The Last Princess

by Galaxy Craze

  “Make it double edged,” the young soldier said.

  Portia pulled out a gleaming razor-thin, double-edged sword. “He’s one of the Resistance forces,” she informed the soldier. “Make him suffer.”

  The crowd of soldiers cheered him on. The noise was deafening. The masked prisoner was pushed to his knees, helplessly awaiting his opponent. Portia walked out onto the field, delivering the soldier his sword.

  “Unmask him,” she ordered Sergeant Fax. He pulled off the prisoner’s black hood to reveal his face. He was a man in his mid-thirties, with shoulder-length brown hair and a straggly beard. His horrified eyes darted around the courtyard, a chant of “Kill him!” echoing through the square. Ragged clothes hung from his emaciated, skeleton-thin body, and open sores covered his skin.

  They unchained his hands and feet as Sergeant Fax handed the man a sword, dull and unimpressive in comparison to the young soldier’s. The weight of it pulled the prisoner’s arms to the ground. A wild fury seemed to rage in the young soldier’s eyes. He lifted his sword again, gaining momentum and strength, and brought it down on the prisoner’s neck. With one desperate move, the man mustered up all of his strength and swung his sword up to block Cutter’s blow.

  But this only infuriated Cutter more. He stepped forward and, without giving the prisoner a moment to defend himself, plunged his long sword into the helpless man’s abdomen. He let go of the pommel, leaving the sword piercing the prisoner’s body. The crowd roared as the dying man stumbled backward around the courtyard, his hands wrapped around the blade, futilely trying to stanch the blood pouring from the wound.

  I put my hands to my ears, trying to drown out the deafening noise of the crowd, but Portia’s shrill voice cut through the din.

  “New Recruit Polly. Girls’ Division, Section Nine.”

  I stared up in shock. Vashti looked at me. I shook my head. “I can’t.”

  “You have to,” she said, squeezing my wrist. “Or they’ll send you to the work camps. Trust me. You don’t want to end up there, shackled to a chain gang, beaten by the guards—they’ll force you to build the death chambers.”

  I stepped forward, terrified. Even as the first prisoner continued to stagger to his death, Sergeant Fax pulled another masked prisoner from the back of the truck. Portia issued me my weapon, a single-edged, middle-length sword. I grabbed the leather-bound handle tightly as Sergeant Fax dragged the second prisoner toward me. All around me I heard the New Guard soldiers chanting, “Kill! Kill!”

  Beneath the black mask covering his face I could see the prisoner was a man—tall, muscular, not emaciated or covered in sores like the one before. Unlike the first prisoner, now lying in a heap in front of the crowd, this man was not weak from hunger or starvation, or broken from being tortured in the Death Camps. He must have been recently captured.

  On the man’s wrist was a tattoo of the British flag, the words FREEDOM OR DEATH printed beneath it. I turned, looking at the darkened and blurred faces of the crowd as they shouted, “Fight! Fight!” The torches let out thick plumes of dark smoke into the night air. In the corner of the courtyard the first prisoner had finally collapsed, his fingers and eyes still twitching.

  “Meet your opponent.” Sergeant Fax chuckled as he pulled off the prisoner’s mask.

  I stared into his eyes. He stared back into mine. He had the build of a soldier, muscular and strong, his short-cropped brown hair and stubble showing signs of gray. I noticed his kind eyes.

  They unchained his hands and feet. He was given a short, dull-bladed sword. We faced each other. I wondered if there was a way to let him know I was on his side, that I was here to fight the New Guard, not him. I tried to make eye contact. I stepped closer.

  And then I saw his sword come down. I raised my own, stopping him with a high block, ducking with a low block. I remembered quickly what the Master of Arms had taught me: Block small, keep the sword slanted, use the whole force of your body, weight and speed behind each move.

  Fierceness shone from his eyes as he slashed wildly with the sword. He wanted to destroy me. He had seen the New Guard invade his district, murder and capture his friends and family. His eyes focused on me as he raised his sword and charged. I backed up, blocking his swings, our swords clashing deafeningly, the weight of his blows pushing me backward.

  I blocked as swiftly as I could, but the sword kept flashing toward me in a blur of steel. Without warning, his blade slashed through my shoulder, cutting the fine mesh of my uniform but not piercing my skin. Before I turned my eyes from the gash his sword grazed my knuckles like a thousand needling paper cuts. Blood trickled down my wrist. It was all I could do to grasp the pommel handle and not let it fall to the ground. I felt the warm blood dripping down my arm. From the corner of my eye I saw Sergeant Fax watching grimly.

  I remembered a trick the Master of Arms taught us: telegraphing. I looked to the right. He raised his sword to block. But instead of raising my sword, I slashed from beneath. He screamed out in anger and pain, looking down at his wrist. A gash of blood appeared where my sword had broken his skin. I parried his lead hand with my sword, stepping behind him. He turned his head sharply, but before he could block me, I brought the blade to his neck.

  If he moved even one millimeter now, the razor-sharp sword would slice through his throat. The prisoner gasped. I could feel his body trembling with fear as sweat beaded on his forehead and soaked his clothes. I couldn’t help but look at his tattoo, the British flag glistening beneath dribbles of his blood.

  “Cut his head off!” a soldier screamed from the side, and then came the loud chant of the others, overlapping until they found their rhythm. “Slit his throat! Make him bleed!”

  I held the sword at his neck. Hidden in the roar of the soldiers, I whispered in his ear, “You fought for the Resistance?”

  “Yes, and I’ll fight to my death.”

  He turned to take a swing at me, my sword grazing his skin.

  I pressed closer. “Drop your weapon now and I won’t kill you.”

  He tilted his head skeptically, but without any other option, he let the sword fall from his hand to the pavement. Still keeping my sword at his neck, I reached to grab his weapon. I’d won. I stepped back away from him with both weapons in my hands. I thought the crowd would cheer for me, but they were silent. I looked around the courtyard. The soldiers stared back at me.

  Sergeant Fax appeared on the field. “Finish him!” he ordered.

  I looked from the eyes of the soldier to Sergeant Fax. Before I could refuse, Sergeant Fax grabbed the soldier’s hair in one hand, my wrist and sword in the other, and forced my arm to swing. The force of the blow severed the prisoner’s arteries, and blood poured from his neck in a deluge. I stumbled backward, frantically trying to wipe his blood from my eyes. All I saw was red.

  “If you hesitate on the battlefield, you’ll be killed,” Sergeant Fax screamed into my face. Then, seeing the tattoo of the British flag on the prisoner’s right arm, he took his own sword, stepping on the prisoner’s elbow with his heavy black boot, and sawed off the tattooed wrist. I tried not to look at the dismembered hand on the concrete. Sergeant Fax stabbed it through the palm with the tip of his sword, raising it in the air as the soldiers cheered.

  12

  I STUMBLED BACK TO THE SIDELINES, FRESH BLOOD DRIPPING from the blade of my sword. Grotesque images flashed through my mind, and I pressed my hand to my mouth. I could see the blood spurting from his wound. I could feel Sergeant Fax’s hand over mine, guiding the sword through the prisoner’s neck, the give of flesh as the blade slashed through the delicate skin.

  The crowds were already cheering on the next fight, too distracted to notice me. I shoved my way through them blindly, my hands trembling.

  I stumbled into an empty courtyard surrounded by a cloistered passageway. Carved statues of lions and ravens and horses, gargoyles and dragons, lined the walls. The metallic taste of the prisoner’s blood coated my mouth. I retched, struggling to vomit, but there
was nothing in my stomach.

  My eyes closed. I collapsed to the ground, hugging my knees to my chest and shaking uncontrollably. I had ended an innocent life. Across the dark courtyard, I saw a crumbling stone birdbath running over with rainwater. I pushed myself up, walking out of the cloistered walkway. The inky darkness of the night sky was slowly giving way to another gray morning. I made my way over to the bath and dropped my sword, cupping my hands in the ice-cold rainwater to rinse the blood from my eyes and mouth. The water fell from my hands in pink streams.

  I stared up at the massive redbrick walls surrounding me and scanned the remains of the crumbling statues in the garden when I realized that I was alone. I was alone, and I had a deathly weapon. I dipped the blade in the water, watching the blood dissipate. I hated Cornelius Hollister and his army beyond all conceivable feelings or fear I had for my own life. Now that I was truly a killer, it was time for me to find the man I’d come here to kill.

  I took in the vast palace compound. Lights shone from the top floor of the tower keep. Legions of troops patrolled the fortress. I stared up at the lighted windows. Could Cornelius Hollister be living there? In the keep, he would be protected, but could still watch over his army. Of everywhere in London, being stationed within his army compound made the most sense, and within the compound, only the keep would ensure his safety. But it would not be easy to get inside.

  I crept through the cloisters, stepping softly and stopping every couple of feet to listen to my surroundings. I held the sword at the ready as I hurried through the cloister archways.

  Suddenly, a blaring noise echoed through the palace, soldiers screaming out into the night. I recognized Sergeant Fax’s voice sounding through a bullhorn. “Three prisoners have escaped the Base Court. Send all troops to the gateway. Repeat. Three prisoners have escaped. Two soldiers have been wounded. Secure all gateways immediately.” I quickly ducked behind a pillar and waited in the shadows, barely breathing, frozen in my steps.

  Following the orders, the soldiers took off, some on horseback, some on foot, searching the grounds. I peered around the pillar, watching the soldiers, guns in hand. Their heavy black steel-toed boots stomped the ground, echoing through the courtyard as they tore past me.

  To my left, the ironclad doors of the keep stood open. A single young guard remained outside, left alone, as the others searched for the escaped prisoners. His pale face was lit by the flames of the torch. He was young, fourteen maybe, and he gripped his rifle close to him, pacing nervously.

  I felt the ground, looking for something to throw. My fingers found a piece of brick that had fallen from the palace walls. Hiding in the narrow alcove of a barred casement window, I hurled the brick into the darkness, aiming it to the far right of the soldier.

  The sound startled the boy. He raised his gun. “Who’s there?” His voice shook with fear.

  I found a second brick and threw it further past the boy. He hesitated before aiming his gun into the empty darkness, then took a few steps forward, away from the entrance.

  “Who’s there?” he called again into the darkness.

  I bolted from my hiding place, sprinting through the wide iron doorway, and found myself inside a cavernous room filled with metal cargo containers. I ducked between them, waiting to see if I’d been spotted. As my eyes adjusted to the dim glow of light streaming down from the upper floors, I realized I was inside a storage facility. The spray-painted labels on the sides of the metal cargo bins read ZYKLON B, CYANIDE, HCN. A strong smell of gasoline came from two metal holding tanks. Wooden crates labeled with number codes held dismantled army Jeeps and trucks, generators side by side with old-fashioned weaponry. Bomb-cannons, fire-arrows, shields, armor, and swords were all stockpiled inside.

  Wedging myself between the crates, I sidestepped to the cargo bin labeled FIREARMS. I tried to lift it, hoping I’d find a gun, but the box was locked and the sides were welded shut. I heard a humming sound coming from above and I looked up, startled. It was the murmuring of voices. I felt my heart beating rapidly as I hurried up the stairs and crouched down to hide in the dark landing.

  I followed the sound of the voices down the passageway until I saw a ribbon of fluorescent light spilling from a doorway. I pressed my back to the wall, pulling my sword from its sheath as I crept forward. Inside the cavernous chamber, the generals of Hollister’s army sat around a long, heavy oak table, their backs to the door. Blueprints, maps, and diagrams covered the walls.

  “The plans to build camps F through J are set to begin in Field Eleven.” A younger soldier stood at the front of the room, pointing to the diagrams. “We have a location for the royal crown. One of the tortured Royalists confessed.” I chanced a look into the room, scanning the ranks of the New Guard for Hollister’s face.

  “I knew we’d find our answer with the enhanced interrogation techniques,” a second soldier, a woman, said.

  “Extraordinarily enhanced interrogation techniques,” another voice said, laughing.

  I pressed my back to the wall. A light flickered on the floor above. To get there I would have to pass the doorway. Peering into the room from the corner of my eye, I waited until the soldier had his back turned, then shot past the doorway as quickly as possible. The sound of metal on metal reverberated through the hallway as the blade of my sword struck the stairway railing. I froze. A wave of cold fear swept over me.

  “Who’s there?” The soldier who’d been addressing the room appeared in the doorway. “What are you doing here? No unauthorized officers allowed in the keep.” His voice was firm, angry.

  I shook my head, unable to speak.

  “Answer me!” he ordered.

  Desperately I tried to think of an excuse. “I’m sorry. I’m lost, I was just trying to find my bunk.” Frightened, I stepped away from him, out of the light, keeping my eyes low. I glanced up at his face, and our eyes caught. In that instant I recognized him. Dark blond hair, deep-set green eyes, high cheekbones. He was the guard who had left me in the wardrobe during the invasion of Buckingham Palace.

  “You got lost in the keep?” He stared at me suspiciously. Did he recognize me too? The last time he saw me, I was wearing makeup and a beautiful ball gown. Now my hair and face were dirty, and I wore the uniform of his army. This was the last place he should expect to find me. For all he knew, I had been burnt to ashes in Buckingham Palace.

  “Yes. It’s my first day here,” I stammered, not concealing the fear in my voice. If he could tell how afraid I was, maybe he would believe I really was a hopelessly lost new recruit.

  He took another step closer. I looked back at him through wide eyes and gripped my hands in tight fists to stop them from trembling. Fear lurched in my stomach. Should I try to run? I glanced behind me, gauging the distance from the banister railing to the floor below. I could jump. But landing on the stones might break my ankles, maybe even my legs.

  “This time it’s a warning,” he said angrily. “I don’t ever want to see you where you don’t belong again. Do you understand?”

  “Yes.” I nodded eagerly.

  His eyes fell over my face once again, a slight furrow in his brow. “Officers,” he called. “Escort the new recruit back to her division.”

  “Yes, Sergeant Wesley,” the soldiers said, hurrying toward me.

  I turned back as the guards escorted me away. “Thank you,” I whispered quietly. His face was cast in shadow and just a flicker of his green eyes was visible. He stood alone in the hallway, watching me.

  13

  “UP, UP!” SCREAMED TUB. EVERYONE GROANED. IT WAS STILL pitch dark outside—at least an hour earlier than we usually woke. “Last one downstairs has to give me their rations!” she added. Suddenly the dorm was a flurry of activity as everyone jumped out of bed, hurrying to dress and race down to the dining hall. I took the stairs two at a time, my bootlaces untied.

  Once I had my gruel, I ate quickly, holding my bowl close, guarding it with my body as we all did. Even when I was finished, my stomach still a
ched with hunger cramps. I had been in the army for a few weeks now. Training lasted from dawn to dusk every single day. Then it was work duties, which for me meant after-dinner cleanup with the girls from my bunk. The constant motion barely left me any time to think about, much less search for, Hollister. I was beginning to wonder if he was even here. At the end of each day, I was so tired I fell quickly into a leaden sleep, my muscles aching from the exercise. My last thoughts were always of my siblings. I wondered where their bodies had been buried, or if they had been sent to the Death Camps, where it was said you were ordered to dig your own grave.

  I gulped down my last few sips of watered-down tea as Tub reappeared, leading us outside. At the outskirts of the woods we met up with the boys. The trees were still there, but they were skeletons now, charred and sodden, only bare branches and bark.

  We stood there in the predawn darkness as Portia, Tub, and June passed us each a titanium sevil—ammunition was far too valuable to let us use guns—along with an empty tin cup in case we found any drinkable water.

  “For those of you new to hunting,” Portia announced, clearly relishing her role as leader, “let me remind you: This army is big, and it needs food. Hunting that food is your job.” She stopped to look over the assembled soldiers, her eyes lingering for an extra moment on me.

  “If you come back empty-handed, you’ll be given double chores. The new soldier with the most kills will be promoted a full rank.” She paused to let this sink in. “If you loot any of your fellow army members’ weapons or kills, you will be punished. That is the most important rule—that you hunt your kill yourself. No sharing, no swapping, no bribing allowed. Is that understood?” Everyone nodded. I saw Sergeant Wesley moving through the boys’ division with a pitcher of fresh water. He poured it into their cups, reminding them to drink it all. I immediately put my head down.

  “Finally,” Portia continued, “let me give you a few tips that will increase your chances of survival. There aren’t any animals to be afraid of except for swamp snakes, so as long as you avoid swampy areas you’ll most likely be fine. The bears have almost all starved to death. Your only real worry is the Roamers.”