Free A Cup of Normal by Devon Monk Page A

guard, perhaps Tarin, said.
    “Near enough,” the other guard agreed, “with more at the keep, I’d wager.”
    Thera felt the cold of the night sink through her flesh. “Five thousand here, an equal amount at the keep and a likely alliance with the East. How many men do you think Harthing can muster?”
    The guards looked at Johnathon. She too, glanced at her advisor. His face was grim, pale. “Forty thousand, with the aid of their southern borders, which seems likely since the trade route has been closed to them also.”
    Thera took several deep breaths. “We have twenty thousand soldiers at best, and most of them two week’s ride at our northern borders. The skirmishes have taken too many men, the plague has taken too many babies —” Her voice took on a high, frightened tone and she shut her mouth.
    “I would like your advice, gentlemen,” she said evenly.
    “We could come at them by the river route. They wouldn’t be expecting that,” Tarin said.
    “Meet them at the pass with archers,” Beir mused.
    “And what of the other thirty thousand men who would descend upon us?” Thera asked. “We are already too short on human life. How many can we lose before we no longer have the people to run the kingdom, nor defend it?”
    Johnathon spoke into the silence. “If we are in a position of defeat, let us preempt their attack with negotiation. Perhaps we can come to an agreement for the trade route, placing our own profit upon it. If,” he added, “the trade route is what they want.”
    “Agreed,” Thera said. “I’ll send a request for negotiation to the queen on the morning.” Thera turned back toward the tunnel. The steel rasp of a sword pulling free of a scabbard stopped her.
    “Hold,” an unfamiliar voice called out.
    Behind her, Jonathon paused. Over the edge of her hood she saw Beir shift, his hand going to the weapon on his hip.
    “Hold or you’ll take your last breath,” the voice warned.
    Beir cursed. Thera tipped her head so she could see over her shoulder. Two archers held heavy crossbows aimed at them. The sound of movement told her there were at least two others she could not see.
    “Do not draw your weapons,” the voice said to her guards. “You two, turn around.”
    Thera and Johnathon turned. Thera’s heart sank. Six men clothed in cloaks the color of the rock and scree stood on the outcropping. Five held crossbows, and one, likely the leader, held a sword.
    Sentries, scouts. How could she have been so foolish? The Mother Queen had not forgotten about the slave tunnels in all these years. And now Thera had just opened the surest route of attack into her own kingdom. Her heartbeat raced. There had to be a way to solve this, to undo the damage.
    Johnathon stepped forward, his hands spread wide. “Peace. Let there be no bloodshed between us. We bear news from the Midlands.”
    “Of course you do,” the leader, taller and thinner than the other men said. “Spies. Assassins.”
    “I assure you that is not so,” Johnathon said. “Allow us to speak to your commander.”
    The swordsman grunted. “If it were up to me, Midlander, I’d carry your head to the queen herself. But the captain wants spies questioned before they’re killed.” He sheathed his sword and smiled coldly. “You’ll have your say, but I’ll have your weapons.”
    Johnathon inclined his head in a bow.
    “These two first.” The leader pointed at Tarin and Beir. Two sentries came forward and stripped them of their swords and knives then pulled their hands behind their backs. Beir’s shoulders bunched and his hands clenched, but neither he nor Tarin resisted as the sentries bound their wrists. A sentry turned to Johnathon, tied his hands, then approached Thera.
    The man smelled of wild onions. His eyes were dark and narrow, his face unshaven. He pressed his hands against her hips, then his eyes went wide.
    “Well, look what they’ve brought along.” He pushed her hood and cloak back, revealing her