Queen & Conqueror (The Queens Red Guard Book 1) Read online

  QUEEN

  AND

  CONQUEROR

  Book One of The Queen’s Red Guard

  Isabelle Olmo

  Copyright © 2022 Isabelle Olmo

  All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission from the publisher, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law. For permissions contact:

  [email protected]

  Cover Design by SeventhStar Art Hard Cover naked back designed by Saintjupit3rGr4phic

  Editing by Anjum Choudhury and Eden Railsback

  Formatting and interior art by Etheric Tales

  Little Fountain Press, LLC.

  Contents

  Copyright

  Dedication

  CONTENT WARNING

  PART I

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  PART II

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  PART III

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  PART IV

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  Epilogue

  COMING SPRING 2023

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Acknowledgements

  To my family and friends, I love you all dearly.

  CONTENT WARNING

  This book contains elements of ableism, abusive relationship, alcoholism, animal death (fishing scene), bodies/corpses, child abuse, sexual child abuse, classism, death/dying, death penalty, decapitation, drinking (recreational), drug use (mentioned), forced captivity, graphic sex, homophobia, incest, murder, murder (attempted), pedophilia, pregnancy, prostitution, PTSD, rape, serious injury, sexism, sexual abuse, slurs, smoking, suicidal thoughts, swearing, torture, graphic torture, violence, vomit, warfare, weapons.

  PART I

  Prologue

  ALMIRA

  Sutra Palace, City of Zuri, Kingdom of Suid

  Their army was surrounded. Her people were dying.

  Lady Almira listened as the captain briefed her about the conditions on the front. Her dinner of peppered fowl stew sat forgotten, her summer wine untouched. She pressed her hands together and focused on the map laid out over her table.

  “The fact is, King Alton has more men than we do,” the captain said. His voice soft, the tonality reserved for ladies. A simplification of complex ideas for her delicate mind.

  She looked up at him questioningly and he flinched under her determined gaze. Everyone always did.

  “Why don’t we retreat?” She leaned back and grasped the arms of her chair, keenly aware of the intricate hand-carved eagles digging into her palms. It was her husband’s chair and today was the first time she sat on it with aplomb.

  The captain’s throat tightened, and he looked around the room. Her guard, Lady Sanaa, watched the captain with a solid stare and a slight upturn of her lip.

  “Her ladyship asked you a question,” Sanaa said.

  The captain took a deep breath and met Almira’s eyes once more. She could see the words forming on his tongue. He was afraid of her.

  He cleared his throat. “The High Lord seeks aid from Istok. Your native country hasn’t been plagued with war like we have. Perhaps if your father–“

  “Istok did not begin a war. My father will not risk Istokian lives because my husband has a vendetta against a king that toys with our Suidian forces. We should retreat and regroup. Sit with King Alton and negotiate,” she said with a steady voice.

  She surprised herself. She’d never challenged a messenger as such. But she was damn tired of sitting like a protected porcelain plate, while the world crumbled.

  He looked at her incredulously. “My lady, forgive me, but shouldn’t you let your father decide that?”

  His words filled Almira with sudden anger, but she controlled and subdued it. She moved slowly as she stood and faced the captain. He was a large man, and she was small even for a woman. That mattered little.

  “Captain, your job is to deliver news of the front. You’ve done that. But to presume I would take advice on state matters from you is insulting.”

  He stepped forward and opened his mouth.

  “Apology accepted,” she said and raked him over in disapproval. “You didn’t mean to insinuate anything. You have, after all, the utmost respect for my house. However, you will deliver a message from me, captain. Each day I sit in this room while my husband fights a war that drags on and continues killing our soldiers. Each day more lives are lost. At first it was fifty. Now, you tell me 2,000. Inform High Lord Edgar that I want the number.”

  He blustered. “The number?”

  “Yes. I want the number.” She pressed her index finger against the map. “I want the exact number of deaths we must reach to determine this cause is folly. It’ll give me something to look forward to while I practice my half-stitch.”

  She sat and pushed her dinner plate away with disgust. The time had finally come for her value to be placed on the table. Even at a young age she knew he married her because of her connections to Istok. Her father wisely kept their country out of the squabbles and in the years since the war started, her home country grew rich with trade.

  “That means you’re dismissed, captain,” Sanaa said.

  Clearly astounded at being addressed in such a manner, he left. Not before his helmet slipped and rolled about on the stone floor. It caused a great deal of noise. He rushed after it, while the women watched the display.

  When he left, Sanaa sat across from her and they regarded one another.

  “Say what you must.” Almira sighed.

  Her friend slowly smiled. “I think it’s about time.”

  “For me to challenge my husband? Your cousin?” Almira shook her head. “You, above everyone, know that I love Edgar. I miss him desperately. I pray for his well-being each night.”

  “However?” Sanaa asked.

  “However, I love my country more.”

  Sanaa lit her rolled cigar. The smoke wafted into the air in a twirl of blue vapor. “Write to him.
Make him see reason. Perhaps… perhaps he will listen and take your advice.”

  Almira smiled, her eyes fixed on the fire. It warmed the room uncomfortably. “War advice from his wife?”

  He would believe she jested. Each day within her marriage she’d slumbered. A passive little wife. The placid tones she’d long allowed to dominate her vocabulary frayed at the edges. Like a dragon long asleep, Almira shifted within her cave, tested the swift movement of her igneous wings. Soon, she would not hold herself back from roaring fire. Gods help the man who challenged her. Even if he was her husband.

  That night she was woken by the distinct screech of an eagle. A Suidian red eagle, whose pitch resounded through stone and could only be tamed by a Suidian warlord. Something was wrong. Shouts from below announced riders from war.

  Something was certainly wrong.

  She wrangled her thick, long curls and was dressed and robed by the time Sanaa opened her door. The aperture flooded her room with warm candlelight. Her guard’s face was grim and her lip set.

  “Your uncle, Lord Thebo, is here, my lady,” Sanaa said.

  They spoke no further words, for the implications were too heavy for discussion in a midnight hour.

  Servants stormed around the palace, which was wrought with commotion. They spoke in urgent whispers and cast worried looks on Almira as she rushed through the palace. The white walls were covered with paintings, relics of the ancient families that ruled over Suid. At the top of the stairs was Edgar’s portrait. It was a massive, gilded rendition of the armored High Lord. His golden eyes were bright against the blackness of his skin, unmoving and unforgiving.

  She turned from it and went to her uncle who stood at the bottom of the stairs in the courtyard. Lord Thebo and his captains looked war-worn, covered in sweat, blood, and dirt. They each removed their helmets and went down on one knee when she stood before them.

  She stopped and stared at her uncle’s braided hair. There was a stillness in the world as if it waited for her reaction. Why was her uncle here? Where was her husband? Where was Edgar?

  “Long live Almira, the High Lady of Suid.” Thebo looked up, his green eyes kind and worried. He didn’t need to say much.

  The air turned dense and murky.

  Edgar was dead. The power of the high seat now passed to her.

  “No!” Almira cried.

  Her uncle’s face, left much unchanged from childhood memories, showed pity. She wouldn’t have pity from him or anyone else.

  “Show him to me! Show me his body! I want to see it!” She stepped towards him, palm open as if she could cup the corpse in her hand.

  Thebo stood, and Almira could tell in the way her uncle pressed his lips that he was measuring his next few hesitant words.

  “As Suidian custom dictates, High Lord Edgar’s body was burnt, an offering to the Favia. He rests now, my lady,” he said.

  Her hand dropped.

  An eruption of anger flared within her, a storm from the northern seas where men perished. Anger that could burn down the world. She shoved him back, his men gasped, but Thebo didn’t falter or lose his stepping. Twice her size, a true descendant of the first people, he was a seasoned soldier, strong like iron. She could scarcely hold a small blade.

  “My lord, you will show me my husband’s body so I might press my mourning veil against his lips!” Her voice resounded against the castle walls.

  One of the men handed Thebo a cloth bag and he slowly pulled out a helmet. Cardinal red painted metal, topped with a carved great eagle and white feathers to indicate the High Lord’s rank. Only, it lacked the elegance it once boasted. Blood caked the feathers and dirt, and soot covered the metal. Edgar died in combat.

  Almira took the helmet; it was so heavy. How did he carry it so well? The last she’d seen him he wore it and smiled at her and told her not to fret. She could almost smell Edgar’s scent. As if his ghost lingered long enough to wish her farewell.

  “He was a brave leader, my lady, but we lost the battle. King Alton’s armies have advanced into the northern plains.” Thebo’s voice was carefully neutral.

  They all watched her. They expected her to crumble, but she knew the implications of this death. Now she was the head of state despite her sorrow. War did not allot time for broken hearts.

  Edgar. There was no cadaver for her to hold, no lips against which she could press her veil. With him perished thousands of Suidians. Today the country would mourn.

  “How many lost? How many dead?” Almira asked.

  “Five thousand,” he said it with difficulty. His words were a whisper. He was ashamed. Men didn’t enjoy the sting of defeat. It questioned their honor and strength for they placed their honor and strength on erroneous notions.

  Almira clutched the helmet to her robe, and it painted her with Edgar’s blood. What a waste of life.

  Thebo sighed. “I will send word to your father.”

  Her sharp eyes found his and her lips pulled back to a snarl. “What you will do is pull my armies from the front! Not one more Suidian will die for this ridiculous war.”

  She straightened her shoulders and stared them all down. She would enact orders. She would lead, even as her arms trembled, even as she wished to barricade herself in her rooms and succumb to tears.

  “Where is King Alton?” she asked.

  “Riverlodge, close to the pass,” Thebo said.

  She closed her eyes and tightened her knuckles on the helmet. Her mind frantically concocted scenarios. All she could envision was five thousand slain Suidian soldiers and the men and women who would mourn them. A valley of corpses, the grasslands drenched in blood as their country was made to kneel. For what?

  “Send a rider to the king, immediately,” she said.

  Her uncle stared at her bewildered.

  “Tell the king I call the Law of Mourning. I must be veiled for a year. King Alton must allow us all to mourn, he must allow us to mourn Edgar’s death–”

  She lost her voice at the realization of her situation. A widow. Such a stark word, such a stark title. She looked around the courtyard. Summer roses were in bloom, their red and white petals still moist with nighttime dew. What to say, what to do, how to behave? Death was such an intangible thing. It was emptiness. Such a casual little word for such an impactful act.

  “Sanaa, I… I need a veil,” she whispered.

  Sanaa called a maid to provide a mourning veil as Thebo gripped Almira’s arm and ushered her to sit. The stillness of the night filled them until she felt her tears threaten to erupt for all to see. She battled them because she couldn’t be weak. Everything depended on her, on how she maneuvered the playing board. A wrong step could be a catalyst and more would die.

  Still her thoughts were erratic. A kaleidoscope of memories. Of first seeing Edgar in her father’s court, of the weight of his body over hers on their wedding night, of him sitting in his study as he read his favorite scrolls.

  Edgar was gone, dead. She gasped and Thebo knelt before her.

  “Uncle... did he linger in pain?”

  His tired eyes darkened, and he shook his head. “His death was quick and painless. He was gone before I could go to him. I swear it.”

  It was a small comfort as the thought of a prolonged death with a slit gut wormed itself into her grim thoughts. She didn’t wish such a fate for her gentle giant.

  “Could I have… helped?” she asked.

  Her earlier words echoed in her ears. He’d asked for help and hours ago, she’d denied him help. She’d been proud of herself in that moment, proud that she’d finally opposed the war. And now... the war was hers.

  “I think you and I know this war was lost before it started,” he said and looked down.

  She grasped his hand. Yes. This war was lost even before she married Edgar. This was a war of pride; the king had slain his own brother, Prince Sabian, who was engaged to Edgar’s twin sister. She died a month later, and Edgar hated King Alton and the entire family. The War of the South began in the sprin
g and Almira married in the summer.

  A servant brought the long veil to Sanaa, and her faithful guard knelt and handed it to Almira. This would be her third veil. The first was for her mother, the second for her little brother, and now she was a young widow. Her tears were crisp against her throat. Cracks marred the dam she’d built to keep them at bay.

  Her uncle took the helmet from her hands and held it before her. She pressed the veil to the front of the helmet.

  Almira could sense them, the Favia, the gods of death and war, as they danced in delight at her pain.

  “Favia, take your warrior. Allow him into the land of the honored for he died protecting his people,” she whispered.

  The dam broke, she crumbled into great sobs as Sanaa placed the veil over her head.

  Chapter One

  SANAA

  Zuri, Capital of Suid

  The white-stoned city of Zuri was the first human settlement on the continent. The buildings were clustered on top of one another, oval doors and polished roofs made of smooth brown kabalsa stone. It was an unplanned labyrinth of intersecting streets that crisscrossed one another and opened to courtyards. There, industrious vendors peddled their goods to passing pedestrians and the dance of disinterest and bargaining began.

  In the poorer areas of the city, the stone buildings darkened to an ashen gray and the cracked cobblestones flooded when the spring rains arrived.

  Lady Sanaa scoured those streets for three months and finally, a substantial lead presented itself. The girl’s name was Niallia, a small round thing with wide hips. She wore yellow bangles to indicate she was an expert cunt eater. Sanaa never intended to couple with the girl, but the temptation was too great. After all, she had a debility for pouty mouths and girls who liked to misbehave. At the end of the three-hour session that left Sanaa sated on the rumpled sheets, she thought to ask the girl questions. The girl, eager for the extra coin, spoke candidly. The answers were exactly what Sanaa sought. It was wondrous the information freely offered from the bed of a well-paid whore.

  Deep into the southside of the city Sanaa traversed, following the directions the girl provided. She walked past the merchants who sold iced lemon treats, a novelty of the summertime. A few paused to stare at her, but she paid them no mind. After the delightful afternoon session, it bothered her little that those around her wished to openly regard her.