Questing Sucks (Book 1) (48 page)

Alan shrugged. “I’m not angry with the princess. I only wish I could remember what I did in the report.”

Saerina spat at Alan, her saliva landing just short of his feet. “You are a pig, and an animal, and had I not seen the good buried under all that vile decay, well, I’d kill you where you stand.”

Patrick shook his head at the violent threat. “I don’t get it. Compared to what Sehn does, then this should, ah, I mean…Granted, Alan was way out of line, but aren’t you taking his actions a bit more personally than you should be?”

Saerina swatted away Saerith’s hand, and stepped forward to face Alan. Before anyone could stop her she grabbed at him, holding his cheek in her hands, pulling the taller man down to his knees so that he could meet her eyes. Patrick signaled all in the room to remain seated, and to not intervene.

The two stared at each other for seconds that felt like hours. Alan’s eyes were relaxed, casual, and filled with mirth. Saerina’s, on the other hand, lit with such intensity that Patrick wondered if at that moment she could shed tears of lava.

Saerith looked back and forth between Patrick and his sister, clearly as hesitant to react as Patrick was. “Sister,” he said, reaching out a hand. “Just calm down now.”

Saerina ignored him, and continued to evaluate Alan. She tilted his head sideways, and rotated hers along with it. Alan wore a sheepish grin through all of it, until finally, she released him. “Very well,” she said. “I’ll allow it.”

“Allow what?” Alan asked. Patrick didn’t know either, but he wasn’t about to question Saerina’s motives.

Saerina returned to the round table and took a seat, ignoring the confused stares she received from the Kingdom officials. Alan joined her, grinning as he spitefully stood next to her. Patrick worried for the man—if he continued to antagonize the princess, then he just might lose an eye, if not something worse.

“So,” Alan said. “Is this your plan?” He pointed at the various maps displaying tactical information, troop positions, and expected casualties. Patrick was proud of how much he’d accomplished on such short notice.

“Yes, commander Marshall. I’ll give you the basic rundown.”

Patrick attempted to resume where they’d left off. Before another word could part his lips, they were sealed shut as the back of Alan’s hand slapped across his face. Pain spread over his cheeks, and for a moment, disoriented, he blinked to regain his vision.

Seven guards stationed around the room charged forward, drawing weapons and pointing them at Alan. Even Saerina seemed surprised. She stood from her chair, as did many of the other men and women of the war council.

“What is the meaning of this?” Duuhard said. “Commander Marshall, you just assaulted our prince.”

Patrick held out his hand. “Everyone relax. Why did you hit me, Alan?”

“Why? Because I thought I taught you better than this.”

“Meaning?”

Alan walked around the table, picking up papers, maps, and formation outlines. He put them all together in a neat stack, and then grinned, before ripping them to pieces. Again the guards closed in on him. This time, even Patrick leapt at him, but it was too late. Hours of work, gone in an instant.

“Alan!” Patrick roared. “I should have your head for this.”

Alan lowered his shoulders and stuck out his neck. “Well, here it is. Take it, then.” The woman, Rebecca, watched the exchange with what appeared to be restrained impatience. Sweat dripped from her forehead, and she balled her hands tightly into fists.

Patrick looked at the man, and felt a sick curdling in his stomach. Why would Alan do this? “You may have just cost us the war, Alan.”

“Maybe,” he agreed. “But you certainly would have. Everyone listen up. There’s a new battle plan, one made by your ever so sexy Alan Marshall. Rebecca, shall I strip for them?”

The first lieutenant slapped him in the back of the head. “Just get on with it, before the prince has our heads.”

“Very well, very well.” Alan stood on his toes, bringing himself to his full height, over six feet. “Take notes everyone, because school is now in session.”

Chapter 46: Nice to meet you. I’m Alan.

 

Patrick ordered the torches lit. Night had fallen on Hahl. The apprehension in the room tripled, and understandably so. For one, sunrise was less than eight hours away, and for two, the Kingdom forces had no plan of action thanks to the puzzling behavior of Alan Marshall.

The middle aged commander grew animated over the last few minutes. There was an ever-present energy to him now, a confidence almost never seen from the man. It was then, Patrick realized, that Alan Marshall became a different being when he planned for war. He glowed with the light of a man doing the one thing in the world he was good at.

At least I hope he is,
Patrick thought.
If not, we’ll have died for nothing.

Patrick wanted to strangle the man. Who did he think he was, discarding hours of precious work? It would be one thing if he insisted on drawing a new plan, but at the very least kept Patrick’s for backup. But no, he’d shredded their only plan of action with an army practically at their doorsteps. It was beyond infuriating.

Seehara was the only one present—aside from Saerina—that didn’t seem to be disturbed in the slightest. The old treasurer sat patiently, jotting down costs, estimations, and loans required, all with a hand that shook from age rather than terror. commander Duuhard, on the other hand, trembled, wearing a sickly expression of worry.

“How long are you going to make us wait?” Duuhard asked. “Gods, man, there’s little time.”

Alan was pacing back and forth with a delighted grin on his face. He swung his left finger in the air like a music composer. He bounced off the heels of his feet as he turned around and paced in the other direction.

Patrick didn’t disturb him. He was the only chance they had now. That is, if he wasn’t insane, or stricken with some other mental illness. It had been years since Patrick had last seen the man command. Was he always like this? Patrick struggled to remember, it had been so long ago.

“Yes,” Alan muttered. “Yes, yes.”

Commander Duuhard sighed. “He’s been repeating himself for an hour now. Perhaps we should draw a new set of plans and have the man hung?”

Patrick wanted to agree with the commander, but shook his head thinking better of it. “Just let him be. My father once told me he has no equal. I’ll have to bet my life that my father was an honest man.”

“Or not a boastful one,” Saerith added. Ten of the lower sergeants present gasped at the prince’s lack of respect and tone. It was a brazen statement to make from one prince to another, and of course, the men weren’t yet aware of princes' growing disregard for formality.

By the time Alan stopped pacing, full dark had settled upon Hahl, thick clouds obscuring the moonlight. Patrick poured himself another goblet of water and prayed to Helena.

Please,
he thought.
Bless us with safety and victory.

The room quieted when Alan spoke. “Arrogant,” he said. “Very, very arrogant.”

“Arrogant?” Duuhard asked. “Who, or what, is arrogant?”

Alan licked his lips. “Why, the enemy army of course, what else? Fifteen thousand men. That’s the number that march on Hahl. Naughty, naughty, naughty!”

Patrick leaned forward, pushing aside his goblet of water and folding his hands on the table. “Why are they arrogant, Alan?”

“Because, this is but a fraction of their army, why attack with so few?”

“It’s a common tactic to—”

“Common tactic my arse!” Alan cut him off. “These men mean business. They’re not here to steal or ask for our surrender, or even to conquer and claim us. They want us dead. So, why not march through us with the full weight of their combined might? Two reasons and two reasons alone. One, they want to test us. Two, they want to test themselves. They’re treating us as an experiment, plain and simple.”

Seehara, keeping her eyes focused on the documents below her fingers, spoke without turning her head. “Makes sense, dear. But what does that mean for us?”

Patrick didn’t think it was possible, but somehow Alan’s grin widened. “It means, my love, we need to show them something.”

Patrick inhaled, calming himself. “Please do not speak so cryptically, Alan. What is it we need to show them?”

“Something they know, but don’t realize. Something they understand, but deny. We need to show these men that they can die.”

“Die?”

“Yes, die. We need to show that we can, and will, kill them.”

Patrick sat up straighter, considering commander Marshall’s words. “Isn’t that obvious? Tomorrow, when they march on us, we’ll be showing them plenty of that, I’m sure.”

Alan shook his head. “No, not tomorrow.”

“When, then?”

“Tonight.”

Silence fell upon the room, but only for a moment. The door to the war-room opened, admitting a young runner with a bag around his shoulder. “Night check is clear, sir.”

Patrick nodded. “Good job, check again. I want scouts reporting in every fifteen minutes.”

It was rare for enemies to attack at night. When attacking something one could not see, accidents were commonplace. Still, in the event the approaching army was crazy enough—and Patrick didn’t doubt they were—it wouldn’t be unheard of for them to risk it, and in such a case, Patrick wanted to be ready for it.

The moment the runner departed from the room, the silence resumed. What more could be expected after such ominous words? Alan stood at attention, awaiting any questions. Patrick was the first to address him. “Why would we attack them first? They outnumber us two to one.”

“I agree,” Duuhard said. “I do not know what has happened to you during your stay in Steadrow-Pillar, Alan, but you are quite mad if you think to send our forces into the open against them.”

“No,” Alan said. “Not your forces. His.” He pointed to Saerith.

Prince Saerith, who at the time observed Alan with what appeared to be detached fascination, removed his hands from under his chin and sat up straighter. “Excuse me?”

“The Elves,” Alan continued. “You’ve brought, what, a thousand give or take, yes? I want you to use them tonight, but not all of them. Two hundred should be enough. I want you to hit them while they sleep. Elves are fast, graceful, and capable of dealing death, moving swiftly. Harass them, make them loathe to again close their eyes…demoralize them for me. This is what I want.”

Patrick couldn’t control his burning outrage. He slammed his hands against the table and stood up from his seat. “Are you mad? You speak of using guerilla tactics against an organized enemy. That is among the most foolish—”

“Quiet!” Alan shouted. “These are Elves we’re speaking about, boy.”

“Do not call me a boy, Alan. I am your prince.” Patrick fingered the sword resting in its sheath by his side. Never had he so wanted to run a man through.

Alan showed no indication he was remorseful for his blatant disrespect. If anything, he seemed amused by it. He maintained his grin, all the while casually stretching his arms. “You do not understand the enemy’s mindset. When we show them they can die, it will hurt their morale, and it will place fear in their hearts even before the battle has begun.”

“And you do?” Saerina asked. She too had stood to her feet, and Patrick was grateful to have the Elven princess taking his side in matters. No one, surely not even Alan Marshall, would argue with her logic. When the woman spoke, opinion was turned into fact, and fact was turned into reality.

“I’ve had a look at this man,” Saerina said. “Though it was from the sky, I saw all I had to see. With just one look I knew—this man, though sadistic and pig-hearted, is also shrewd, and cunning. He won’t be as defenseless as you seem to think. No, we will not go through with this.”

Alan nodded twice, slowly, before stepping abruptly forward and narrowing his eyes on Saerina. “Woman, sit down and shut up. Your opinion is no longer required, thank you.”

Saerina met him head-on, grabbing him by the shirt and raising her dagger to his throat. “You…dare!”

Once again Patrick and Saerith had to separate the two. Patrick grabbed Alan, while Saerith grabbed his sister’s shoulders and tugged her backwards. Saerina breathed with a rapid, hissing grunt, while Alan tilted back his head and barked a laugh. “Feisty one, isn’t she?”

Patrick wanted to cry in front of his own men. How could things be falling apart this easily? Perhaps Alan Marshall should be removed and hung after all?

“Of all living mortals, you alone, make me wish to inflict murder!” Saerina spat. “Alan…Alan bloody Marshall!” She spoke the name like it was poison on her tongue.

“And you alone, of all living women, make me want to drink more than I normally do. I think you need a spanking. Bend over, princess, why don’t I—”

“ENOUGH!” All turned to see the kindly old treasurer spring from her seat, sweat dripping down her silver hair and landing onto her white-knitted sweater. “Children,” she said. “And yes, compared to me, that is what all of you are—will you please stop fighting? Yes? Thank you.” She took a slow breath before sitting down and returning to her reports.

Saerina pushed her brother off of her and turned to again face Alan. “When I know something, I know it. It is not wise to attack this man, especially not with two hundred men against fifteen thousand. I told you I’ve seen this man’s face. I know he’ll have prepared for such an attack.”

Alan slapped himself on the forehead. “Of course he’s prepared for such an attack! He’s at the very least a competent commander.”

“Then why do you insist we waste our resources, the lives of my people, in such a fruitless display of aggression?”

Patrick observed the exchange in silence, taking in the arguments of both sides. In the end, the decision was his, and he didn’t care how adamant commander Marshall was. This was his Kingdom, and this was his battle.

Alan paced the room while he spoke, rubbing his chin with his left thumb and forefinger. “What their commander expects is not the same as what his men do. These men, as I have said, know that they can die, but do they believe it? Does anyone expect to die? I’ve no doubt their commander has taken several precautions against the unexpected event of a preemptive assault. But his men, they don’t believe in their hearts it will happen, and how could they? They feel powerful, marching across the land with an unstoppable army. No, when the Elves hit them they will be rattled, they will be shown fear. This is…H-hey! You five, why are you writing this down?”

Alan waved a hand at four sergeants, and commander Duuhard. They looked at him in confusion, two with their mouths held open, frozen in their attempts at speech. “Well, if this ends up being a strategy,” Duuhard said, “then naturally it needs to be put into our new plan of action. Of course, it still needs to be approved by the prince, but all methods of action must be recorded. Such is how we create our battle plan. You, of all people, should know this, Alan.”