The messenger from the walls found them thus; all torn by emotion. Penthesileia’s lower lip trembling as she averted her eyes, with Gavriil turning away to hide his own shaken expression and the Warlady holding Daegan. The servant-woman was to blink in surprise when she entered, her sense of panic returning almost at once.

  “Milady! News from the walls,” she yelped, a little daunted by the glower that the Warlady directed in her direction.

  “What is it?” Prithia asked releasing Daegan, to wipe at her eyes. Her mask of eternal severity returning with such fury that she might well have been mistaken for a gorgon were it not for the lack of snakes in her mane.

  The servant-woman stammered, “A dark-rider has come up to the gates to negotiate with you, or so he says.”

  Prithia was gone before she had finished speaking. Gone was the softened appearance, in place of the gentle almost grandmotherly woman who could have been mistaken for anyone’s grand-aunt. In place of such pretensions, she now appeared akin to a bull-dog.

  Hurrying thither after her, Daegan was not far behind her. Nor were Gavriil and Penthesileia, the two of them a little slower than she. None could have been blamed as they tore a path through the city towards the north-western facing gates, for lightning bolts.

  So swiftly did Prithia run that a better term for it might well have been gallop. Hardly breathing, and hardly winded by the time she was by the gates, climbing up the tower staircase, she cut such a fine figure that one had only to blink to miss her passage. It was no different from Daegan, and the two chief guards of the Warlady.

  It was all the more remarkable for the fact that Daegan was dressed still in a pink dress, one that had been given over to her some weeks ago by Prithia. Her mane flew as a torch of deepest flame might, across the streets of Dytikástro. Not unlike how it had burnt down centuries ago, during the great wars of Darkness that had but brushed the lands of the Misty-Isle.

  It was not only her horse-tailed hair that flew as a fire over dry bark, but her legs also. She galloped as best she could behind the taller, more robust elder warrior-woman who moved with a grace and dignity that was almost Elvish in its nature.

  Some distance behind her, Gavriil was filled with awe and Penthesileia envy at the grace exuded by Daegan herself. For she appeared as a wild stallion to them then, one that neither were to ever forget the sight of. They were to struggle, all the greater to close the distance between them, both wondering as they strove, at how such a stout lass could run so swiftly.

  When it came time to hurry up the stairs, Daegan was rather slower than when she had cut across the city. People who had stopped to gape at her, looked up and were disappointed to see her slower in the stairs than she had been in the muddy streets of Dytikástro. This was especially widely thought; when they compared her to the leonine Prithia, who had mastered the stairs as easily, as she had mastered all of her foes in days past.

  “Ah sister, it is good to see you hereupon the walls,” Stamatios said with visible relief upon his face, when he saw her reach the summit of the watch-tower to the right of the massive gates of the city. “The messenger has refused to discuss with any, save for yourself.”

  “As is proper,” Prithia retorted sharply, a rebuke was to be found in her tone.

  It was one that her younger brother was well-accustomed to by this time, so that he simply sighed and asked of her, “May I announce you sister?”

  “Nay, I have no need of a herald at this moment,” She snapped waspish, wherefore she turned her darkened gaze upon the black-cloaked figure far beneath her. In a loud voice she called out to him, seeming as a Queen-Regnant at that moment; proud, strong and fierce. She was a lioness, a tigress and an Ogress all at once, or so her people thought with pride. For they loved her, and held her high above any and all of her ancestors, long they spoke to one another, would they remember her strength, her unfailing dedication to them. “Who are you to call Prithia, Warlady of Dytikástro, supreme chieftain of all Amazons of the Misty-Isle and chief-woman of the League of Vyrsaar hither?”

  The messenger was hardly daunted. He simply looked up at her, a hint of disdain to be found somewhere within his cloak, his was a scornful chortle. He laughed for some time at her recitation of her titles, for he cared little for her ways. “Why do you recite titles which you no longer, hold by any right O slattern-queen of Dytikástro?”

  “How dare you!” Gavriil bellowed having reached the summit of the tower in time to hear the heinous insults, of the messenger.

  The other man ignored his chivalrous defence of the Warlady, “The time for you to mount a defence against our superior forces is past; you have but one choice before you.”

  “And what choice is that? Do you truly think I would agree to it, when I have the children of my people, the women and the men and the elders to think? We did not come to this place, plant crops in the fields or build high-walls and begin a new life hereupon the Misty-Island simply to die.” Prithia said proudly, her eyes upraised to the heavens, to the eagles that flew high over head and to the heavens where the suns shone brightly. “We came here to live, to have children and to begin a new life. This is why our ancestors, noble and courageous came to this far-flung distant island from our drab, barbarous stricken land in the south. It is why we have conquered the lands we have. Just as it is also the reason for why we can never and will never surrender. So go I say, go back whither from whence you came and transmit my words to your Dark Laird; the strong arms of Dytikástro shall tear you asunder, so tremble wretch! Tremble in the face of our men’s might and our women’s majesty!”

  Her words were greeted by great cheers and acclamations, by the noble people of Dytikástro. They were the very words they had waited for days for her to utter. Words that personified all that they felt, for their enemies in their entirety.

  The dark messenger from the north studied them. Quite what he saw in them or what he thought of them will never be known for he turned away from them then.

  Some such as Daegan and Gavriil felt proud at that moment also, encouraged and invigorated by the fearless words of the Warlady. Andvari for his own part, having come out to listen to the exchange between messenger and Warlady, ought to have felt pleased. She had rejected his prophecy, of treachery and had shown herself to be a true chieftain to her people, and a true Amazon warrior.

  Yet his eyes lay not upon her, but on the one amused figure upon the walls, the one person who did not cheer, nor rejoice for the same reason as the rest of them. For this one figure, had if for a brief moment an expression of sinister delight that he knew at once, boded ill for them.

  But as in the case of Cassandra of Ilion, he suspected none might believe him. In possession of far greater wits though, the Dwarf was to turn away to begin to see to preparations for what had to be done.

  *****

  Daegan became aware of the Dwarf’s intentions but a few days after, confident once again in victory she was among those who went from food-stall to food-stall. In spite of how she was not the finest of cooks, she was quite happy to aid in the supervision of the feasts that followed.

  There was little food for sale so that she was to pay what she could from them on behalf of Prithia who gave her a small allowance. Keen to care for the meals, she thus ensured that many of the Amazon-warriors were fed for the first time in their lives Caled-recipes and stews.

  Many enjoyed this, others did not yet all were grateful for the care she poured into their meals. Ordinarily it was Otrera who supervised the castle-meals, with this a small holiday in their eyes. They obviously preferred those recipes prepared for them by Otrera.

  The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

  This was how Daegan was trained to run a household, under the sharp-eyed watch of Prithia who in the absence of an attack by the enemy, had decided to take the time to help her in this way. Pleased, and honoured by this attention towards her, this was how she found herself near the fish-market at the exact time that Andvari was in the midst of negotiating with a merchant.

  Curious Daegan stopped where she stood in the market, having just taken several trout that were strung together. The fish-markets were all located near the south-east of the city, where the river lay. Divided into three score stalls, the market had contracted in size due to the influx of refugees and farmers who had flooded into the city, and those who had been armed. The hope being that should it happen, they would take to the sea to ambush the enemy.

  Red-roofed the stalls all bore the great dark bear of the ruling family of Dytikástro, with some of the local houses in this part of the city fairly run-down, in recent days. A fact that worried the Warlady, with her assured concerns for the less fortunate of her city having inspired in her people a profound sense of love. They adored her for caring for them, and defending their city with her own arms.

  When she noticed the Dwarf, Daegan froze. Unsure if she ought to approach him, or withdraw elsewhere to leave him, to see to his own affairs.

  Shaking hands with the local ship-builder, one of the ship-building men she had observed the day before meeting with Prithia. At the time, the balding elderly man had with his six sons been invited to the palace to see about building a ship to cross the seas that separated the Misty-Isle from Gallia.

  The choice of whether to hide or not was however seized and torn from her own hands, or feet as it should be said, when Andvari turned away and set eyes upon her. He stared at her, past the milling crowd that was far more frenzied than in prior days, as all the people of the city had developed in recent days a passion for the fish-markets.

  “Daegan? What are you doing here?” The Sea-Dwarf asked of her, stunned to see her there whereupon he took notice of the fish in her hands. “Oh, shopping.”

  “Aye,” Daegan affirmed uncertainly, motioning with her short chin to the family of ship-builders she asked of him, “Are you commissioning a vessel?”

  “Aye,” Andvari told her at once, with a backwards glance. When she went to ask him another question, he pulled her by the arm and into one of the enclosed alleys near the markets. It was once they were amidst the shadows that he whispered to her, “I have paid for two boats to be built, one for us, and another for Cormac and the rest when they return.”

  The mention of Cormac made Daegan’s stomach flop and flip and dance, as it always did in recent days. A part of her had lost some of her hope that he might arrive soon, as there had been no mention of him since they had left Margdvarrovs. But this part of her was but a small part, the greater part of her soul retained its stubborn determination to continue believing in him.

  This part of her often reminded her when she began to doubt that, he had Meallán with him and that the old man had the grit of Herakles. He had spent fifteen years searching for his nephew, when he had been separated by the thief Lyr who was prince Lyr’s namesake.

  It was with a start that she realized she did not know how he had paid for the boats, this sudden thought made her stare hard at him. “How did you pay for the boats, Andvari? I did not know you had secreted any coins from your village.”

  “I did not.”

  “You did not steal them did you?” She hissed.

  “Of course not,” Said Andvari disgusted by the implication against him, “I paid for it with coin given to me by the same person, who gave you, yours.”

  “What? Why would she commission these boats through you?” Daegan queried confused by such a sudden decision.

  Andvari shrugged helplessly, all that he said was, “Be prepared to flee.”

  “What? Why?”

  “I know only that when I consulted with Prithia, she shared my concerns about the city and proposed that we be prepared to leave to-night.”

  “Bah, you are always speaking of dooms and death, we have once again hope and to flee from it would be disgraceful! You yourself said that Prithia impressed you the other day, and shared in the toast to her glory, yet now wish to flee?” Daegan snapped at him, unable to believe her ears.

  She brushed past him, to hurry thither back to the castle from whence she had descended from to shop for foods for the kitchens. Infuriated she ignored his gaze upon her back, as she did his cry after her.

  “You know I speak true Daegan! Think of Cormac! Cormac, believed me.”

  *****

  Doom came not in the day, but rather in the night or rather two nights later. Enjoying one last meal together, they supped with Fergus attending to the music necessary for the feast. Singing of Ilion, he sang of the final night Priam had enjoyed with what remained of his brood after the deaths of his courageous sons Hector and Paris. With the last part he sang truly what haunted Daegan the most.

  “Dorian tents were wont to be seen in a happier hour.

  With bright steel we assailed it,

  and where high flooring of tower

  Offered a joint that yielded.”

  The song was one he sang with his atypical deep yet soulful voice; such was the magnificence of his song that all those present were to shed tears. Those men, who did not weep, did however toast and drink deeply to the once great glory of the ancient golden city.

  Dogs howled and barked madly as the song drew to an end, frightening some of the servants. Exasperated when one of her dogs made to bite one of the warriors, the canine might ordinarily have otherwise tolerated attention from, Prithia ordered him into the kennels. “I will not have the hounds comport themselves, so poorly to-night.”

  This was not the only group of animals that appeared gripped by madness. For the eagles and hawks that the Amazons adored so very much, as falconry was a passion those of the Misty-Isle had developed in recent years, since the Norléanians arrived.

  Most threw themselves from the roost on the top floor of the keep, out into the open air. Gripped by a strange panic all of them flew north-west, circling around the enemy encampment much to the bewilderment of Prithia’s many falconers.

  In place of her pet falcons, an entire flock of crows and ravens had taken roost upon the roof of the local temples. It was noted by a great many people of the city that, most had roosted upon the statues of Mars and Pluton respectively. There was such a great flock of them that the once white statues were decorated in such a dusky colour that not a speck of white could be discerned.

  These facts hardly dimmed the brightness of the mood in the city, and the confidence of certain locals. There were those who had their doubts, who whispered that the flight of the birds and the great replacement of falcons with crows and ravens was a dire sign.

  “The Warlady ought to tread lightly,” Said the head papás of Pluton worriedly to his wife as they looked out from their home next to the temple, upon the cloud of ravens.

  This was not the only dark omen, there were countless others such as the statue of Venus and that of Namaia-Roma splitting open.

  This was thus the atmosphere of the city, with the people grumbling about these minor inconveniences with nary any awareness of what was to come. The same could be said for those within the palace, where Prithia was in the midst of a feast.

  It was there before her newly restored banquet hall, she delivered a brief toast to the people, notably those in attendance. Those seated with her were the ship-builders, the wounded, and the families of the dead, the fishermen and many others.

  There were not many of their ranks out and about so late, but those that were, were all assembled in her hall, and seated at the tables there with the finest food and drink Prithia could assemble. The feast was not a spectacularly grand one, by reason of the fact that the siege remained an ever-present threat to their safety.

  “What victories we have won, what triumphs we have won is entirely due to you,” Prithia mixed a little humour with her next words, “The blame for the triumphs to come, shall surely be entirely laid before your doors.”

  Most laughed, even if in some cases it was more from politeness.

  It was in this spirit that they thus ignored the signs that were all around them, as key guards were to depart from the mead-hall. They were not alone, as there were also servants who slipped away from the palace, with the goal to hurry thither to the gates.

  Most did not notice this change in behaviour, or absence on the part of these men and women. Andvari was the first to notice and the first to disappear from the hall of the three of them. Suspicious, he followed them to the gate, it was thereby the large gates that he saw them climb the towers and release the chain that kept the city shielded from the buffeting might of the Dark Laird.

  Hurrying back hither the way he had come, he was to slip back into the mead-hall to report to Daegan and Fergus to follow him, “Follow me, there is something I must show you.”

  “What? But what of the feast Andvari?” Daegan objected at once, reluctant to leave the feasts, where she was enjoying herself.

  It was Fergus who seeing the urgency with which the Dwarf spoke to the lass next to him, rose to his feet, “He is right Daegan, I have a strange feeling, not unlike that from the night of my parents’ murder.”

  Staring at him in shock, Daegan nodded her head a little, allowing herself to be pulled towards one of the nearby doorways that led to a nearby hallway. They froze, just as Stamatios returned to the table, having left through the door that led to the kitchens. Upon his return thereat Prithia’s side, he raised his goblet with an air of triumph, with a gesture akin to that of his elder sister.

  “To my sister! The finest of commanders our people have ever had,” He toasted cheerily, long shadows cast by the tall figure that was the finest of Dytikástro’s scouts. When he had drained his goblet, he picked up a nearby pitcher to refill his sister’s goblet. “Allow me the honour of refilling your own goblet sister.”

  “But of course,” Prithia agreed at once raising her goblet.

  She did not know that she had made death her court, and that the raising of her goblet was the last act she was to do.

  Where others of her line had perished blade upheld and in the field of battle, Prithia was to perish thereupon the banquet table, just as the principal doors to the hall burst open.

  In the distance, the crows and ravens atop the statues of the lairds of war and death respectively crowed, ere they took flight.

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