The heat of the day was dissipating into salty mist when the Ventoran banners appeared at the top of the hill. The ivory-coloured horses on a brown field swayed lazily in the wind, while the rhythmic sound of boots on the stone road echoed like a mournful drum across the valley.
The army had marched since dawn without encountering resistance, without ambushes, not even the whisper of a drawn blade – and that absence of conflict, to Valeria, was always the most dangerous omen of all.
The Queen rode at the front, an imposing silhouette atop a dark saddle, her campaign cloak clinging to her back, hardened by the salt of sweat and the weight of days on the march.
Her eyes, cold as wet steel, scanned the buildings of the city in the distance. Porto Dourado rose from it like a mirage of ancient promises – old domes, towers of white stone, and the estuary gleaming like coins scattered at its feet.
At the city's entrance, a small entourage awaited. No soldiers in defensive position, no cannon pointed – only a man dressed in ceremonial robes, his neck heavy with gold chains and eyes that smiled too early.
That man was Baltasar Douramar, Duke of Porto Dourado, who approached the Queen with a calculated bow, between humility and pride.
– My Queen – he said, with the grovelling voice of a man used to surviving invasions and looting. – I heard what happened in Leonespada. They say you placed the fortress under heavy artillery fire and made Rolando Leonespada surrender without losing a single soldier.
Valeria did not dismount. She simply stared down at him, letting silence speak louder than a thousand words.
Baltasar knelt. Not in haste, not in tears, but with a studied, almost theatrical slowness.
– Porto Dourado does not wish to know the sword. We come to bend, not to resist.
Valeria gave no reply. She had been through moments like this before. She did not easily believe the hollow promises of high lords who only wished to keep their power and their heads on their shoulders.
– I imagine you suspect of me – he continued with a slight shrug, – and you would be right. I myself would be suspicious if someone received me with reverence instead of bayonets. But I have not come merely to bow, I come bearing proof of my loyalty.
He signalled to a servant, and shortly afterwards, a man was brought into the room. He was perhaps twenty-six winters old, his face marked by wounds. His posture was rigid, almost proud, but the eyes did not lie: he knew he was being handed over as the pledge of a dangerous wager.
– This is my eldest son, Arlan Douramar. I deliver him into your custody as a sign of my word of honour. And in addition, five thousand soldiers from the city's garrison will march under your banner. I shall keep another five thousand here to maintain order and not give the impression of weakness to those around us.
Valeria looked at Arlan, studying him, and then at the Duke.
– A son and a division of the army… all this sounds like too much gold, Duke Douramar, and when gold shines too brightly, it is either false or gives us false hope. Tell me: why are you so willing to betray your king?
Baltasar let out a sigh, and the smile faded from his lips.
– Because I am tired – he said, not looking at Valeria. – Tired of seeing my people squeezed to the bone. Do you know who pays the most taxes in this kingdom? The fishermen of the cove. The potters on the banks. The dockworkers who load wine, salt, and ivory for the interior. Porto Dourado has always been the purse of the kingdom, but never its heart. We give more. We receive less. No honour, no title. Only taxes. Only contempt.
He paused, and his tone became colder, sharper.
– If we are to fight and die, I would rather it be for a new cause, not for the tyrant who takes everything from us and does not even deign to protect us, only when it suits him.
– Then we shall march together. But remember, Duke: he who changes sides once can do so twice. If you betray me, your son will die before you, and you will die after you see his death.
The silence that followed was broken only by the chime of the sea wind passing between them. Baltasar merely smiled again.
– Tell me then, Duke Douramar, what news have you received from Aureliana?
– A missive arrived the day before – he said without hesitation, – sealed with the royal crest, brought by a messenger on a horse at death's door. Its message was clear: the King is coming.
– Alaric?
The Duke nodded.
– The very one. He marches to Porto Dourado with the bulk of the army. He brings with him thirty-four thousand soldiers, of which four thousand belong to the feared Golden Sun Guard, under the command of Ser Galvano da Torre.
That name froze the hearts of those close enough to hear. Ser Galvano was more legend than man, steel dressed in solemnity, loyalty forged in iron and fire. A faithful hound of the throne, whose mercy was rumour, never fact.
– The letter was clear: you were to hold the city as long as possible until the King's arrival. Every street, every stone. Porto Dourado must not fall.
– And that's not all, is it? – asked Valeria.
Baltasar paused briefly before continuing:
– From the East comes Duke Lorenzo Granadoro. Ten thousand soldiers from Granarossa, marching in tight formation. They must have already passed the fields of Torrevento. From the North, Duchess Isabella Coronaforte is marching with another ten thousand. She is one day away from the royal forces.
– So that is how they plan to crush us – said Valeria, with fury in her eyes. – They will encircle Porto Dourado from the North and East, and turn the city into a trap pressed against the Mare di Venti. They expect the water to choke us, to make us throw ourselves into the sea like rats fleeing from fire.
She made her way to the Governor's House of Porto Dourado, without looking back or asking permission.
– Send for the commanders of my army to the Governor's House. All of them. Now!
Soon after, the hall of the Douramar was filled with the sound of boots, cloaks, and clinking weapons. One by one, Lucia Ventoforte, Isabella Mareluz, Fausto Campodouro, Severino Fontesol, Catarina Ventomar, Silvano Rocaviva, Gaspar Salinaterra, Matthias von Kessel, and Hagen Ombradaga, the division commanders of Valeria's army, entered and took their places, along with Baltasar Douramar.
Valeria looked at them as a mother looks at her children before a battle: not with tenderness, but with expectation.
– Tell me, all of you, if what I see is madness. King Alaric Doriano IV marches with thirty-four thousand soldiers, and among them, four thousand are the Golden Sun Guard under Ser Galvano da Torre. Lorenzo Granadoro comes with ten thousand from the East. Isabella Coronaforte comes from the North with another ten thousand. Fifty-four thousand in total. And here we are with just under twenty-eight thousand and the sea at our backs. If we count Duke Douramar's garrison, that's another ten thousand to fire upon our enemies.
Lucia was the first to answer, with the courage of youth on her side.
– Then let the sea be our blade, not our tomb. We'll fight for every street and make them bleed for every step they take.
Gaspar Salinaterra cleared his throat.
– If we are surrounded, we'll have no escape. But if we strike before they unite, we can break one end of the noose. If the noose doesn't close, it won't strangle us.
– You want to split the army? – asked Severino. – Risky. But if we're fast… we could crush Coronaforte before she reaches the King.
– The problem – said Isabella Mareluz, with her arms crossed, – is that your soldiers aren't as fast as your plans. Coronaforte is one day from the King. Granadoro is, maybe, two days distance from here. We must choose wisely where we strike first.
– And what if we let ourselves be surrounded and use the city as a trap? – suggested Matthias von Kessel. – Let them enter. Let us turn Porto Dourado into a field of death – in the hall, only murmurs could be heard. – We have cannons. We have gunpowder. And we have the hills and the forests. If Porto Dourado falls, we can retreat to the northern hills and wait for them to come. We would be protected on the flanks by forests and by a swamp, and they would have to climb the hill to their deaths.
Valeria listened to them all, her face unmoving like a statue sculpted by a goddess of war. Then, she pointed her dagger at the map.
– Here they will die – she said, without averting her gaze. – One by one, in pairs, by the dozen. They will have to climb across open ground, under the fire of our cannons and muskets, with the hills devouring them.
Matthias von Kessel nodded beside her, with a cold smile.
– As long as we have time to build defensive walls and position the artillery, it will be a slaughter. Better than a fortress. Better than walls.
Gaspar Salinaterra, ever the pragmatist, remarked:
– But if they're smart, they'll outflank us. They'll try to infiltrate the city and use it as a base to strike at us.
– Duke Douramar, we're going to need all your ten thousand soldiers – said Valeria bluntly. – It will be your duty to evacuate the city's citizens.
– Evacuation?
– I want every civilian in Porto Dourado taken out of the city. Women, children, the elderly. Take them west of the city, behind our defensive positions, under escort. Today. Now.
– You're abandoning the city?
Valeria looked at him sternly.
– No. I will fight for it. To the last alleyway. But I will not let innocent blood soak the stones out of stubbornness or pride. We will hold it as long as we can. There will be fighting in the streets, in the windows, on balconies and in cellars. When the Aurelian armies enter, I want them to find the city's carcass, not its heart.
Baltasar did not reply at once. He walked to the window and looked out at the rooftops of the city, golden with the light fading on the horizon, like coins forgotten on an altar.
– Porto Dourado has never been evacuated, not even when the pirates of Azuria besieged and plundered it.
– Then this will be the first time – said Valeria.
The Duke took a deep breath and nodded.
– I will do what you ask. But if we lose… if we lose the city, you will have nowhere to return to. The army of Aurelia will use it as a base to launch charges against your soldiers, and it may be only a matter of time before they win. There will be no glory in this battle.
Valeria, now leaving the hall, determined to inspect the future site of the battle, turned back only to have the last word:
– Glory has never interested me, Duke Douramar.