Good Blood

by Billy Ketch Allen

  Gagging, Ara scrambled back. He pressed against the glass wall, trying to get away from the horrible sight. The flower ate his hand!

  With a smash, the glass shattered behind him, and Ara toppled out into the cold night air. The old Carmine guard stood over him, sword in hand.

  “Never seen that before,” the guard said, grimacing at the flower in the pool of blood.

  Outside the glass house, the scarred face man pressed the stump of his hand against his chest. His eyes fell on Ara he unleashed a wild cry as he charged them. But the guard’s sword was too fast. It drove into the man above the chest-plate, bringing the screams to an abrupt halt. The man’s body fell to the ground in cold silence.

  The guard reached down and pulled Ara to his feet.

  “What about the others?” Ara asked, looking around for the three attackers. “Where are they?”

  “Lucky for me they don’t make assassins like they used to.”

  “Assassins?” Ara still didn’t understand. It was all happening so fast. And where were the rest of Carmine’s guards?

  “Ara!” a voice called. Ara and the guard turned to see Briton hurrying towards them, a pack slung over his back. Briton took in the mess around them—the broken glass, the bloody body of the assassin. Then, his eyes stopped on the Carmine guard with a look of surprise. “Sir Geyer? Thank you.”

  An alarm bell rang from the eastern tower. Voices called out from the courtyard and along the ramparts. Windows came alive with torchlight.

  “We have to go,” Briton said, more to himself than the others. “We have to leave, right now.”

  “If there are more of them, the garden will be the safest place,” the guard said. “We can see them coming through the archway, and there are places for the boy to hide.”

  “No,” Briton said, his brow wrinkling as if his thoughts wrestled in his head. “We have to leave the castle.”

  “What are you talking about?” the guard asked.

  “The boy is not safe here. The Faith will not stop until they have him, and even if they don’t…” Briton looked the boy over, his face clearing. “This place is a death sentence for him.”

  “You’re going to help a Descendant escape?”

  “I know who you are, Sir Geyer,” Briton said. “I’ve served at this castle longer than anyone else. I know what you’ve done and sacrificed. I’m calling on you now, not as a Carmine guard, but as a knight, sworn to justice and the protection of the weak. We have to help this boy.”

  “I’m no knight,” Geyer said. “Haven’t been for a long time.” He slid his sword back into the sheath on his hip.

  “Then if you won’t help us,” Briton said, stepping behind Ara and placing his hands on his shoulders. “Please, don’t stand in our way.”

  “You don’t know what you’re doing.”

  “You’re right,” Briton said. “But I have to try.”

  The boy couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He’d nearly been killed, and now Briton was talking about escape. Was he serious? Could it be done?

  “Come on.” Briton pulled Ara through the garden towards the archway.

  “Thank you,” Ara said.

  “You can thank me if we get through this,” Briton said.

  “Briton,” Geyer called. They stopped under the archway. Ara’s breath froze in his chest. But the guard did not move to stop them. “I hope you live to regret this.”

  “Me, too,” Briton said. Then he and Ara hurried down the castle stairs.

  “What’s going on?” Carmine asked, striding into the hallway. He had been awoken by voices and movement outside. Now the alarm bell was ringing. Three guards stood outside his door with swords drawn. The look on Nathaniel’s face snapped Carmine awake.

  “We may be under attack, my Lord,” Nathaniel said. “One of the lookouts was found dead.”

  “Where?” Carmine couldn’t believe it. Carmine Castle had never been under attack. Not in all his years.

  “The west wall. You should return to your room my Lord, until we’re sure the castle is secured.”

  “The boy,” Carmine said, panic setting in. “Send your men to the tower. They’re coming for the boy. If they get him, we’re done for.”

  “We will, my Lord. But you need to go to your room, now.”

  A scream sounded from down the hall, then was cut short. Silenced. Carmine couldn’t believe it. Someone was attacking the castle.

  “Go,” Nathaniel said. “Lock the door.”

  Carmine turned back into his chambers and pulled the heavy bar down, sealing the room. He stood listening through the heavy wooden door, trying to understand what was happening. Who would dare openly move against House Carmine?

  That old fool, Carmine fumed as he stepped back into his room. Underestimating me like I was another noble under his boot. As long as Carmine had the boy, he had supporters. And they would not stand for this treachery. If the Aeilus Haemon wanted a war, then a war he would get.

  Something stirred in the room. Carmine turned to see his window open, the curtains flapping in the night air. When had he left his window open?

  The darkness in the room grew. A tall black figure slipped from the shadows. Carmine froze at the sight of Bale, The Blood Knight.

  “You…you dare?” Carmine stammered, backing away. “The other nobles will not stand for this. This is an act of war!”

  “Your castle was attacked by unknown assassins,” Bale said. “With you flaunting the boy to every noble in Terene, there’s no way to tell who hired them. With you dead, it’ll be only right that the Highfather and the Faith look after the boy.”

  Bale pulled a long sword from his back and crossed towards Carmine in slow strides. Carmine tripped, slamming into the ground. He scrambled back on the palms of his hands. “No, you can’t. You can’t touch me. I am lord of this region.”

  “But you forgot who reigns over this world.”

  Carmine’s back smacked into the door. There was nowhere left to run.

  “Lord Carmine,” Nathaniel called from outside the room. “Are you okay?”

  Carmine looked up at Bale who was now only feet from him, sword spinning in his hand. This was the end. Not just of him and his plans, but the end of the Carmine family line. No glorious end, leading his army into battle; not even a fight in the woods like his father. Just Carmine alone, groveling on the floor if his chambers.

  No. Not like this.

  Carmine rose to his feet. Leaning against the door for support as he faced Bale. “The Highfather will die someday. He can’t live forever. Even with the boy.”

  Bale shook his head. There was no remorse in those awful black eyes. No hesitation. “It’s nothing you need to worry about,” Bale said. Then he plunged his sword into Carmine. The black blade went through his stomach and through the door behind him. Carmine lifted his feet off the ground, pinned like an insect.

  “Lord Carmine!” Nathaniel yelled, pounding on the door. Vibrations ran through Carmine’s bones. His insides leaked out through the hole in his stomach. He grabbed at his wound, trying to hold himself in place, but blood poured through his fingers, pooling on the floor. So much blood.

  “And so ends House Carmine,” Bale said. He ripped his sword free, and Carmine crumbled to the ground.

  Jonathan Carmine lifted his head. On the stone wall above him hung the Carmine family sigil; the cardinal, bright and majestic. Father…please. Carmine choked on the warm blood that filled his mouth and streamed down his chin. The taste was not so foreign.

  Castle Carmine was alive with sounds of panic: shouting voices, footsteps of people running, clanking armor of guards scrambling in different directions. Ara stopped on the stairwell and caught his breath, no longer able to keep up with Briton.

  “I can’t,” Ara steadied himself against the stairway wall. His garments were torn and speckled with blood. His bare feet stung from the cold.

  “You must, Ara,” Briton said. “You won’t get another opportunity.”

 
Ara listened to the chaos around him. Castle Carmine was in an uproar. If this was his only chance at freedom, he would find the strength, even if killed him. Ara grabbed onto Briton’s pack as he led him down the stairs. A travel pack? Had Briton prepared for this?

  They reached the bottom floor by the kitchen and the Descendant’s barracks; the place Ara spent his first months at the castle. Leaning on Briton, they headed down the hallway leading to the courtyard.

  “But what about the gate?” Ara asked. Even if they got outside and reached the gate, there was no way they’d get through the guards and archers on the wall.

  “We’ll figure it out when we get there,” Briton said. The old teacher was breathing heavy, his movements more labored. There’s no way they could outrun Carmine guards. But, there was no point in turning back; If he went back to the tower, he’d be trapped there forever.

  Briton stopped. Between them and the door stood a red figure. The Curor looked shocked at first, then realization lit across his face.

  “I knew it,” the Curor said, his lip curled into a sneer. “I knew you put your own interests above those of House Carmine, but I never thought you would stoop to such treachery.”

  “Out of the way, Typher,” Briton said. But Ara felt the hopelessness set in. It was over. They hadn’t even made it out of the castle.

  “So you can run off and have the boy all to yourself?” the Curor scoffed. “I can’t wait to see what Lord Carmine does to you when he finds out.”

  “I can’t sit back and watch you torture this boy again and again.”

  “Oh, you won’t have to watch,” the Curor said. “Because you will be rotting the final years of your miserable life in the castle’s dungeon, you treasonous—”

  His speech was interrupted by a loud crack. The Curor collapsed to the floor in a pile of red robes. Behind him stood a short round figure holding a broomstick.

  “Wow, that felt good,” Chancey said, looking at the unconscious Curor at his feet. “I’ve wanted to do that for a long time.

  “Chancey?” Ara called. “What are you doing?”

  Chancey frowned as he looked at Ara. “I’m helping you get out of here.”

  As mad as he had been at Chancey, as much as he blamed him for his time in the tower, it was good to see his old friend. “Thanks, Chancey.”

  Chancey beamed. He threw down the broomstick and pulled off his shoes. He handed them to Ara. “Here, you’ll need these.”

  Ara slipped on the shoes. They were too big but would be better than traveling barefoot. Chancey stepped forward and wrapped his coat around Ara’s skinny frame.

  Voices sounded down the hallway behind them.

  Ara pulled the large coat tight then put his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Come with us, Chancey.”

  “I can’t. I’ll only slow you down.”

  “But Chancey, they’ll kill you for this,” Ara pleaded.

  Chancey looked down at the Curor at his feet. “If you get away, then it was worth it.”

  “Ara,” Briton said, moving down the hallway away from the approaching footsteps. “We need to go. Now.”

  “Ara,” Chancey smiled. “You found your name.”

  Ara nodded. “I did.”

  “Now go find the rest.” Chancey bent down and picked up the broomstick once again. “I’ll slow them down.”

  “But Chancey…”

  Briton pulled Ara down the hallway as the guard’s voices grew louder.

  “Good luck…Ara,” Chancey called. Then, he raised the broomstick towards the approaching guards. Five armed men, charging down the hallway.

  “There, the boy!” one guard cried.

  Ara turned away and ran after Briton. Away from his friend. Away from the shouts and the crack of wood breaking.

  Chancey!

  Ara didn’t look back. It took all his strength to stay on his feet as he and Briton raced out the door and into the castle courtyard. The grounds were dark and empty, lit only by the castle windows. Above them, the tower bell continued ringing out the alarm. Ara and Briton ran across the courtyard, past the stables, and towards the castle gates.

  The guard at the gate looked from the castle to Briton, trying to understand the situation. “What’s going on, Master Briton?”

  “The castle is under attack,” Briton said, catching his breath. “We must get people to safety.”

  The guard looked past Briton to the chaos erupting in the castle above. “But we can’t let down the castle’s defenses.”

  “Open the gate, son.”

  “Sir, I’m not allowed to—”

  “Stop them,” a voice called out behind them. The group of guards charged out of the castle—swords in hand. “Do not let the traitors escape.”

  The gate guard drew his sword and held it out towards Briton.

  It was over. What hope there was had disappeared. Ara grabbed Briton’s arm to steady himself. Back to the tower. Back to the never-ending blood draws.

  The five guards stormed across the courtyard towards them.

  Ara had come so close. Now, he would be locked away in Castle Carmine forever, without even Briton’s lessons to offer some relief.

  No.

  Ara shot past the guard. He dug his feet into the dirt and pulled on the gate. It didn’t budge. He clawed at the wooden plank locking it in place like a trapped animal. The guard tore him away and tossed him to the ground. He drew his sword and held it over the boy. Tears filled Ara’s eyes as he lay in the dirt. I can’t go back. I can’t.

  Just then, the stable doors exploded. A stampede of horses shot across the courtyard, plowing straight through the guards. All five fell under the horses’ pounding hooves. Two more horses charged out of the stables. The great brown horse carried a rider and he pulled the white horse behind him with a rope. The rider wore the uniform of a Carmine guard, but his helmet had been removed, and his shaggy hair flew behind him in the wind.

  It was the guard, Sir Geyer.

  “Stop,” the gate guard ordered, turning his sword to the approaching Geyer. But Geyer’s horse did not slow down. The guard leaped out of the way as Geyer’s horse passed then came to a stop, kicking its front legs up and screeching wildly.

  When the great beast’s legs came back to the ground, Geyer looked down at Briton and Ara with a crooked smile on his face. “What kind of escape is this? You’re not going to get anywhere on foot.”

  He pulled the white horse forward, tossing the rope to Briton.

  “Take her,” he said.

  “Stop, traitor!” the gate guard yelled. He got halfway to his feet before Ara put him back down with a kick to the head. The guard’s helmet spun backward, blocking his vision.

  Briton and Ara hurried to the gate. Together they removed the wood plank. Ara dug his shoulder into the gate, pushing it. The heavy gate inched open. Ara pushed, his feet slipping in the dirt, but he kept pushing, inch by inch.

  “That’s good,” Geyer shouted. “Let’s go.”

  Guards called out above them; charging towards them along the castle wall. In the courtyard, two of the guards had recovered their swords and were closing in.

  Briton groaned as he pulled himself onto the white horse.

  “Your hand,” Geyer said, holding out his own gloved hand. Ara reached up and the guard pulled him up onto the back of the brown horse. “Hold on tight.”

  Geyer kicked and the horse squeezed through the gate and stormed off into the night. Something whisked by Ara with a swoosh. The sound came again, this time followed by a ding off Geyer’s armor, the blow nearly knocking them to the ground.

  “Fates!” Geyer cursed, repositioning himself on the horse. “Archers!” Geyer pulled the reins back and forth and the horse cut a zigzag pattern as more arrows whistled by. Ara felt his grip slipping; he was sliding off the back of the horse. With a grunt, he pulled himself up. He wrapped his arms around Geyer’s waist and buried his head against his armored back. Ara yelled, but his voice was lost under the horse’s hooves rac
ing down the road.

  It wasn’t until maybe a half hour later, when they were far from the noise of the castle, that Geyer slowed the pace. Ara let go of Geyer’s armor and found he could not straighten his fingers.

  After a few minutes, they heard someone approaching. Briton’s white horse raced up the road and the old man pulled it to a stop, slipping halfway off the saddle. He was panting as loud as the horse.

  “Are you okay?” Ara asked, relieved to see the old man had made it.

  “My body isn’t,” Briton said. “Haven’t ridden like that in a long time.” He arched his back, which brought a string of cracks and pops. He groaned. “Okay, I’ve never ridden like that.”

  “Are they following us?” Ara asked. He looked back down the road but saw nothing coming through the darkness.

  “They will once they figure out what happened,” Geyer said.

  “What did happen?” Ara asked. “Who were those men who attacked?”

  “Assassins,” Geyer said. “Cutthroats hired to come for you.”

  “For me?” Ara couldn’t believe it. All that mess back at the castle—the dead men, the alarms…Chancey…it had been on account of him.

  “Thank you, Sir Geyer,” Briton said, breathing normally once again. “We wouldn’t have made it if not for you.”

  “You haven’t made it yet.”

  Ara looked at the two men. They had risked their lives for him, but he still didn’t know if he could trust them. Did they want his blood all for themselves?

  “We can’t stay on the main road,” Briton said. “It’s too dangerous.”

  “Come daylight, anyway.” Geyer looked up at the night sky. “Until then, we cover as much ground as we can. Can you ride?”

  Briton nodded, with a sigh. “I’ll have to.”

  “Where are we going?” Ara asked. The castle was bad, but at least there he knew what to expect. He knew nothing of this outside world or what lay ahead for him.