Chapter 6

The words came as a cruel herald to me—

my father was dead. Tears welled unbidden in my eyes as I turned sharply away from Raymon, unwilling to let him witness the raw agony coursing through me.

My step faltered, nearly betraying my resolve, but instinctively, my hand grasped a rough-hewn pole that upheld the canvas roof. In that trembling instant, a quiet determination stirred within me. Surely, I must have known all along that fate had chosen me for this terrible duty. I am his heir, after all.

"I am in charge," I said. It was more of a silent vow to myself than a command.

Raymon moved closer, his tone gentle but riddled with condescension as he began to speak. "Justine, do not worry, I understand how you must feel," he murmured, his words intended to comfort, to pacify a frightened child rather than acknowledge the newly rightful heir before him. "I will lead the men in your stead. What would the clergy say if a woman led men? I am your cousin, after all."

But the fire in my eyes blazed with a clarity that could not be dimmed. With a swift turn, I fixed him with a stare that brooked no argument. "I am the Duchess of Serraquista, the rightful heir, and this is my army," I declared, each syllable resonating with unyielding authority. My voice, firm and resolute, silenced his murmuring reassurances.

The oppressive tension that had gripped the tent since I laid it out clearly for Raymon seemed to pause, suspended in the heavy air, until I broke it with a single command. "Gather the council," I ordered, my tone leaving no room for debate.

Raymon hesitated, then ventured, "They should be meeting soon… Perhaps you should rest, my duchess."

Rest, I said.

The word felt as foreign as comfort in that moment of raw, searing grief. Before he could press further, I cut him off sharply. "There is no time for rest, I must speak to the men immediately."

With a sigh heavy with resignation, Raymon turned and departed briskly, leaving me alone amid the quiet stirrings of those who now looked to me for guidance. The barony of Barcelona was bound in duty and fealty to the Duchy of Saraqustah. It had long been my domain. In my heart, I knew that the mantle of command was mine alone to bear—not as a delegated charge, but as an undeniable birthright.

No sooner had my words faded than the heavy flaps of the tent's entrance were thrown aside to admit my late father's trusted councilmen. First came Sir Donavan, the master of arms, his gaze as steely as the blade he once wielded in my father's name, his pointed mustache twitching.

Next followed Sir Luke of Ibalin, the once-proud spymaster, whose measured steps belied the sorrow etched upon his face. He was an Italian Arab—a rarity, all things considered.

Then, a frail figure emerged—Sir David, the chancellor, whose every motion spoke of long years spent in loyal service. A haggard cough plagued him, a sign of the consumption that clung to his weary frame. He wore only a heavy jacket over simple clothes, evidence that he must have dragged himself from his sickbed to be here.

As my eyes searched for the final member of the circle, I could not help but demand, "And where is Sir Ellen, the master of ships?"

Before I could finish, Sir Luke interrupted, his voice hushed and heavy with regret as he pulled out a handkerchief to cover his mouth, casually shifting away from the sickly Sir David. "My duchess, Sir Ellen died of consumption three days ago."

I remember that day as if it were etched in the very marrow of my bones—a day when sorrow and fury intermingled with the bitter tang of defeat. The news of Sir Ellen's death—our master of ships claimed by consumption—fell upon us like a final, crushing blow. I stood amid the council, utterly shocked, as the plague that had ravaged our countryside for eight long years was recalled again in anguished whispers: children suffocating in their sleep, taken by an illness that spared no one, and a land choked by the despair of endless suffering.

Between his ragged coughs, Sir David, our chancellor, began to speak hauntingly of the blockade that had strangled trade with the Catholic Church and our other allies. His voice trembled as he described how the Umayyads had seized most of Lower Spain, advancing through the heartland with a speed and ferocity unseen before—all mounted on swift steeds. The military master, his tone grim and precise, added that our foes were not ordinary horsemen but fierce African warriors trained in the art of archery from horseback, their accuracy honed to deadly perfection. Reports of their assault described them moving like a wave across the countryside, all clad in black. Because of their relentless momentum, they had stripped away the military forces of our neighboring allies one by one before they could mobilize. We alone remained, our refuge carved into the impassable mountains, yet our stronghold lay bare, unprotected once the enemy breached these rugged passes.

"Stop," I commanded. "What happened to my father?"

At that moment, I saw the sadness in Sir David's eyes. He could not meet my gaze. Instead, he walked toward the table with the map of Spain and pointed to a path just outside our encampment.

"We received reports that their supply line was using Rickfork's Pass to maintain their army. Due to the speed and intensity of their assault, we knew they needed those supplies, especially since your father convinced the neighboring rulers to stockpile all resources within their fortifications, making pillaging difficult. He planned to ambush their supply lines to buy us time to fortify this encampment—but something went wrong. Their forces doubled back, and your father was defeated. Reports say he was killed in battle."

"Why didn't he just send a detachment?" I demanded. "Why did he go himself? Surely one of you could have spoken sense into him!"

Sir David took his time, allowing me to vent my frustration, before replying solemnly. "Morale was, and still is, low, my duchess. I believe the late Duke played his best hand to ensure there were no deserters—that his troops would fight hard, knowing their liege lord fought beside them."

I was reluctant to accept his words, but there was nothing to be done now.

"I see…"

A fresh wave of emotion surged through me—anger, sorrow, and a desperate, choking grief that nearly robbed me of my voice. "How many men remain?" I asked, barely controlling the tremor of despair.

The master of arms answered grimly. "We have 2,500 left, my duchess. The rest lie wounded. We suffered a massive defeat; our men are weary with sorrow and the shock of our lord's passing. Just one day ago, we performed his fire burial."

Then, a chilling scream erupted from the infirmary, cutting through the heavy air of the tent like a dagger. Silence fell—so oppressive it felt as if we were drowning in despair.

That silence was my crucible.

With brutal clarity, I understood that I could no longer allow devastation to claim what remained of my family and our sacred land. It was either triumph or oblivion—a life of power or death under the weight of our actions. My heart ablaze and my resolve crystallized, I stormed out of the council tent and raised my voice until it rang across the muddy encampment.

"My men! My bannermen of Saraqustah—hear me!"

The assembled warriors, their faces streaked with dirt and grief, stirred slowly, drawn by the command in my cry. I paused to let the echo of my words mingle with the rustle of the wind, then continued, my voice steady and fierce, as I recounted to them—and to you,—the terrible truth of our fate:

"As you all know, my father, Duke of Saraqustah, Afentis Orwil, fell in battle, fighting with every last breath for our land. I return to a birthright shattered into tatters, besieged by Islamic invaders and by would-be captors who sought to ransom me away. Yet, by some miracle wrought of discipline and destiny—the discipline of the Orwil dynasty—I stand before you today. I stand as the last of my noble, catholic blood; I stand, mud-caked nearly defeated like each of you, but unbroken in spirit.

Our enemy has beaten away our allies and brought ruin upon our lands. Though our defeat has been crushing, I proclaim that discipline will win this war! The formations of the Orwil dynasty, forged by honor and hard-won valor, will yet prevail! 

Though my master of arms speaks of only 2,500 soldiers, left, and 5,000 of my betrothed stand ready at my side, let it be known: I am not broken! You are not broken. I am filled with righteous fury and unyielding resolve, and those who have defiled our lands shall feel my wrath."

At that moment, the murmurs of despair turned to an uproar of cheers and renewed determination. Amid the cacophony, I later learned that from within a nearby cage—Ruby, once held captive and thought meek—clutched the cold iron bars, his eyes transfixed upon me. In that silent, charged glance, he realized the unassailable truth: I had never been afraid at all. I had been playing him for a fool.

A fool indeed..