“Rations?” Azaleen asked.
Colonel Ashby stopped before a door where two muscular, bearded guards stood at attention, holding sharpened pikes, their blades reflecting a beam of light from the opposing window. “We haven’t finished assessing the damage, but at least the corn and rice granaries came out unscathed.”
The report reminded her. Her shoulders eased down, but her jaw locked tight. “Casualties?”
“About twenty-five percent of my fighting force,” he answered, the words weighted. His gaze fell to the floor. “Seventy-five dead and as many wounded—some critical. Thus far, we’ve counted twenty-six civilians dead, forty-one injured, and six still missing.”
Azaleen recalled that Fort Stilwell carried a roster of about five hundred, the smallest of Verdancia’s three naval bases. She wondered what had become of the other two.
Ashby straightened, opened the door, and entered first. Spotting no immediate danger, he motioned for her to come.
They stood in what appeared to be an advanced math classroom, the walls lined with numbers, formulas, geometric shapes, and equations. One hand-painted poster colorfully proclaimed, “Happy Pi Day.”
Azaleen studied the men scattered around the space. Several sat or lay on cots, while others occupied wooden student chairs. A group of older men spun from the window, breaking their tight huddle. She took in the defiant looks on theirfaces, reminiscent of the stone-sculpted Civil War figures under whose watchful eyes she’d grown up. A captain huffed and folded hairy arms over his chest. Another glared at her as if she’d personally committed some earth-shattering injustice.
“What have you done with our female sailors and petty officers?” asked a chestnut-haired commander with the physique of a wrestler. Azaleen observed one Black and one Hispanic officer—none of mixed race—and the rest were as pale as she was.
Ashby snapped, “Their rights and safety have been maintained according to our laws. We aren’t barbarians, despite any propaganda you might have been fed.” The intensity of his glare could have ignited damp kindling.
“Go on,” growled the oldest captain, sweeping a hand in the air. “Torture us all you want—we won’t talk.”
“We’ll see about that!” Ashby snarled.
Azaleen ignored them, instead scrutinizing each officer’s expression and body language until she found what she was looking for—a lieutenant, alone, seated on a cot, elbows on his knees, sandy hair disheveled, head bowed, bloodstains on his hands, a wedding ring on his finger. He appeared to be around thirty, his mind far away, his attitude more melancholy than insolent.
“I’ll take him first,” she ordered, indicating the lieutenant.
Ashby made a point of displaying the revolver holstered on his belt while the two burly guards entered, their spears gripped in a square stance, ready to run any unruly enemy through. The man in question jerked his head up, his eyes widening at their approach.
“You heard her,” Ashby barked. “Move it!”
The captains tensed, but a bold ensign sprang to his feet. “Where are you taking Sean?” His voice was strained and tainted with stress. A vein in his dirty neck pulsed above his open collar.
“Stand down, ensign,” Ashby commanded. “We have a few questions for him. You’ll have your turn.”
“Tell them nothing, Cartwright,” the old captain barked, puffing up like he still commanded a deck.
Lieutenant Sean Cartwright slowly rose, swallowed, and glanced over his shoulder at his fellow officers. He was met with a mix of angry, fearful, and indifferent looks from his peers and superiors. When his eyes locked onto Azaleen’s, she read all she needed to know.
“Don’t worry,” she said coolly. “I’ll bring him back in one piece.”
They exited the room to murmurs of, “Who’s that?” and “Will they break him?”
Colonel Ashby told the MPs to lock the door and remain at their post, then escorted Azaleen and Sean to a teacher’s lounge. “Are you sure you want to do this here?” he asked with a frown. “I can have him taken to the base and—”
“This is fine,” Azaleen said, cutting him off with a flick of authority. “Give us the room.”
Azaleen thought she’d have to pick Ashby’s jaw up from the floor when he gaped at her in astonishment. His rounded brown eyes blinked at her. “Your Excellency! I can’t permit—”
She pinned him with a stare that would have sent a warg racing for the safety of its lair.
“You’re the queen?” squeaked the captive officer. He groped for the arm of a cushioned chair before falling into it as if a boxer had just knocked the wind out of him.
She arched a brow at him, then turned back to Ashby. “I grant you leave to return if you hear screaming. We wouldn’t want me permanently injuring our … guest.”
“But surely …” The colonel waved a hand in the air. “It isn’t proper. I promise not to interfere if—”
“Colonel?” Azaleen lifted her chin, reminding him—and the prisoner—who was in charge.