patrick had ever seen, shining in the setting sunlight. But they did not shine brightest, not when compared to her eyes. Even more so than usual, Princess Saerina’s gaze was alight with a fiery power.

“Begin,” she said. The twenty assembled commanders, field-commanders, and lieutenants, all obeyed without awaiting Patrick’s order. It didn’t surprise him, though. Saerina had a commanding presence about her, something few could ignore.

It was good that Patrick wasn’t a prideful man, or else he’d take issue with the princess. She paraded around the room, questioning his men, asking for information that a foreigner wasn’t privy to, even going as far as to order slight alterations to the troop formations. All this, and Patrick remained quiet, allowing the Elven woman to assume command of the Kingdom’s forces.

Patrick turned his head as Saerith put an arm on his shoulder. “It’s how she is,” he said. “My sister is an odd one. Even I don’t understand her.”

One by one she questioned the men and women present, until she arrived at Mayor Rumpus. The mayor’s face brightened when he took in the real Princess Saerina—Patrick still couldn’t believe how easily he’d been duped into thinking Sehn and Cah’lia were the royal heirs. “Is it my turn?”

Princess Saerina opened her mouth to speak, and then closed it soon after. She turned away from him. “No,” she said. “You are incapable of saying anything important.”

Rumpus’ jaw dropped, and he wiggled in his seat like an angry child refusing to eat his vegetables. “B-But I’ve got all kinds of stuff that I know. The city will fall without me!” The mayor’s words were wasted, Saerina was already walking towards Patrick, confidence and determination in each step as her heels clicked against the floor.

“I think it is time we went over your plans, Patrick. Show me what you’ve come up with, and I’ll let you know if we need to change it.”

Patrick ignored his growing bitterness, lowering his head in acknowledgement. He knew the princess wasn’t intentionally trying to disrespect him. She was merely behaving as she always did. On an intrinsic level, Patrick understood the woman. She truly didn’t care one way or another to which nation she belonged. At times, Patrick wondered if Saerina even knew she was an Elf. All the woman cared about was her goals, and how to accomplish them.

Saerith, on the other hand, was well aware of his role in things. He grabbed the cuff of his sister’s sleeve, and spoke in a hissed whisper. “Sister, you are disrespecting him! Do you not see what you are doing?”

It was flattering in a way. Patrick and Saerith had become true friends, something that for obvious reasons shouldn’t have happened. Future kings needed to be wary of each other, forever anticipating treachery and deceit. Yet, as Saerith gave his sister an earful for Patrick’s benefit, Patrick realized a simple truth.

We aren’t future kings. We aren’t anything but dead men.

Saerina darkened, the slits of her eyes lowering until there was nothing visible but the small bottom portion of her red eyes. “Unhand me, brother. At once.”

Saerith released his sister with a flinching grunt, much like a child touching a hot stove. He about-faced and returned to stand by Patrick’s side. “I apologize for this disrespect on her behalf.”

“It’s fine, don’t trouble yourself. I’m sure your sister only wants what’s best for us.”

Saerina nodded. “Indeed, I do.” She waved her hands at the table. “Now, will you kindly inform me of your battle plan?”

“Yes, of course. Duuhard, pass me the map, please.”

With time growing sparse, Patrick didn't bother to make room on the table, choosing instead to knock goblets filled with water onto the floor, and unfold the map on the table. “We’re outnumbered two to one,” he began. “The enemy is strong, stronger than what we can reasonably handle, but we do have the advantage of defending from our city. Because of the nature of this siege, there really is nothing to do here except to go by the book.”

Patrick pointed to an illustration of Hahl, tracing a line with his fingers. “We will have our archers positioned across the wall, killing as many as we can until they knock down our gates, at which time our swordsmen and lancers will attempt to keep them pushed back, at least to where our archers can continue firing. Once they’ve broken through, all will fall back to the center of the city, while archers reign down arrows from rooftops. We will drag the fight all the way to this very room, until…”

“We die?” Saerina finished, nodding. She spoke with no more emotion in her voice than someone describing the weather, or how to grow crops. It amazed Patrick how calm she seemed. “It is a straightforward plan. I approve.”

“Just like that?” Patrick asked. “No corrections to be made?”

Saerina shrugged. “Why should I bother? After all, you seem to be so intent on dying. I’d not wish to take such a privilege from you.”

For the first time since meeting Saerina, Patrick lost his patience with the woman, ripping the map to shreds, and then throwing it to the floor. “I’ve had enough of this, woman! I am not some carpet for you to walk on!” Patrick caught Saerith’s eyes, and for a moment he feared the Elven prince would defend his sister. Instead, he surprised Patrick by adding his own words of protest.

“I agree with Patrick. I’ve had enough of your mind-games, sister. Since we were children you’ve behaved this way, and I’ll have no more of it! Mean what you say, and say what you mean, else leave us be and let us fight our war.”

Saerina smiled. “Such passion, I like you both.”

Patrick sighed. “She’s a lost cause, isn’t she?

“Indeed, she is.”

“Ehem,” Marcus said. “If we could return to the business at hand, please.”

Patrick closed his eyes for a moment, taking a breath and collecting his resolve. “Very well, let us continue. I want to have our archers in rows of four. We’ll position them in just such a way, that—”

The door slammed open again. Alan Marshall stepped inside, Rebecca by his side. His grin was cocky, too cocky. “Nobody get up, it’s just me. Servants, bring me wine, please.”

“No wine for you!” Rebecca hissed.

Every head in the room, even those of the servants, turned to face the middle-aged commander. Patrick didn’t know how to react. Not only did the man show up an hour late to the most significant battle-planning in Kingdom history, but now he was demanding wine and food. He glided into the room, grinning madly while he approached with a ridiculous-looking strut. “Whoa, is that who I think it is?” he said, pointing at Saerina.

Something happened then, something Patrick never thought he’d see. Saerina, usually emotionless and soft-spoken, displayed the single most ferocious explosion of anger that Patrick had seen since Sehn disrespected magic in front of her. The moment her eyes locked onto Alan’s, a crease formed in her brow. Her jaw trembled, and her hands jittered as if being shocked by electricity.

“You,” she whispered.

Patrick stared dumbfounded, until he remembered the reason Alan Marshall had been sent away in the first place.

Oh, right, Patrick thought. That whole thing…

Saerina reached into her pocket, removing a four-inch Elven dagger. “You…You!”

Alan barked a laugh. “I’m surprised you remember me, love. I thought I’d have to turn around and show you my arse again. You should be thanking me for the free show I gave you.”

Rebecca ran to her commander’s side. “Why must you always start trouble with someone?”

Saerith stepped in front of his sister, extending one hand towards Alan, and the other towards Saerina. Patrick joined in, assisting Saerith in separating the two. “We do not have time for this!” Patrick shouted. “There is an army marching on Hahl with the intent of killing us all. Let’s not do their job for them.”

Alan shrugged. “I’m not angry with the princess. I only wish I could remember what I did in the report.”

Saerina spat at Alan, her saliva landing just short of his feet. “You are a pig, and an animal, and had I not seen the good buried under all that vile decay, well, I’d kill you where you stand.”

Patrick shook his head at the violent threat. “I don’t get it. Compared to what Sehn does, then this should, ah, I mean…Granted, Alan was way out of line, but aren’t you taking his actions a bit more personally than you should be?”

Saerina swatted away Saerith’s hand, and stepped forward to face Alan. Before anyone could stop her she grabbed at him, holding his cheek in her hands, pulling the taller man down to his knees so that he could meet her eyes. Patrick signaled all in the room to remain seated, and to not intervene.

The two stared at each other for seconds that felt like hours. Alan’s eyes were relaxed, casual, and filled with mirth. Saerina’s, on the other hand, lit with such intensity that Patrick wondered if at that moment she could shed tears of lava.

Saerith looked back and forth between Patrick and his sister, clearly as hesitant to react as Patrick was. “Sister,” he said, reaching out a hand. “Just calm down now.”

Saerina ignored him, and continued to evaluate Alan. She tilted his head sideways, and rotated hers along with it. Alan wore a sheepish grin through all of it, until finally, she released him. “Very well,” she said. “I’ll allow it.”

“Allow what?” Alan asked. Patrick didn’t know either, but he wasn’t about to question Saerina’s motives.

Saerina returned to the round table and took a seat, ignoring the confused stares she received from the Kingdom officials. Alan joined her, grinning as he spitefully stood next to her. Patrick worried for the man—if he continued to antagonize the princess, then he just might lose an eye, if not something worse.

“So,” Alan said. “Is this your plan?” He pointed at the various maps displaying tactical information, troop positions, and expected casualties. Patrick was proud of how much he’d accomplished on such short notice.

“Yes, commander Marshall. I’ll give you the basic rundown.”

Patrick attempted to resume where they’d left off. Before another word could part his lips, they were sealed shut as the back of Alan’s hand slapped across his face. Pain spread over his cheeks, and for a moment, disoriented, he blinked to regain his vision.

Seven guards stationed around the room charged forward, drawing weapons and pointing them at Alan. Even Saerina seemed surprised. She stood from her chair, as did many of the other men and women of the war council.

“What is the meaning of this?” Duuhard said. “Commander Marshall, you just assaulted our prince.”

Patrick held out his hand. “Everyone relax. Why did you hit me, Alan?”

“Why? Because I thought I taught you better than this.”

“Meaning?”

Alan walked around the table, picking up papers, maps, and formation outlines. He put them all together in a neat stack, and then grinned, before ripping them to pieces. Again the guards closed in on him. This time, even Patrick leapt at him, but it was too late. Hours of work, gone in an instant.

“Alan!” Patrick roared. “I should have your head for this.”

Alan lowered his shoulders and stuck out his neck. “Well, here it is. Take it, then.” The woman, Rebecca, watched the exchange with what appeared to be restrained impatience. Sweat dripped from her forehead, and she balled her hands tightly into fists.

Patrick looked at the man, and felt a sick curdling in his stomach. Why would Alan do this? “You may have just cost us the war, Alan.”

“Maybe,” he agreed. “But you certainly would have. Everyone listen up. There’s a new battle plan, one made by your ever so sexy Alan Marshall. Rebecca, shall I strip for them?”

The first lieutenant slapped him in the back of the head. “Just get on with it, before the prince has our heads.”

“Very well, very well.” Alan stood on his toes, bringing himself to his full height, over six feet. “Take notes everyone, because school is now in session.”