premise that the defense of Morainia against outside aggressors was spies and traitors excepted in the interests of all Morainians, it was an organized program of mutual aid.
All who could help did. All who were willing, which meant almost everyone, and all who were able, which really meant everyone over the age of nine to even the oldest grandparents, were being mobilized. It was how Morainia pretty much functioned under the normal circumstances of daily living, and this was all the more heightened by the Oosarian threat.
Morainians were a peace loving people. But they didn’t like being pushed around.
There were jobs for all abilities. Feeding those in frontline positions, cleaning and sharpening weapons, relieving troops and scouts on a shift basis. Most people over the age of fifteen had some experience of active patrol service, occasionally repelling spies in the foothills where the Bald River Falls cascaded into the Lumbiana.
On rare occasions there had been skirmishes along these frontlines. The few older men and women still living, who had been young when Jakerbald became King and Walterbald was a boy, remembered the last full-scale defense of the kingdom.
Gwynmerelda had trained in Morainian defense exercises, but never the real thing. She retrieved her armor from the storehouse the very morning that Stormy and The Fool had taken to the air with The Gricklegrack.
The armor lay on the bed now as she wiggled herself into deer hide breeches, which she would normally not be seen dead in. She pulled the hip straps tight, and picked up the breastplate. As she stood adjusting the straps there was a knock at the door.
“Enter.”
“It’s only me,” said Geraldo. He came in, a smile chasing the wearylines across his faithful-comrade face. “You look—“
“I look like shit,” the Queen groaned. She pulled her hair back and tied it behind her head. That made her look even less the glamorous Queen that Morainians knew her as. She did, however, look imposing.
Geraldo bowed. “I bring you something for the battle.” From behind his back he presented a hatchet.
Gwynmerelda studied it. “It was hers, wasn’t it?”
Geraldo nodded.
It was a light, sleek, hatchet, specifically designed to be wielded by a woman. There was no jewel-encrusted hilt, but the metalwork was of exceptional quality, and there was an inscription on the handle:
To Ursula, with all my heart. Walterbald. xx
“But this belongs to Stormy,” protested Gwynmerelda.
“Stormy is with the Bird by now. There is no greater weapon than The Gricklegrack to protect the Princess. This hatchet is a queen’s hatchet and you are the Queen.”
Gwynmerelda fought back a tear and held still. And then the muscles in her cheeks quivered, as she relented and the tears came.
Geraldo half moved towards her, she towards him. It was awkward. She still had the hatchet in her hand. He was tentative, but they managed a hug of sorts. Geraldo felt the mountains of the breastplate digging uncomfortably into his chest, but the Queen hung on with all her might.
“Morainia has never given up before, dear Queen, and there is no reason that we should do so now.”
“But some of us will die?”
“Probably. But we have no choice.”
“I know,” she winced. “I just can’t bear the thought of it all.”
Geraldo kissed Gwynmerelda on the forehead.
“You are a true queen,” he said.
Before the Queen could reply there was a new knock on the door. Jakerbald and Gigi burst into the room.
“Bad news,” said the former King, “from The Witch in the Ditch. And this .” He gave some small pieces of paper to Geraldo.
“It’s Walterbald,” said Gigi. “He’s been kingnapped from the northlands.”
Gwynmerelda said nothing. She gave a faint shudder and pulled herself up to her full height, as if to meet whatever came.
“It seems that
All who could help did. All who were willing, which meant almost everyone, and all who were able, which really meant everyone over the age of nine to even the oldest grandparents, were being mobilized. It was how Morainia pretty much functioned under the normal circumstances of daily living, and this was all the more heightened by the Oosarian threat.
Morainians were a peace loving people. But they didn’t like being pushed around.
There were jobs for all abilities. Feeding those in frontline positions, cleaning and sharpening weapons, relieving troops and scouts on a shift basis. Most people over the age of fifteen had some experience of active patrol service, occasionally repelling spies in the foothills where the Bald River Falls cascaded into the Lumbiana.
On rare occasions there had been skirmishes along these frontlines. The few older men and women still living, who had been young when Jakerbald became King and Walterbald was a boy, remembered the last full-scale defense of the kingdom.
Gwynmerelda had trained in Morainian defense exercises, but never the real thing. She retrieved her armor from the storehouse the very morning that Stormy and The Fool had taken to the air with The Gricklegrack.
The armor lay on the bed now as she wiggled herself into deer hide breeches, which she would normally not be seen dead in. She pulled the hip straps tight, and picked up the breastplate. As she stood adjusting the straps there was a knock at the door.
“Enter.”
“It’s only me,” said Geraldo. He came in, a smile chasing the wearylines across his faithful-comrade face. “You look—“
“I look like shit,” the Queen groaned. She pulled her hair back and tied it behind her head. That made her look even less the glamorous Queen that Morainians knew her as. She did, however, look imposing.
Geraldo bowed. “I bring you something for the battle.” From behind his back he presented a hatchet.
Gwynmerelda studied it. “It was hers, wasn’t it?”
Geraldo nodded.
It was a light, sleek, hatchet, specifically designed to be wielded by a woman. There was no jewel-encrusted hilt, but the metalwork was of exceptional quality, and there was an inscription on the handle:
To Ursula, with all my heart. Walterbald. xx
“But this belongs to Stormy,” protested Gwynmerelda.
“Stormy is with the Bird by now. There is no greater weapon than The Gricklegrack to protect the Princess. This hatchet is a queen’s hatchet and you are the Queen.”
Gwynmerelda fought back a tear and held still. And then the muscles in her cheeks quivered, as she relented and the tears came.
Geraldo half moved towards her, she towards him. It was awkward. She still had the hatchet in her hand. He was tentative, but they managed a hug of sorts. Geraldo felt the mountains of the breastplate digging uncomfortably into his chest, but the Queen hung on with all her might.
“Morainia has never given up before, dear Queen, and there is no reason that we should do so now.”
“But some of us will die?”
“Probably. But we have no choice.”
“I know,” she winced. “I just can’t bear the thought of it all.”
Geraldo kissed Gwynmerelda on the forehead.
“You are a true queen,” he said.
Before the Queen could reply there was a new knock on the door. Jakerbald and Gigi burst into the room.
“Bad news,” said the former King, “from The Witch in the Ditch. And this .” He gave some small pieces of paper to Geraldo.
“It’s Walterbald,” said Gigi. “He’s been kingnapped from the northlands.”
Gwynmerelda said nothing. She gave a faint shudder and pulled herself up to her full height, as if to meet whatever came.
“It seems that
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