The King with Six Friends

Non Ducor, Duco

Zar tugged at the uncomfortable armor around his neck. The breastplate was cold and heavy on his shoulders, but it fit him well enough.

Down in the courtyard, columns of soldiers performed last-minute drills and tasks for the long march. The sky was overcast as if it would rain, which would have been fitting to the mood of the palace.

Zar checked his sword and scabbard for the twentieth time. His helmet gleamed under his arm. There was a minuscule Latin inscription on the inside of the crest, reading non ducor, duco.

I am not led, I lead.

Kiera sat on the unmade bed with her arms crossed, watching him pace the room. "You're going to make yourself sick if you don't relax," she said.

"I'm going to be sick either way," Zar muttered. He glanced out the window again and then paced back to the center of the room.

"You're not doing yourself any good worrying. Sit down," she ordered.

Zar sank onto the bed next to Kiera. His heel bounced with anxiety while he waited. He didn't know what exactly he was waiting for, just for something to happen. He was reliving a nightmare; he was waiting for it to be over.

"Your Highness," said Captain Holt, knocking on the door, "The men are ready to depart when you are."

"Good, good," Zar replied. He fiddled with the thin wedding band on his left hand, which felt foreign to touch. "I'll be right out." He took a deep breath, sliding the helmet over his head. Kiera stood with him and walked him to the door.

Zar's hand lingered over the doorknob for a half-moment too long. Kiera noticed.

"It's going to be fine," she reassured him. "I'll see you down the stairs before you go."

"Don't stay in the palace," said Zar, taking her hand. "Don't take any chances."

"You either," Kiera smiled, but the corner of her mouth trembled, "I expect my new husband to come back to me whole."

Shaking off his thoughts with determination, Zar braced and stepped outside to face the day. Holt was in the corridor waiting and bowed to them.

"How many men do we have?" Zar asked. He desperately needed a distraction.

"Some twenty-thousand infantrymen, three hundred and two-score cavalrymen, one-hundred seventy-five archers, and ten mobile catapults with crew," Holt recited. The captain had an uncanny aptitude for numbers.

"We also have five physicians, three cooks, and a blacksmith with his apprentice. That's roughly. . . 20,595 men in total, but there are another two-hundred ships in the navy and more men in basic training as we speak."

"That's good," Zar mumbled. "Is there an estimate on the enemies' numbers?"

"A scout came back and reported thirty-thousand plus soldiers per army," said Holt. The sound of their rattling armor echoed off the stairwell walls as Zar thought the statistics over.

"Well, those aren't great odds," Zar said. He felt Kiera squeeze his hand supportively.

"No, but we're defending, so there's that at least," Holt put in. "Gotta outlast 'em, then."

At the bottom of the large staircase, servants and palace guards were lined up in columns to see their king off to battle. They stood rigid and silent down the runner to the large doors. As he strode down the walk with Holt following closely, Zar tried not to make eye contact. No one said anything; nothing needed to be said.

Finally, they made it to the airlock passage. The inner door closed behind them and they waited for the outer door to open. This was as far as Kiera could go. She kissed Zar and pulled him into a tight embrace, though his armor made it difficult to hold to him.