As they came out from the mountains, Siren marched near the front of her army (despite her earlier enthusiasm, she hated to think what it might smell like in the back). Packed in tight, the shoulders of tired clanspeople nudged into her Hollows, rattling their bony aprons.

From this vantage, Siren looked down on Terodor Valley. To the north, a hazy fold in the distant slopes obscured the muddy Andulun--the Gold Gorge--beyond which waited two easy weeks’ march to Burgisnor.

But first--Uns Terodor.

Deltric was unambiguously anxious to arrive at the lands of his forefathers. He wiped sweat from the narrow contours of his face incessantly. He huffed for breath, at times, and his lips, drained colorless, seemed to tremble as he occasionally muttered to himself.

Siren, peering at him through a gap in her guards, shook her head disdainfully.He hardly looked like a soldier. His leather collar hung morosely over his shoulders, and his poultry head sprouted from it at a comical tilt. Each step of the march sent a quiver through his soft midsection, and the hanging chains of his apron slapped nauseatingly against his belly.

He must be too old for this! she despaired, and tutted familiarly to herself on the city’s need for some new blood. A little energy--ambition. Then, as if to prove the age-old wisdom of cautionary wishing, Vallan slithered through the throng, coming between Siren and the Terodor clan head. His look cut through the cover of the guard as if by instinct and met her eyes immediately. He pulled his mustachioed lip into a hearty smirk.

Siren consequently dodged back, suddenly particularly grateful for the extra space her guards provided.

Then again, she conceded, young councilors can be so single-minded…

When they came into scrubby hills which folded around Terodor’s valley, the road widened substantially, and the soldiers spilled out to fill it. It carried over a broad, shallow ridge as it wound down into the flat, valley meadow. Siren heard the crackling of creeks, where they wound into troughs near the road, and scampering autumn harvesters preparing for the winter.

Minor farmsteads and the square, embossed remains of ancient towers and walls quilted the flatland below them, and a vague scrawl of shadow dashing the length of the valley suggested the local river.

“Pleased to be back in the fatherland, Deltric?” she poked smugly. Showing his exhaustion throughout the late afternoon, the clan head had veered awfully close to the Hollows.

“Of course,” he huffed, looking at once confused by the question and very much not excited. “The very rain on the fields of my spirit, I assure you, my lady.” The only thing he could likely assure her of was his being a craven cunt.

“Good,” Siren shot back. “We’d like to keep the bloodshed to a minimum, so I’m trusting you to smooth things over with the townspeople.” She watched his imperious scowl twitch into a sneer. He regained his composure, champing his jaws dramatically to work his face back into a scowl.

“As you command, archon,” he said, in the bravest voice available to him.

As they came into the meadow, a cool evening breeze brought the scent of woodsmoke and a sour hint of tannery from the north.

Uns Terodor.

The head of the formation was compacting, crowding to fill the wider path, and the march’s pace slowed perceptibly. Siren, who initially assumed this was simply the laziness of tired soldiers, soon discovered a commotion rippling back through the packed, waggling lines of soldiers. Heads turning, gaits shifting, or stopping. “Runner!” came the call, and soon a hundred voices joined it, waving off to Siren’s left. She chopped a gesture at the Hollows; clattering loudly, they moved to clear a lane toward the left edge of the road.

She saw the runner soon after, bearing toward her down a mild slope, kicking clods of earth into the creek below, dodging those marchers who’d straggled off the flat earth.

The troops swooned in the unfamiliar stillness, cramming dangerously close together, and the Hollows pushed steadfastly against them. “Because the archon fucking says so!” reached clearly over the concert of dissatisfied murmurs. Siren came out to the side of the road just as the runner was close enough that his silhouette no longer shifted in the setting sun. He waved idiotically.

Siren rolled her eyes and grunted a sigh.

“Archon!” he was bellowing, now, his sweaty face a burning copper. “Archon!”

“Yes, I bloody hear you,” she muttered. But not well, she had to admit, over the mile stretch of stomping soldiers and the inane murmuring of those nearby. “Shut up!” she cried, fairly snarling. The nearest few dozen heads bashfully declined, and much of the proximal crowd dutifully hushed. The Hollow’s strung bones and arbor wolf teeth rattled in the breeze.

“Archon!”

“What?” she finally spat. The herald, evidently satisfied that he’d reached her earshot, stopped, bent over at the waist, propping his hands on his knees, and started panting in earnest. Siren counted him off five solid moments.

“For the sake of blossoms in the fucking spring, man, spit it out!”

“City guard,” he sputtered, “at the gate up ahead. Won’t let us through--mayor wants to talk with you, my lady.”

City guard? she scoffed. What’s that… a hundred men? Certainly, not far upwards of two.

Bravery or folly? Principles or cowardice? Siren condescended to muse on the subject with an easy, vindictive delight.

“Very well.” The three nearest clan heads had worked their way to the front of the audience which gathered on either side of her Hollows. “What’s your name, runner?”

“Burbol, my lady. Son of Bolamur.”

“Vallan,” she ordered, still looking at the messenger, “take Burbol here to get some refreshment at the baggage.” Vallan said nothing. She turned just in time to catch the last twitching of a disconsolate grimace on his face. It smoothed easily into a gracious nod.

“If you think I’m best suited to the task--”

“Oh, absolutely,” she interrupted, anticipating complaints. “Paldrun, you keep an eye on the riff raff.” It would at least give him the illusion of authority--a nipple to mute his recent disconsolance. A few soldiers whooped or laughed, but Paldrun nodded seriously.

“Deltric,” she finished, “you’re coming with me.”

They walked along the rough side of the road, on the banks of gutter ditches, over mounds of root-packed earth, and through the scraping tendrils of overgrown brush. Progress was slow, but steady, and it gave the idle throngs of soldiers in their stagnant march an ample chance to see their leader. They cheered, whistled, and shouted violent, vainglorious oaths. Siren let the acclaim wash over her, glowing victoriously as she marched purposely forward.

“It’s a wonderful thing to have loyal soldiers, eh?” she shouted, tilting her chin back toward Deltric. His anxiety was palpable--his skin, gray and sweaty; his eyes worried wide. He looked squeezed, stretched, and near to snapping.

Then again, it had been a long march--the Green Gate pass was not forgiving--and he was keeping pace well enough on the road’s rough fringe. Not bad for an old man, though he was really breathing for it. Never mind that he was a conspicuous coward, and looked no braver today than Siren had ever imagined him--at least this time he was hurrying toward danger.

“I’m sorry I brought to question your clan’s administration of Kesum,” she spouted off reluctantly, stopping to let the elder statesman catch his breath. The accusation had been merely one dart in a salvo--of several--that had flown in the heated spring sessions. Clan Terodor had long been in charge of the region’s agriculture--but (and the nuance had, previously, been lost on Siren) about half the produce ended up in Bilkta trade routes. A mistake she wasn’t keen to make twice

Deltric gave her back a sneering glare. “A kindly recitation, my lady. Where did you learn it?”

“Damn it, you old cock! I’m trying to make an effort.”

“Sincerest apologies, my lady,” he said dryly. “I’m sure it will be a source of confidence to all the merchants of the land and seas to hear that Archon Siren has begun to ‘try’ to ‘make an effort.’” It was nice to see his sense of humor hadn’t suffered from the long trek.

“Though perhaps,” he continued, raising his register self-importantly, “I shouldn’t be so hard on you, my lady. After all, you’ve finally made it up to me.”

“What are you on about?” she scoffed. She’d been ceding Bilkta monopolies to him for months, after all.

In lieu of an answer, Deltric merely pecked his head forward, and Siren followed the gesture. The dull, staked edges of the town wall were just clawing out over the obscuring fringe of brush.

“Shall we go take back my hamlet?” If he hadn’t still been half-suffocated, Siren had no doubt that he would have been giggling, propping up his preposterous skull and pressing out his meager chest. As it was, he merely put on a nauseous grin, and carried on.

Pompous bastard! Siren sucked breath through her nostrils. She found the smell of burning wood soothing. But…he’s not the enemy, she convinced herself.

At least, not today.

Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

Siren always liked hot words before a fight--and after dealing with Deltric, she felt like she needed some. So she came on heavy:

“It is customary to bow to your archon, whelp.”

“Archon?” cried the mayor, a rather hard-featured young man named Brum, whose rancorous sneer belied an otherwise stately appearance. He had a broad, dark head, capped with short brown curls which were just beginning to pull back from his brow. Besides the folded corners of his stern eyes, his face was smooth. “You’re not an ‘archon.’ Why, you’re little more than a mayor--an insurgent mayor. No,” he scoffed, “I think you do not outrank me, upstart. Rather, you seem to measure up short.”

By the trees, he bickers like an aristocrat. She smiled. Time for a clinic…

“You pathetic cunt. You fucking weedling. I’ve been slaughtering armies since you were still shitting in your swaddling, and I’m no older than you--”

She was cut off by a hard tug on her shoulder. Deltric moved in front of her, smugly shaking his head.

“Peace, my lady. This will all be over in a moment.”

“Hey!” she seethed, but Deltric ignored her, swiftly crossing the empty space toward the gate.

He passed by the bewildered young mayor unceremoniously.

What the hell is he doing? In a flash of mortal instinct, she looked behind herself, expecting…what? Assassins? Thousands of men pulling their blades out, hungry for the chance to finally shove one through the heart of their archon?

She shook her head, and blinked.

No. Just bored men pissing into the ditch, or pushing their pissing friends headlong into its bottom. Men coming back up soaked in soiled mud, wearing bitter grimaces. Men rolling dice and offering mild threats to the games’ victors. Siren knew that things would get a lot less mild in the weeks to come.

She looked back at Deltric--she couldn’t see his face, and it was difficult to make out clearly what he was saying. He nodded, in turn, at each of the other highfalutin people standing behind the mayor. Elders, no doubt, who had fought beside Deltric’s forebears, whose forebears had fought beside their forebears. As he passed them, not a soldier round the gate raised an arm--they hardly so much as blinked at Deltirc’s incursion. He made a truncated sweep of a march before them--examining them. Then he turned, and Siren saw his pleased, arrogant expression.

“The men look in good order, Panur,” shouted Deltric. One of the aldermen bowed, his eyes closed and reverent. The young mayor, at this point, looked fairly bewildered. Siren could sympathize--she didn’t know what to make of the proceedings, either. But (and maybe it was just the army behind her) she didn’t look as stupid as him in the meantime

“Three-hundred and forty-three,” Panur replied, his throaty voice carried on the wind… “sir.”

“I say--'' started Mayor Brum self-importantly. But he couldn’t achieve that effortless self-importance which Deltric of the Terodor practically effused.

“You might just keep it to yourself,” snapped the latter, coming back out of the gate with a mean laugh, “nobody’s listening anymore.” One of the other aldermen nodded and several spear bearers came to escort the mayor away. Siren couldn’t hide an impressed frown.

“Where’d you find that milk sucker, anyway?” she called out to the Terodorians. The mass of them looked irately back at her.

“Not among elves!” one spat from within the crowd. Siren recoiled, but bit her tongue as Deltric approached with a heavy frown.

“I thought it would be clear, my lady,” he said, barely above a whisper, “that they’re not here for you. They’re here for me.”

Siren chewed her cheeks. And she managed to answer him only barely more audibly: “Of course. Three-hundred and (what was it?) forty-three against an army of two-thousand? That would be unusually brave indeed, for Terodorians.”

“That’s not what I meant--”

“It’s unfortunate you’re so competent, Deltirc, because you have a habit of embarrassing me.” She’d wanted to say that for some time.

“It was never my intention,” he said evenly. But he leaned his bulbous head back, as if getting ready to peck at Siren’s eyes.

She sighed. “The town’s yours, obviously.”

“The trees bless your boundless grace, my lady.”

“I’ll bet,” she hummed. “Over three-hundred men, though…what have you been up to, Deltric?”

“Preparing, my lady--very patiently.”

“Really?” Siren guffawed. “Because as I recall, it was just a few months ago you were pushing to declare vassalage under Burgisnor..”

Perhaps it was a subject unwise to broach, but Deltric merely snickered, waving the accusation away. “I don’t recall ever making that position, my lady. Anyway, I much prefer it this way.”

She turned, grinding her teeth to stop them chattering off more insults. She felt… unsatisfied. Theoretically, things couldn’t have been going much better. Somehow, it still stung like defeat.

She watched those troops who’d come crawling out from the privy trenches, recalling with cool vividity the plains of war-torn mud, their gouged scars. Fallen men writhing, crawling desperately in a noxious quagmire which even this unsavory, roadside ditch would find perverse. Mud which carried all the plagues of the world--and occasionally some new ones.

No one was getting killed in dice games yet, either. But that was little consolation. Siren knew how a paltry sum could compel someone to murder. She’d arbitrated their punishments, dispensed the sentences, and taken her place at the head of the hanging rope .

Too few women by a whole, Siren thought humorlessly. Not that Noriac women didn’t kill each other--they just didn’t gamble.

Condur came up through the middle of the crowded ranks, commanding a wide perimeter of precious elbow room. “What’s this?” he barked at Siren.

“Victory,” she spat, coming up to filially grab his arm. “Doesn’t it taste awful? We’ll set up camp in the flats. Tomorrow, we march through Andulun.”

“How fortunate for us,” he replied, his stony face belying a dripping sarcasm. “And how about them?” he nodded toward the assembled town guard.

“Levees of Clan Terodor, apparently,” Siren moaned.

“So they’re coming with us?”

“I don’t know,” she answered thoughtfully. “I haven’t decided.”

Five minutes with Vallan of the Burgisfel was well over four too many. He’d been going on about country feasts, those favorite haunts of clan leaders, and offering his exhaustive analysis of the last few summers’ worth. Clanless Siren had, predictably, never taken much interest in the country feasts. And, despite an extensive effort which he’d put toward it, Vallan had done little to change her mind.

“Didn’t you hear me, my lady?” he tittered. “Nodrun shared the Sondhum Day’s dance with Lady Bulturu…” He offered a moment for Siren to comprehend.

She didn’t care to, and probably never would. “Damn your fucking feasts, Vallan!” She slammed her head back into the bearskins which covered her feathered bed. “I’m in no mood. I was shamed today.”

“Yes,” he said, gingerly setting down his wine cup on a narrow, wooden table. “I was just explaining to you how Deltric managed it.”

“I don’t care how he managed it, you donkey. I care how I manage it.”

“I’m sure you’ll get your way. Deltric is a coward, after all, and you are a warrior.”

“Well, that means an awful lot coming from you, Vallan,” she sneered. “I’m thinking of just leaving him here while we head to the city. I’d hate to see what else he’s got up his sleeves.”

“By her branches, are you mad? No, you must take him, now. Unless you’d rather be crushing revolts--who knows how deeply his roots have dug in? Give him what he wants, and earn his firmer allegiance.”

“Allegiance? Deltric? His allegiance is to gold.”

“Then be the most profitable option. You can’t afford to lose him. I was just explaining--”

“What are you telling me this for, anyway,” she snapped. “With him in charge of Burgisnor, you stand to gain precious little from this escapade."

Vallan waved that away with a flash of contempt. “Burgisnor, pah! Trifling plunder at best. Not that I doubt Master Deltric will squeeze a considerable sum from it. He can have Burgisnor,” he shrugged. “Hell, he might already have it.”

“You’re shrugging off the mother city?” Siren asked, disdainfully doubtful.

“There are such greater prizes in the world, my lady, than these forest hovels. You have never been to Gothesgal, have you?”

“Gothesgal!” she groaned. “Always Gothesgal. I’ve slain a dozen of their vanguards. They’re too cowardly to even meet us in the field, yet everyone fears them like…bogeymen!” she huffed and grunted in irritation. “Or fucking arbor wolves.”

“Have you heard of the Endless War, my lady?” A smile crept up the edges of his black mustache. “It’s fought to the south…far in the south, out the southern lip of the Sea of Gales, to the sea which is called ‘Balturk’ by the Gothes. The forest there is even thicker than ours--chokingly so--and spilling over with fierce creatures and strange maladies. Creatures more fearsome than arbor wolves. Dragons, even.”

“You’re fucking mad if you think I’ll believe that.”

“Okay, maybe there aren’t dragons--I don’t know. But I have it on good authority that the forest there is particularly…insalubrious.”

“Am I supposed to fear them for fighting against trees and beasts?”

Vallan shrugged. “Yes. As well as orcs, and elves, and the armies of Shu kings, Kairite and Arasgalite mercenaries, and the locals.”

“Sounds intermittent, not endless.”

“Perhaps so. Still, every season for the last lifetime has seen one or two campaigns--and usually closer to a dozen. Small enough armies, but always fighting. Looting the rich Balturk Coast, raiding their Galite adversaries. Fifty years, at least. Any city which can keep up that momentum must be powerful indeed.”

“What’s your point?” she asked cautiously.

“You have ambition, my lady?”

Siren rolled her eyes. Not that I have much choice in the matter, but…

“Yes,” she answered (to her conscience, honestly). “I have ambition.”

“There you have it,” he said, clapping his hand together. “I share that ambition. Well, I’d like to share that ambition. You know…forever--”

“Vallan, please.” She hid her smile with a raised hand, slowly shaking her head. Something about the mundane practice of it tickled her today. Perhaps it was the distraction it offered from a more capable councilor.

“You’ll have to forgive me, my lady. I know I’m three years your senior--what will the gossips whisper? Only I fear that my chances are running slim.”

“Your chances have never been slim, Vallan,” she assured him, “always none.”

He grinned. “Perhaps so, my lady.” He studied her with discomfiting, thirsty eyes. “Perhaps so.” He turned to leave, but doubled back dramatically. “You won’t forget me, will you?” he suddenly begged, his voice dreamy. “As you soar to highest heights, you won’t drop me too far down?” He grinned with mischief.

“I couldn’t be so lucky,” she grunted, and shoved him through the tent flaps. On the other side, a contingent of Hollows rattled in the cold breeze. She heard Vallan snickering as he sauntered off, his calm voice singing as it slowly drowned out in the night.

She came back to her bed and collapsed over it, staring at the lamplight dancing on the canvas roof.

Ambition, she pondered. How far would I go? She hadn’t thought about that much, forever more concerned with how far the goddess might push her. But she had to admit that she liked being applauded, liked being celebrated, and liked being listened to (at least, she liked the idea of being listened to).

Isn’t that enough? Or do I need to make myself queen…

But these were inappropriate thoughts. First, take Burgisnor. That’s all she really had to worry about. If she couldn’t even manage that, what did her ambition--indeed, the goddess’ ambition--amount to?

Take Burgisnor. War--in fact, that was something she didn’t have to worry about at all. A condition as comfortable to Siren as her bearskin blankets and feathered cushions. She lulled herself to sleep with thoughts of war, and dreamt of bloody victory.