Fallow Fields
by Steve Sawicki

She moved impatiently about the tent; table to pole, bench to chair, and back again. Lingering for a moment at the weapons rack she gauged the sharpness of the blades, then turned and wandered back to the table. The table consisted of nothing more than a sheet of canvas stretched taut and braced in the middle. Documents and maps detailing strategies in this latest conflict of a long campaign lay almost haphazardly about its surface. A week of rain had finally let up, leaving an occasional, sighing wind which playfully grabbed at the flaps to the tent. It came again and coarse fabric rubbed together like the sound of wet leather. The woman's head snapped up, her eyes wide on the opening, one hand coming to rest on the table as if for balance.  But the sound remained nothing more than the wind and the woman turned to begin pacing anew.

Four men, alike in their weariness and dedication, if in nothing else, shifted quietly from foot to foot where they stood as a group to one side of the tent. Guarded glances passed frequently between them.

"Soon, my lady," one finally spoke; The General, Andor Garromain, the oldest and a large beefy man in his fifties with a full grey beard which nearly covered his entire face.

The woman moved unhearing as outside, the sound of the wind gave way to the muted pounding of hooves, clinking armor, and the quiet mutter of tired men maintaining regimen.

The dull, familiar ring of metal tipped shafts slapping steel in salute presaged the limping appearance of a tall man in well-worn armor. He was Baron DeRuxoi, overlord of one of the large southern provinces and one of the few Barons still living and loyal to the throne. The weariness in the slumping shoulders of this once proud man gave truth to the fact that his loyalty went far beyond words.

The woman snorted, quickly waving off his silent obeisance with a curt wave of her hand. The One True Queen, Melanthe Usolde, would spare no time on protocol.

"It's confirmed, my lady," DeRuxoi spoke with a slow pronunciation of each word. "The last of them lie waiting in Wexworth."

Usolde remained silent, now unmoving except for the slight pinching of her unfocused eyes and the hand which fluttered at her side. The Baron's eyes shot to the four men and scanned faces for a clue.

"And?" General Garromain spoke, raising his brows and nodding for DeRuxoi to continue.

"General?" the Baron's face reflected his confusion.

"Their leaders, man! Are they all there as well?"

"Wexworth is surrounded," DeRuxoi's eyes, wide and small, shot to the woman. "If they were there before, they are there still."

"Home," Usolde finally spoke, barely above a whisper, yet every man heard her words.  DeRuxoi shifted about uncomfortably, feeling like his armor had just become home to a large number of fleas. Still, the Queen's eyes remained downcast and for that he was grateful. The other four men; General Andor Garromain, leader of the army; Garron Gedron, Chamberlain to the throne; Ettoine Abolgard, Duke of the states in which they campaigned and the Queen's own physician, Foxton Dimponette, bit their lips and chewed moustache hairs as one.

"....No word, yet, my Lady," the Physician Dimponette, prodded by the General, stepped forward. "The road is long and the weather, as we know, uncertain this time of year." Dimponette stood, shifting from foot to foot his eyes moving from the Queen to the Chamberlain Gedron and back. He silently prayed for Gedron's support and encouragement, for the Chamberlain to enter the game they had played so many times these past months.

For his part, Gedron stood silent, but no less nervous. He was a man, as was the Physician, more suited to court and the sanity of fashion and rumor than that of the field, noise and blood. Still, where the Queen roamed he, like his long time companion Dimponette, would follow.

A spark of anger slowly burned to an ember, reflected in the deep blue of Usolde's gaze. "I want word, when it comes, immediately."

"Aye, my Lady, you will be the first to know," General Garromain broke his paralysis, nodding a dismissal to the Baron who bowed from the tent. His leaving went unnoticed by Usolde.

"Rest now, we have a hard day on the morrow," Dimponette said, he and Gedron the Chamberlain moving in tandem to approach her side.

"Aye, my Lady," General Garromain lifted his helmet from the table then studied the map laid out upon it. "Hard indeed. Wexworth is sturdy...and well defended."

"Still," Duke Abolgard spoke for the first time, "victory is almost assured. The rabble is ill armed for a siege and will be forced to battle on our terms."

The Physician Dimponette, trailed by the Chamberlain Gedron, assisted the now slumping Usolde past a hanging partition and deeper into the tent. The three of them wrote a telling picture of depression and exhaustion.

"Will this be the last?" she asked, clutching at Dimponette's arm.

The frail man winced from the strength of her grip, eyed the ornate sword hung on the weapons rack and said, "There seems little doubt."

The General and the Duke waited until the Queen had disappeared behind the partition then made their way from the tent. They walked slowly, away from the tent and through the ranks of sleeping men huddled together in all fashions to stay warm. Staying dry was near impossible.

"Tomorrow should begin with better weather," Abolgard said after they had walked a while longer.

"I hope your wishes come true, for her sake."

The Duke shook his head. "Not wishes, the wind is from the southeast, it should clear."

Garromain paused, studying the flapping standards a short distance away. "I don't think it will matter much what the weather brings.  We'll march regardless."

Abolgard stared at the General for a moment and realized his exhaustion precluded any response but a brief nod and wave. With wind scudded clouds racing overhead the men made their separate ways to their own tents and what little sleep and comfort they could find.

True to the Duke's words, the morning broke clear and cold. Men struggled to shake off the torpor of chilled bones and overused muscles while Commanders moved among them, speaking softly to some and cursing harshly at others as the situation demanded. General Garromain paused in his advance to the Queen's tent, his retainer behind him, holding tight to the reigns of an armored steed. Duke Abolgard stood a dozen feet away, speaking low orders to a group of men. He caught Garromain's stare and, nodding to the men, moved to join him.

"Again, last night," the General said in a low voiced whisper.

The Duke nodded, his mouth pinching in concern.

"She had but little sleep and she insists on leading."

"The sword?"

"Yes. She will sharpen it to nothing at this rate."

"Perhaps," Abolgard gestured them onward to the Queen's tent, "it soothes her as none of us can."

"I am afraid there is nothing short of death that can provide what she truly needs."

Abolgard's head jerked in shock and his step faltered.

"Be calm, old friend. I speak no treason, only what has been in all our thoughts recently. My mind and heart are wholly hers to command."

Duke Abolgard resumed his steps, a thoughtful expression on his face.  As they neared the flapped entrance of the tent he reached out, tightly squeezing the General's shoulder. "I have never questioned your mind...or heart, only our fate."

A sentry announced their arrival and the tent flap opened; A tired-eyed Chamberlain Gedron holding the heavy canvas to the side for Queen Usolde's exit.

She stood for a moment in the opening, as true a Queen as ever stood for portrait in field armor; worn, but polished mail covering both arms from shoulder to mid hand, padded overshirt dotted with steel studs from neck to where it overlapped a heavy, leather skirt. A jewel-hilted greatsword hung at her left side, held by a large leather belt. A pair of daggers hung opposite.

"It is an appropriate day for death," she said, peering up at the grey, cloud laden sky.

As if on cue, the Physician Dimponette, exited the tent, gazing at the General and the Duke with tired and sorrow laden eyes.

"If any day ever is, my Lady," Abolgard agreed. "The troops are ready and await your command."

Usolde nodded, once. "Let it then begin. And let it be the end."

With little hesitation, the word passed from General Garromain and Commanders began urging their men forward. The troops moved sluggishly through the ankle deep muck. Boots quickly grew to four times their weight in the clinging mire and the columns soon lost any semblance of organized movement.

Queen Usolde, impatient with the progress, rode among them, urging speed with promises and curses. But fourteen months of chasing rebels across the countryside and fighting skirmishes and battles in places usually not of their own choosing had taken their toll. Neither promises of the end nor their leader's threats could move the troops any faster. Realizing this, Usolde left off her curses, taking heart that her mere presence among them seemed to eke out at least an illusion of quicker pace.

A bit behind, General Garromain and Duke Abolgard followed her progress, concerned at her insistence to maintain a position at the front and worried also at the amount of strength she had left. While they had no indication she was not up to the coming day, her nightly obsession with the sharpening of her sword left them more doubtful than ever at her sanity. Still, she remained firmly their leader and the only option they had to a future which most reflected the past.

By mid-morning the squat towers of Wexworth came into view. Less than a mile away, the town occupied the center of acres of farmland. What had once shown the tender green shoots of corn now gave rise to a growing army of angry men.

Cries of exultation, pickets left by Baron DeRuxoi, rose in greeting as Queen Usolde's forces flowed into the valley. Having chased the rebels into the town, the Baron's men had numbers enough to keep them within, but not enough to do much else than stand and wait.

Wave after wave of men flowed over the hill, entering the soon-to-be battlefield. Horses, which had struggled with pulling catapults and assault towers seemed to take heart from the noise, as well as the downward slope, and increased their pace. For four hours the population of the valley grew until it contained more individuals than at any time in the previous three hundred years. No camps were set and early arrivals spent time cleaning equipment, eating what little food remained and joining in groups to taunt those within the sturdy walls.

Inside the keep, little joy no doubt was found in the near festive occasion without.

General Garromain sat astride his horse, directing men and equipment to preassigned positions. Duke Abolgard sat next to him, one eye on his friend's actions and the other on the Queen. For her part, Usolde rode among the men, stopping to speak with commanders and commoners alike, giving encouragement and passing on what words of hope she could.

"She plans to lead the assault," Abolgard said.

"Yes," Garromain paused to curse a driver as the man turned his team of four too sharply, nearly overturning a catapult. "I have tried time and time again, as we all have to dissuade her. Her mind is set and there appears nothing we can do."

"God send the man's soul to Hell," Abolgard spat.

Garromain turned from his duty and fixed tired eyes on the Duke.  "After patricide, treason and sacrilege, I fear God has left His work in our hands."

Abolgard turned and spat once more into the mud. "If only she would do the same."

All afternoon, troops trudged to position, overseen by Commanders under General Garromain's orders until all now stood in readiness.

Garromain still sat astride his horse, studying the placement of men and equipment and keeping an eye on the sky. As the day had worn on, the morning's clarity had given way until, now, thick clouds blocked the setting sun, leaving the night's coming advance to a darkening little blacker than the day. Watch fires began to spring up about the fields as the men made final preparations. For the entire duration, Usolde had maintained her movement among them. A number of times she refused the urgings of her Physician and of the Chamberlain Gedron to rest. Finally she commanded their silence and they despairingly obeyed, dropping back to follow her at a respectful distance. While both were charged with her wellbeing, neither could think of a single thing to do to make the job any less impossible than it had already become. If anything, the Queen's condition affected them both more than it did her and the pair lately moved through life like twin and witless dullards.

Now and finally, with the valley full of her troops, Usolde began a slow ride, making her way to the small hilltop where General Garromain and Duke Abolgard waited. Dimponette the Physician and Gedron the Chamberlain staggered after her, praying that tonight she would find sleep so they could as well.

"We are fully in position, my Lady." Garromain spoke as she neared his side.

Usolde turned her horse to face the town. The red glare of torches lit the parapets, blocked by the occasional silhouette of a rebel walking sentry. How peaceful it looked, she thought, how beautiful. She studied the surrounding fields, dotted with her own fires. How like flowers they appear, surrounding a centerpiece on some great ebony table.

"Give the command," she said.

Garromain gestured to a waiting footman who scurried over with a lit torch. Grasping the rough wood, the General raised the flaming brand over his head. Turning to the left he waved it in an arc until the same signal was returned. He then repeated the gesture to his right.  Before that signal came back the first twang of releasing catapults began to fill the air. Cheers erupted from the surrounding force as the first stone made impact with the side of the walled town.

All night long the catapults sang, twanging tenor to the dull bass of boulder meeting wall. Sappers dug steadily, continuing work begun days ago and inching forward a tunnel which began fifty yards from the wall's base and which, by morning, could play a critical role in the assault. The sound of longbows occasionally cut across the night as some archer caught sight of movement on the high wall. Few, if any, arrows found their mark.

General Garromain sat on the hill, Duke Abolgard by his side, watching Queen Usolde ride toward them once more as she made her way back from one of her ever more frequent excursions through the troops.

"She'll not have the energy to lead," Abolgard said, quietly, so only Garromain would hear.

"When have you ever know her not to have the energy. The woman is tireless, bewitched by revenge and fed by tragedy."

Usolde urged her horse up the side of the hill and wheeled it about until she came abreast of the General.

"It goes well, if not fast enough," she said.

"A bit of fire would end this quickly, my lady," the Garromain replied.

Usolde scowled. "No. I'll do no more damage to the people of Wexworth than I need to. They are not the ones we wish to punish."

"Then it will take time. Wexworth's walls are thick and well kept."

"Time," Usolde seemed to shrink in upon her self so that the ever present Dimponette and Gedron crabbed closer. "Time is all I seem to have left."

Pounding hoofs from behind drew their attention. A rider in the Queen's colors fast approached. A deep frown creased the General Garromain's face and he shot a look at Abolgard who could only shrug and shake his head.

The rider's horse stumbled as it made it's way to the top of the hill and it took all of the rider's skill to stay seated. Exhaustion had wrapped both in a haze of sweat and clumsiness.

Usolde brightened as the rider slipped from the saddle, dropping to one knee at the side of her horse.

"Rise, good messenger, and speak your piece."

The messenger retained his kneeling position and spoke with his head bowed. "My lady, Baron Umphry of Habershire regrets that he can send no support as the Northern tribes have begun their raidings once again."

Usolde bore the news without reaction. "Yes, yes, it's doubtful we'll need the Baron's help at this juncture. Give me your true message."

"My lady?" The messenger looked up in confusion as Garromain and Abolgard traded dark glances.

"The King," Usolde yelled, anger darkening her eyes and twisting her lips. "And my son."

Fear gripped the messenger's face and he darted glances at all surrounding the Queen. The General returned a warning glare while the Baron fiercely shook his head. The Physician Dimponette and the Chamberlain Gedron, being in the Queen's sight, could do nothing more than look worried and wring their hands.

"Uh," the messenger struggled with interpreting the signals he'd been given. "No news my lady. The King is silent and the Prince is...away."

Usolde glared at the messenger groveling in the mud at her feet.

Garromain cleared his throat, breaking the awkward silence. "As is to be expected, your Majesty."

Usolde turned her glare to the General.

"Surely, your husband knows how important this campaign is to you and wishes not to disturb your thoughts with trifling news of home."

"Perhaps," Usolde's face lost some of its rage. "But what of my son?" she said, her eyes growing narrow in a probing look.

"Ah, well," Garromain's words stumbled in his mouth. His mind raced.

"He may be a prince, but he is still young," Duke Abolgard said. "And young men think little of passing time and absent parents."

Dimponette fiercely shook his head in agreement, absurdly thinking of his own five children and of how surely they missed him now. Gedron, being single and childless held his shaky ground and willed his hands to stillness.

"There is a certain falseness to your words, although I cannot detect their standing," Usolde finally said, her face retaining a level of anger near dangerous proportions.

"But," she said, as the anger suddenly faded, "you may be right. And we are not that long away that going back will be all the quicker."

"Aye, my Lady," General Garromain said, signalling the messenger to be gone and swiftly.

The man needed no urging and before the Queen could think to pose another question the messenger leapt upon his horse and sped down the hill. Another story to add to the growing legend of Usolde's madness.

All through the night, catapults sang, beating a steady rhythm against Wexworth's sturdy walls. The pounding took its toll as chip by chip, piece by piece, the wall crumbled. Fewer and fewer figures appeared among the parapets--men refusing to take the risk.

As the pale sun of morning struggled to bring brightness to a still black sky, the sappers exited their tunnel. A pair of ropes trailed behind them and the men paused for little rest before pulling a large four by four block of stone from the tunnel behind them. With great haste they untied their knots and re-entered the tunnel. A second group of men rushed forward, levering the block onto a cart then cursed the cart's pair of oxen toward one of the larger catapults.  Usolde, ever the One True Queen took it all in with expressionless eyes.

General Garromain watched her face, keeping a steady stream of messengers flowing between the hilltop and the catapults as he attempted accuracy but settled for volume and luck.

A small break in the clouds let through the first true ray of sunlight.  The Queen's men took heart at this sign and redoubled their efforts. A ragged cheer broke loose as a noticeable sag appeared in the main Wexworth wall. A moment later, at the end of the sapper's tunnel, the men came into view once more, towing their treasure of hardened granite to freedom. They untied their rope then waited as their leader signalled the General in a questioning wave. After glancing at Usolde's hardened visage he signalled back. Without question the sappers dove back into the tunnel.

Larger chunks of wall began to break loose under the constant assault.  Garromain studied the progress of the first block of granite the sappers had removed. Six men struggled to shift the stone from cart to sling as the catapult chief shouted frantic curses of caution. The banded ash bowed alarmingly under the weight and men quickly stepped back. Garromain imagined he could hear the sound of splintering wood and waited for the chaos which would follow the catapult's destruction.  But the wood held and the catapulters inched slowly back to position.

"Milady," Garromain said, his voice hesitant with concern. "In a moment all will be in readiness."

Usolde remained silent, watching the progress of the sappers' second block. "On my command," she finally said, wheeling her horse about and racing from the hilltop.

Duke Abolgard spared a single look of despair toward the General before following.

The Physician Dimponette and the Chamberlain Gedron stood rooted in exhausted indecision.

"After her," Garromain said, weariness adding harshness to his voice.  "If she falls you have no use." He watched the two men spur their horses and follow after the now distant Queen. "And if you take a blow meant for her, you have served a better use than up to now," he added quietly to their retreating backs.

General Garromain sat alone now and studied the troops arrayed below him. He kept one eye on the Queen's progress, scowling as she reigned her horse to a stop directly in front of the foremost group of infantry. Garromain watched Abolgard come to a stop at her side and noted what appeared to be a short but heated exchange. Usolde held her position and Garromain wondered that Abolgard would even try to change her mind.

The troops below the hill milled about, taking final position. An air of anticipation competed with a rising breeze from the north. A distant motion caught the Garromain's eye, the Duke's rising arm, hand open and fingers spread. Garromain repeated the gesture, waiting for its twin from the two catapults containing the sapper's stones. After a brief moment it came. Garromain raised his other arm in similar fashion and watched as Abolgard relayed the news to the Queen. Her nod led to Abolgard dropping his arm. Garromain relayed the order and watched as the heavy boom arms gained momentum, releasing their cargos.

All eyes followed the two blocks as they traversed the sky, watching as the stones tumbled toward their destination. The first block hit with a solid thump, raising a cloud of dust and shaking the entire length of wall. The second block hit just below the first and a low rumbling followed the impact. The wall stood, vibrating a moment before a section abruptly gave way, dropping down to fill the space created by the sappers removed stones. Garromain's eyes briefly darted to the tunnel opening as a cloud of dirt and dust shot from the hole.  A moment later the sappers followed, tumbling and coughing their way from the collapsing structure.

Shouted orders drew Garromain's attention to the advancing front, led by the Queen, as they rushed to race up the tumbled stones and through the wall.

Garromain, after a moment's hesitation, spurred his horse forward. The Queen's orders be damned, he would not remain behind.

Garromain urged his horse past surging troops, racing by the still forms of men killed by arrows and the twitching masses of those soon to join them. A piece of wall tumbled loose to his right and Garromain wondered whether nature or rebel troops had started its descent.  Nature, he hoped, although the effect on men in its path remained the same.

Clearing the wall, Garromain reigned in, his eyes searching the surrounding area for his Queen. A rebel soldier darted forward, his face covered with blood from a scalp wound and his sword descending in a wide arc toward the General. Garromain jerked his horse's reigns left and back, letting the animal dance sideways and meeting the rebel's sword with his own in a deflecting blow. He added the force of the rebel's blade to his, swinging the weapon back and around to catch the man just behind the head, where neck met shoulder. The blade sank into flesh and split bone. Garromain let his attacker's momentum jerk the blade free and he spared no attention as the man stumbled forward, dead before hitting the ground.

Destruction lay around him, houses afire as the rebels tried to cover their retreat. Behind him, men continued to pour into the city, dealing death to any who raised arms in resistance. Battle echoed from all quarters.

Garromain spurred his horse north down a wide lane, deeper into the city; toward the sound of the fiercest fighting, and, he was sure, the Queen.

He urged his horse over fallen bodies, swinging his sword at the occasional rebel who dared come close. Not many tried and those who did never had time to regret their decision.

The bodies grew thicker, in some places three or four deep. Garromain spotted the Duke's colors mixed in with the rebel's tattered grey and wondered how many more men would die before battle's end. As long as the Queen were not among them it would only be one less than too many.

The lane broke out upon a large square and Garromain's horse reared back at the motion and noise that confronted it. Men danced in all directions, bloody blades whirling, their faces warped in a frenzy of survival. Toward the far end of the square a cluster of horsemen fought a defensive battle against a large rebel force. Garromain watched a horse fall, gutted by a pike, it's rider tumbling into a mass of rebels, who fell on him, leaving little more than a puddle of blood in their wake. A momentary gap in the swirling mass brought the Queen to Garromain's eyes. She remained mounted, her sword a blur as she slashed at the rebel line.

Without a moment's thought Garromain spurred his horse to join her.

The rebel band broke under Garromain's charge allowing those who had been surrounded to take advantage and move to the offensive. With a wild cry Usolde struck a rebel in the neck nearly taking the man's head off. A moment later she had her sword buried in another rebel's chest.  Garromain had all he could do to keep up with her killing count as she steadily moved forward, pushing the rebels back.

In fewer than five minutes thirty rebels fell and the remaining band quickly broke in all directions heading for what they hoped was safety.  Usolde's glazed eyes followed them and she moved to spur her horse in chase. Garromain reached out, grabbing the bridle, holding the horse where it stood. Usolde raised her sword and only Abolgard's intervention of grabbing her arm kept the swing from it's intended target--Garromain's chest.

The frenzy faded a bit from Usolde's face. "To the last man, General.  To the last man."

"Aye, my Lady, to the last man," Garromain said. "But you need not be in on every stroke."

"The General speaks true, my Lady," Duke Abolgard said, finally releasing the woman's arm. "The day is won. Rest. Take safety. The troops will run the rabble down. They've no where else to go."

"I want him," Usolde said, jerking her still wild eyes from the General to the Duke.

Garromain averted his gaze from the Queen's face. He could not find words in answer.

"And you shall have him," Abolgard said. "The men have their orders.  They are good men."

Usolde sat silent, trembling with decreasing fury until she finally seemed to fall in upon herself. "Very well. Until the morning."

Garromain glanced at the men surrounding them, searching for the Physician and the Chamberlain. He found them together, against a far wall. The Chamberlain Gedron lay face up in the dirt, a large splotch of red covering his tunic. The Physician Dimponette knelt over him trying to stem the red bubbles which burst forth from the man's chest yet still darting frequent glances toward his Queen. Garromain watched Dimponette's head drop as the Chamberlain gave one last shudder then lay still. Dismounting, Garromain led his horse to the weeping Dimponette and lay a hand on the man's shoulder.

"Come," Garromain said. "Time enough for sorrow when this is over. Now is time for those still left alive."

Dimponette maintained his position, his shoulders heaving in great sobs. Garromain tightened his grip and pulled the man to his feet, twisting so they were face to face.

"The Queen needs you," he said, shaking the man until the sobs quieted.  "Go. Find a place of safety and see that she is whole."

Dimponette stumbled away, heading toward the Duke and the Queen.  Garromain stood for a moment gazing down at the Chamberlain. Letting go of his horse's reigns he bent down. "Come, old friend," he said, lifting the Chamberlain Gedron in his arms. "I shall find you a place to rest more fit than this street full of dead traitors."

The day passed slowly, the sound of battle rising and falling as groups of rebels were flushed from hiding places and cut down.  Before darkness fell the Duke ordered the cordon of men surrounding the city doubled to prevent any chance of escape. Less than two hundred rebels were guessed to still survive -- their leader among them. Garromain sat slumped against a wall by Wexworth's main gate, watching the bodies of rebel and ally pass through to the outside where they were sorted into piles like so much cord wood. He had not slept and a grittiness filled his eyes. It took a moment for him to notice the soldier standing before him. With a weary nod he acknowledged the man's presence.

"Duke Abolgard asks you to join him in the square," the man said.

"He's been caught," Garromain rose to his feet.

"I don't know, sir, I was just told to find you and give you the message."

The General nodded and watched the man trudge away between the lines of everflowing bodies. Stretching his back, Garromain winced at the sharp pain in his right shoulder; an old wound that ached with perseverance in the cold and wet. Ignoring the lingering pain he thought better of retrieving his horse and moved off toward the square and the waiting Duke.

Garromain walked past shops with their keepers still inside, casting wary glances through broken windows and ripped out doors. With a few repairs and the passage of a few days, all would be, for them, business as usual. For the men whose blood stained the cobblestones of the street, tomorrow would never come.

A crowd of soldiers barred the way into the square, one line facing out and a second facing in. Word passed between them and the lines parted.  Garromain studied similar positions at all the exits and nodded grimly at the line of armed men stationed about the entire interior. A group of officers, surrounding Duke Abolgard, stood off to one side of the square's center. Making his way toward them, Garromain noted the tired looks and the crusted blood on nearly every face.

"You have him?" Garromain said, upon reaching Abolgard's side.

"Yes," the Duke said. "Fool was trying to establish one final ambush."

"The Queen?" Garromain cast a quick glance about the square, knowing he'd not seen her upon his entrance but looking just the same.

"Word's been sent," Abolgard said, shifting from foot to foot. "She slept but little last night."

"The sword?"

The Duke nodded, a touch of fear in his eyes.

"Bring him out."

"We should wait for the Queen."

"She'll want him out when she gets here."

The Duke passed quick orders to a commander who trotted off to gather a group of men. A moment later they returned dragging the rebel leader in their midst; a dozen armed men for one pitiful wretch in chains, covered in dirt and filth.

The men hauled the prisoner to the waiting General and Duke and, at a gesture, left him slumped between them.

Garromain studied the still muscular body beneath the grime and shook his head. "Boy, you should have thought. And waited."

The prisoner gave no reply.

Motion at the far end of the square preceded the Queen's arrival.  Surrounded by a group of hand picked soldiers, men sworn to her reign with vow and flesh, Usolde strode through the line blocking the lane.  She wore her armor and the great sword representing her throne swung belted at her waist. She seemed unmoved by the destruction surrounding her. While the men guarding her kept their eyes darting from side to side, she held her gaze forward. A large group of men followed her, blocked by the lane guards and clustering there for a view. Other men began to appear at windows and on rooftops.

General Garromain's eyes shifted constantly from the prisoner at his side to the Queen's face. The steady, yet somehow unseeing gaze, the dark, half circles beneath each eye, the lines that had only so recently been etched into her skin concerned him. Her full, pale lips seemed to tremble, or was she speaking? Garromain let his gaze shift slightly to the men at her side. If she spoke none answered. But perhaps, Garromain thought, the words were for herself.

The sound of steel against steel shook the General's mind from its reverie. His sword slid soundlessly halfway from its scabbard before he realized it was only the prisoner shifting beside him and clanking his chains.

"Soon enough, my boy," Garromain said. "Soon enough."

Again, the prisoner held his tongue.

Upon reaching the Duke, the General and their charge, the Queen's escort peeled back, until she stood just a few feet away.

With desperate eyes Usolde studied the prisoner's face.

"This is he?" she said.

"Yes, my lady," Garromain answered, keeping his voice flat.

"He is undamaged?"

"Aye," Abolgard said. "one man died and four were wounded by the effort, but he is whole."

Throughout the exchange, the prisoner remained still, face downcast, eyes fixed to the rubble before him.

Usolde studied him for a long moment, letting her eyes roam over his shackled form.

"Release him," she said, keeping her eyes locked to the rebel leader.

"My lady?" Shock made Garromain's voice quiver.

"Remove his irons," Usolde said, her tone sharp and commanding.  Neither the Duke nor the General moved to obey. "Shall I do it myself?"

Abolgard turned to one of the men behind him, holding out his hand.  Slowly he knelt at the prisoner's side, unlocking the shackles from the man's ankles and wrists. He let the chains fall and dropped the key among them.

"Rise," Usolde said, speaking to the prisoner.

Garromain grabbed the man's arm and yanked him to his feet when it seemed he would not obey even the simplest of requests.

Usolde took a step forward and Garromain dropped his hand to his sword hilt.

"What is your name," Usolde said quietly.

For the first time the prisoner's eyes rose from the dirt. He fixed the Queen with a searching gaze.

Garromain held his breath and from the corner of his eye saw Abolgard's face flush pale.

"Madam," the prisoner finally spoke. "If you know it not now, then surely it never mattered."

Usolde seemed to take the prisoner's words hard and Garromain saw the red-eyed Physician Dimponette rush to a position nearly at her side.  At the General's warning look, the man held off from speaking or touching the Queen.

"Give him a sword," Usolde finally said, turning and gesturing the men behind her to move away. When she had cleared a space twenty paces wide she turned her attention on the trio of men once more. The prisoner stood barehanded.

"Duke?" the Queen's voice barely covered the distance between them.

"Your highness forgive me," Abolgard stumbled in reply. "I cannot."

"General?" the Queen's voice remained quiet and firm.

"My Lady," Garromain bowed his head. "He will not have my sword, nor will any man here honor that request."

Usolde stood in thought for a moment then slowly crossed the distance between them. Garromain stood his ground unable to come to grips with the sudden turn of events.

"Will you give me your sword?" Usolde said, her hand held out before her.

"My lady?" Garromain said, his voice reflecting the unsurety of his thoughts.

"I swear I will not give it to him. My word to God."

Silently, Garromain slipped his sword from its scabbard, noting the flecks of blood which still clung to the blade.

Nodding her head, and with a slight smile twitching her lips, the Queen accepted the blade. Turning she paced four steps away before turning once again. Switching the General's sword to her other hand, she drew her own blade and before anyone could respond, flung it toward the prisoner.

Cries of alarm ran through the watching men as the rebel leader barely reacted in time to catch the sword before it struck him.

Grasping the sword's hilt, the prisoner studied the jewels set there.  "Madam," he said. "The stories of your behavior preceded you. Yet still I hoped they were not true."

Usolde shifted Garromain's blade to her right hand. "When you are ready," she said to the prisoner.

The prisoner studied the blade he held then shifted his gaze to the Queen before finally sweeping his eyes at the gathered men filling and surrounding the Square. "Madam, I am outnumbered one hundred to one."

"It is my wish," Usolde's voice rang out through the square, "that this be a contest of honor. The winner shall have full right to leave the city without retribution."

The Queen swept her gaze around the Square, meeting eyes whenever possible until she faced the General.

"Understood?"

The prisoner caught the Garromain's slight nod, followed by the Duke's.

"Madam," the prisoner said, "you give me the honor of finishing what should never have begun." The prisoner stared at the sword he held in his hand, his knuckles white where he gripped the jeweled hilt. "And with the same tool."

"Come," Usolde beckoned with her free hand. "Let us to battle and let the victor savor what words he may."

"As you wish," the prisoner said, stepping slowly toward the Queen.

Garromain watched his advance then turned his gaze to the Queen's face.  She looked so weary there seemed but little doubt as to the outcome.  And he had been forced to grant free leave for the victor to pass the city gates. Well, pass the gates he would a free man, but he'd be a dead man before he took any step further than that. This Garromain swore to himself.

Usolde stood, her feet braced slightly apart, Garromain's sword held loosely in her right hand. Her eyes kept pace with the rebel leader's approach. Less than five feet away he halted. His eyes searched her face, studying the new worn lines, studying the tightness to her mouth, studying the lack of recognition in her eyes -- and the touch of wildness.

"Madam," he said softly, "You truly have gone mad."

Usolde stood as if unhearing and the rebel leader gave a short shrug, quickly turning the motion into a sweeping cut with the sword. Usolde raised her own, unfamiliar, weapon just in time to deflect the blade, though it passed just inches before her face.

Garromain edged closer to Abolgard, his eyes locked to the battle before him. Usolde met each of the prisoner's blows with her own blade.  Sometimes just deflecting the blow enough to avoid injury.

"She fights defensively," Abolgard said.

"Yes, I don't know if she has the strength to do but otherwise." Garromain's hand strayed to grip his sword and he groped for a moment before remembering where it had gone.

The rebel leader gripped the hilt of the sword with both hands sweeping the blade up from the ground diagonally. The Queen felt the impact in her shoulders as she held her sword point down and met the advancing steel then pushed it away. Using momentum, the rebel leader spun around letting the sword lead him and bringing it back in a cross cut. This time Usolde's deflection failed and the blade drew blood from her left arm, just below the shoulder.

Garromain watched the prisoner's eyes glaze over with battle lust. The sight of blood only brought his attack to an even higher frenzy.  Slowly, ever so slowly, the Queen fell back. The clanging of blades filled the courtyard and with each strike Usolde seemed to weaken.

The rebel leader drew his sword up over his head and using both hands and all his might brought it down hard, aiming for the Queen's head.  Usolde met the blow squarely though the force of it drove her to her knees.

The General grimaced as the Queen dropped, part of his mind noticing a change in pitch as blade met blade. The end drew near and the Queen had yet to make an offensive stroke.

A smile crept onto the rebel leader's face as he let the sword swing to his left in preparation for a backhand swing that would either disarm the old woman or kill her outright. With all the energy that remained to him he brought the blade flashing forward.

Usolde knelt in the bloody mud of the square, watching the advancing blade. She righted her own sword and drove the point into the mud before and to her right. The rebel leader's sword met the unyielding steel and with a sick snapping sound broke.

Surprise flashed on the rebel leader's face. His arms tingled from the contact then almost flew away from the lack of weight. The surprise grew as Usolde drew the tip of her own sword from the mud and slashed the edge across his mid section. The jeweled hilt of the rebel leader's blade spun from suddenly slack fingers. His mouth opened in a soundless expression of shock. Blood fled his abdomen, soaking his pants and mingling with that which already lay on the Square's ground.  Slowly he collapsed to his knees then backwards.

Silence greeted his fall. Confusion gripped men prepared to witness one event witnessing its exact opposite. The General and the Duke broke their own trances and rushed to the Queen.

The prisoner lay on his back, his legs folded awkwardly under him, both hands trying to halt the flow of blood from his body. His eyes searched the sky until he finally had the Queen in sight. He raised a single hand toward her and opened his mouth to speak.

Garromain and Abolgard stared at the prisoner, fearful of what would slip from the man's lips.

The prisoner's tongue shuddered and the first sound began to issue.

Before a coherent word could work its way free, the Queen drove her sword into the prisoner's chest. She let it rest there for a moment before pulling it free. Wiping it clean, she handed it back to the General.

"We have been away from home too long," Usolde said, staring down at the body. "And empty though it now is, it is still home. Tomorrow, at first light, we return."

The Duke gestured to a pair of men who then approached and bent to lift the body.

"No," the One True Queen said. "Nothing should be done with nothing.  He ceased to exist the moment he killed his father."

Without another look Usolde turned and, surrounded by a squad of men, left the square.

General Garromain turned his eyes from the prisoner, searching the ground until a glimmer of reflected light caught his eye. Stooping he retrieved the broken blade from the mud and examined it.

"Perhaps time will heal what Dimponette cannot," Abolgard said, his eyes following the Queen's retreat.

Garromain held the blade for a moment before handing it to the Duke.

Abolgard took the piece of steel and studied it for a long moment. The shaft glittered, in spots free of mud, from the constant honing the Queen had put it through. Hefting the blade in his hands a puzzled look crept onto the Duke's face. He ran his hand over the shaft then held it crosswise to the light. The blade thinned dramatically where it had attached to the hilt.

"Perhaps the healing has already begun," Garromain said, turning from Abolgard and moving off in the same direction as the Queen.

Duke Abolgard studied the blade a moment longer then tossed it to the mud at the side of the body of the man who at one time had been many things; son, rebel leader, prisoner and Prince.

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