One bright morning a year later, she stood at parade rest with the rest of her training squadron in the great quadrangle of Brundt Palace. Warlord Marc had promised to review the troops. As on previous occasions, nobody expected him to actually show, but the commanders mustered the troops for the form of it anyhow.
Seriah found that military life suited her. She loved the training, loved the simplicity of wearing a uniform, so simple and practical after a life of palace frippery. Flying a fighter plane came so naturally to her that people assumed it must have been part of her Tweak.
‘Not bad for a hill country girl’, they’d say as she aced yet another test. She breathed in the early morning air and watched with amusement as Erik the gardener swept the pavement of the quadrangle beside her, never showing with so much as a twitch of an eye that he knew who she used to be. He knew and would never betray her. Like Rickard.
“Attention!”
It felt as though her stomach plummeted to her feet as she realized this meant that Warlord Marc had done the improbable and actually showed up to inspect the troops. Seriah resisted the urge to track her father’s entourage’s progress as they wound their way through the ranks. Slowly, inevitably, the Warlord’s progress brought them to her row.
Her father shuffled by her with nothing more than a brief flick of the eye over her rank patch and continued on, the majority of his little retinue following close behind.
Quentin, however, stopped in front of her and stared. Though she kept her eyes focused respectfully in the middle distance over his shoulder, she could see the cruel smile growing on his face.
“Quentin! Hurry up. I have announcements to make!”
“As the Warlord commands, so must we do,” Quentin’s friend murmured. His gaze bounced anxiously from Quentin to Marc and back again.
“Lieutenant Seriah, is it? We’ll talk in a moment.” Quentin turned smartly on his heel and hurried to catch up to Marc as he made his way to the podium to address the troops.
“As you know,” Marc said as Quentin scurried up to stand beside him instead of in the more usual Seconds position two steps behind, “since the unfortunate deaths of my two daughters, I have been pressed to declare an heir for Brundt.”
An encouraging cheer resounded from a small group of officers gathered in front of the podium. Friends of Quentin, who would undoubtedly benefit from his position of heir almost as much as Quentin himself.
Seriah made herself relax into her parade rest position when the order was given, her mind spinning through various escape scenarios. She wouldn’t have much time after the troops were dismissed, especially if Quentin came directly for her. He might try to call her out of the crowd as soon as the announcement was made.
If that happened, she had no idea how to engineer an escape. The quadrangle, with buildings on all four sides and the large fountain in the middle, provided little cover and few routes out.
The gardeners were long gone. Olwyn was too many rows back to offer much support. The air around her felt like that not so long ago pond water crushing in as she finished examining her non-options.
“Quentin, you have been my Second for many years,” her father was saying. For once he didn’t sound drunk at all.
Seriah forced herself to look attentive. No point in blowing her cover until the last moment possible although there was no hope of escape. She’d go out the soldier she was becoming, even if it meant killing herself with her own boot knife.
Quentin was nodding, a respectful and yet smug smile spreading across his face. Warlord Marc gestured for him to come even closer, opening his arms to welcome him with a hug. A flash of sunlight on steel caught her attention.
“For the death of my daughters, I blame you!” Marc roared as he plunged his long boot knife into Quentin’s left armpit.
Quentin gave one last surprised gasp before crumpling into a heap on the podium. Marc fast-drew his sidearm from his holster and put a single bullet in Quentin’s head, then turned and shot the nearest three of Quentin’s officer friends with deadly accuracy.
“Anyone else claim a deep connection with my former Second?” Warlord Marc asked as the birds resettled on the fountain. A dull murmur of shock passed through the assembled troops.
Silence reigned for several long moments.
“Dismissed!” Marc barked.
The assembled troops snapped to attention. The units started to march off. A med-tech team arrived with stretchers and headed toward the downed officers.
“Leave them!” Marc ordered. “In memory of my wife and daughters, I will leave their bodies to the birds for three days and three nights.”
Seriah didn’t look at Marc or at the corpses as she passed by in her unit. Warlord Marc also gave not even a twitch of recognition when she passed in front of him. Daria was dead. Long live Seriah, she thought to herself with grim satisfaction.
A little later, her commanding officer called her into his office for an interview.
“Lieutenant Seriah,” Captain Jons said, his face settling into an uncharacteristic kindness. “When I saw the former Second speak to you, I planned to warn you against fraternizing with Upper Command. Especially that one. He was not known to possess any admirable intentions towards junior officers. However, that point is now moot. Also, my uncle had a word with me.”
Seriah nodded politely. “Sir, yes Sir.”
“You know my uncle.” Jons let a tiny fraction of a smile creep onto his face.
“Do I, Sir?”
“My Uncle Rickard bade me tell a certain Miss that should Miss need anything at all, he is forever at her service.” Jons’ face regained its usual stern mien as he cleared his throat. “I’m sure you can pass that message on.”
“Sir, yes Sir.”
“Now, as to my other reason for calling you in. You passed your final flight test with good scores. Very good scores indeed. You’ll start missions next week. I expect that you will soon be leading a squad.”
He looked down at his datapad. “A Lieutenant Olwyn has requested to be your gunner if that’s acceptable to you. Good scores there too. I take it you know him?”
“Yes, Sir. He’s my cousin.”
“No romantic attachments there? I don’t like drama in my flight crews.”
Seriah let out a tiny chuckle. “Sir, if I may speak frankly?” She waited for his nod. “The only drama you’ll get from us is when we fight like siblings.”
“Good to know. Dismissed.”
She stood and replaced the heavy wooden barracks office chair, making sure to return it to its original precise location along the wall. Jons was legendary for insisting on tidiness in his office. As she put her hand on the doorknob, Jons called her back.
“One more thing, Lieutenant. Miss should know that she also has my support should she ever require it. All right, now. Get out of my office, soldier!”
For the further adventures of Seriah, read Ran Shaipur. Available on Amazon or here: https://www.tlryder.com/store/Ran-Shaipur-p519760863
