by John Marco
As the bolt struck his neck, Colonel Craiglen released his dagger. He felt his legs go slack and the current take him. His eyes fluttered, but for an instant he watched his enemy on the rock, sagging with death.
Unable to stay alive, Craiglen stopped trying. He let the river carry him away.
Aric waited helplessly at Raxor’s side. While the moon swept overhead, he counted the hours going by as the battle continued. King Raxor had refused to fall back, even as the mercenaries forded the river and the battle for the central bridge raged on. Wave after wave of cavalrymen had been sent to the bridge, but so far they had been unable to secure it or beat back their outnumbered enemy. Aric chaffed atop his horse, eager to get into the fight. Mostly ignored by Raxor, he listened as the king took council from his lieutenants and listened gravely to reports from the north and south, where the fighting continued. Raxor had already sent most of his reserves to the main bridge. He had come to the Kryss with nearly ten-thousand men, but throughout the night that number had dwindled. Raxor’s face glistened with sweat and twisted with a kind of disbelief. Aric, however, was stoic, and could easily believe the carnage his father was causing.
Reports from the main bridge told of the slaughter. Baron Glass and his mercenaries had somehow held out against the Reecian onslaught. A handful of men had so far returned, running messages to and from the bridge. Each of them told of Baron Glass in his armour and how he was holding the bridge nearly single-handedly. Raxor scoffed at the reports, refusing to look at Aric. Instead he sent more of his men into the fight, even as the Norvan free-lances forded the river and threatened their southern flank.
The catapults had fallen silent. The only light came from the torches and the waning moon. In the darkness, the noise of battle seemed louder, deafening Aric, driving him to ride in impatient circles. Despite the king’s bravado, he knew that only retreat could save the day. Dreadfully he watched as the reserves dwindled, slowly drained by his father’s ragtag army.
‘My lord,’ he said at last. ‘Will you listen to me now? Is it not as I have told you?’
Old King Raxor refused to hear him. ‘I have lieutenants, Aric Glass.’
‘And what do they tell you? They’re being slaughtered! Craiglen’s dead, my lord. The north bridge is already lost.’
‘We can retake it,’ said Raxor foolishly.
‘They’re coming across the river!’
‘They are out-numbered!’ Raxor raged. He looked possessed suddenly, staring blankly at Aric through the torchlight. ‘This can’t be.’
‘My lord, it is,’ said Aric, his heart breaking for this old man. ‘If—’
A soldier galloped up between them, jerking back his horse to face the king. Like most of Raxor’s army he was young, and the fight had given him a wild, untamed look. Dirt and blood soiled his armour. Lather flowed from the mouth of his depleted horse. He got the king’s attention at once.
Through laboured breath, he said, ‘Word from the north. The line has broken. The baron’s men have regrouped and overrun us. Jakel asks for your orders.’
Jakel, who had taken over for the dead Craiglen, had been a tent-mate of Aric’s, a surly major with a chest-full of medals. To hear him asking for permission to retreat chilled Aric.
‘Hold the line,’ Raxor ordered. He glanced at Aric, then added, ‘As long as you can.’
‘My lord, Major Jakel says it won’t be much longer.’
‘As long as you can!’ Raxor railed, dismissing the soldier with a wave.
Aric watched the trooper ride off, back toward the carnage up north. It would not be long now until the battle was over. Unbelievably, it had only taken hours. He looked toward the main bridge, toward his father. Shrouded in darkness, he could barely see the outskirts of the battle.
‘I have to go,’ he said suddenly. He looked at King Raxor. ‘My lord, I have to go.’
Raxor took his meaning and frowned. ‘Stay,’ he ordered.
‘I have to see my father, my lord. I have to try and talk to him.’
‘Stay!’
‘No! If you won’t call retreat, it’s the only way!’
Ignoring Raxor’s calls to stop, Aric bolted off, driving through the darkness toward the bridge. He passed the catapults and the frightened page boys, and then the archers dug into their makeshift trenches, most of whom had already stopped firing. The battle was thick for both sides now, too close for arrows or catapults now. As he galloped toward the meˆle´e, Aric wondered what he would find at the bridge and what possible thing he could say to his father. There was a man inside the Devil’s Armour still, he was sure of it. If he could reach him . . .
The bridge came into view. Aric slowed his horse. Along the river bank men clashed with swords and axes as the chain of mercenaries continued pulling themselves ashore. Bodies and fallen horses polluted the field. The maddening sound of screams and clanging metal boomed in Aric’s skull. He drew his sword and forced his horse into the thick of it, muscling past the Reecians gathered near the bridge. Some had yet to find an enemy, though hordes of Norvans and handfuls of Liirians had come across the river. To Aric, it seemed that the bridge was already lost, for the Reecians had been shattered into pockets, their discipline destroyed as they vainly fought to hold their line. Confused, Aric craned his neck to see the bridge, to find his father in all the chaos. Bit by bit he drew closer to the bridge, taking cover behind the Reecian cavalry. At last the crown of the bridge came into view. Choked with fighting men, one man in particular stood out from the rest.
Aric froze. He stared at the man, aghast but unable to look away. There was his father, giant and fierce, with dark armour glowing and writhing on his body, slick with gore and madly wielding his massive sword. Around him lay the dead, piled high, oozing blood that flowed down the bridge like water. There was no face to the man, just the deathmask of a helmet, jeering as its two horns jutted up like knives. The spikes of his armour moved with life, as did the tiny figures carved within its breastplate. Joyously the armoured man cut down those who came against him, effortlessly slaughtering them as their weapons slid harmlessly off his person.
Not a man, thought Aric in horror. A monster.
The bridge had become a slaughterhouse. His father, the butcher. And suddenly Aric’s mission seemed the worst of folly. There could be no talking to his father now. His father was gone.
‘Fall back!’ he cried. ‘Retreat! Retreat, now!’
But the soldiers ignored him. Frustrated, Aric hurried his horse about and galloped back the way he’d come, toward King Raxor and the safety of the reserves. In his mind burned the image of his father on the bridge, and as he rode hot tears stung his eyes. He had seen war before, but this was different. This was hell itself.
He found Raxor where he’d left him, still huddled with advisors beneath his royal banner. The king looked up anxiously as Aric rode toward him. An air of defeat hung over them all. Aric brought his horse to a stop and flung himself off its back and strode quickly to Raxor. Wiping the tears from his face he dropped to his knees.
‘Retreat, my lord,’ he pleaded. ‘Retreat before it’s too late.’
Raxor lost his steely expression. His advisors gaped.
‘What of your father, boy?’ the king queried.
‘My father’s dead,’ Aric spat. ‘There’s a monster that calls himself my father and that’s all.’ He pointed toward the bridge. ‘Go and see for yourself!’
‘Get on your feet,’ Raxor told him. His face began to collapse. ‘Please . . .’
Aric was nearly sobbing now. He rose unsteadily, never taking his eyes off the king.
‘My lord, please,’ he begged. ‘There’s no chance. My father is a horror. Let him have the bloody bridges! Give him the whole damn river. Just go!’
Raxor’s aides watched in silence, but their faces told the old king their feelings. The north bridge was already lost, and word from the south was little better. The truth slowly dawned on Raxor’s face.
‘My lord? Will
you call retreat? For the sake of everything, will you?’
King Raxor looked vacantly at the horizon. His son had died today, and his closest friend, too. To Aric, he looked far older than he ever had before.
‘Give the order,’ he told his aides. ‘Baron Glass has won.’
31
Princess Salina had never been happier than during her days with Aztar. Despite the sun and dust, despite the chores she had been given to help in camp, she had found an oasis in the burning desert, a place not at all like her plush existence back in Ganjor. Each day she awoke to a simple meal, spending time tending to the animals or helping with the children. Though she could not cook the way other women could, Salina helped with the bread or stirred pots, learning things she had never learned at the knee of her royal mother. Then, when her chores were done, she would spend time with Aztar, and they would walk together through the outskirts of the camp. And sometimes, when the mood struck him, he would read love poems to her by moonlight.
As the days passed, Salina learned that the ‘Tiger of the Desert’ was more – and less – than the fierce warrior he portrayed. Surrounded by his loyal Voruni, he did not feed off their adoration in the way Salina had expected. Rather, he was contemplative and private, yet willing to let her into his little world to see the man behind the legend and his burned, ruined face. In his camp, Salina quickly forgot about her father and the life she had left behind, revelling in the simplicity of washing her own clothes and the brilliance of a sunset.
On the night of her tenth day in camp, Salina went to sleep dreaming of surprises, for Aztar had told her that a surprise awaited her the next morning. As always, she went to sleep in her bed next to Harani, the Voruni woman who had greeted her that first day in camp. It had not taken long for Salina and Harani to become friends, and Salina was grateful for all the young woman’s kindnesses. What little Salina had learned so far about cooking and mending clothes she had learned from Harani.
That night, Salina succumbed quickly to sleep, tired from her long day in the desert. When morning dawned, however, she was awake to greet it, bathing quickly from the rose water jug always ready near her bedside. She brushed her hair, put on one of Harani’s prettiest dresses, then shared a quick meal with the other women while she waited for Aztar’s surprise. The Voruni prince did not keep her waiting long. Once she had finished breaking her fast, Aztar appeared outside her tent, riding a strapping black drowa. He had dressed for the unknown occasion too, wearing a splendid white gaka with flowing scarlet leggings, cinched around his waist by a braided belt of gold. His face, which was not hidden behind his gaka, looked refreshed and coy as he smiled down at Salina.
‘Have you eaten?’ he asked.
Salina stepped away from Harani and the others. ‘I have.’
‘Good, because it is a long ride.’
‘To where?’
‘You shall see.’ He stretched down his hand for her. ‘Come.’
In their brief time together they had yet to ride on the same drowa. Salina felt a thrill at the prospect as she took his hand. With one powerful yank he pulled her up, helping her onto the drowa’s back. Quickly she wrapped her arms around his waist as she settled in behind him.
‘This is your surprise?’ she asked.
‘Yes. No more questions, now. Enjoy the ride.’
Curious, Salina waved good-bye to Harani and the other women as Aztar spun the beast around and headed out of camp. There were bags hanging from the drowa’s tack, which Salina supposed held food and other supplies. If they were going far they would need water, but she decided not to worry about that. Aztar would have everything covered, she was certain. So she tried to relax as the drowa loped forward, leaving behind the camp and heading south toward the distant mountains. Aztar said nothing to her as they rode, keeping up his coyness as the camp disappeared behind them and the dunes took over, obscuring the horizon in places with their undulating humps. Because it was still morning the sun was not yet hot, and the breeze felt cold as it caressed Salina’s face. She smiled, loving the mystery of being taken away, and placed her cheek against Aztar’s back.
They were in love. They had already confessed it to each other. Soon – be it a day from now or a month – her father would come looking for her, and though Salina dreaded that day it did nothing to lessen her love for the man who had rescued her. Aztar had risked everything to keep her safe. It was hard not to love a man like that.
‘Tell me where we are going,’ she said into his ear. Playfully she kissed him. ‘To have your way with me?’
‘Hush, girl.’ Aztar brushed aside her advance. ‘I do not have to carry you away for that.’
‘No,’ purred Salina, ‘you don’t.’
She put her hand to his chest and felt his heartbeat. She imagined it racing the way her own did when they spoke of such things. Aztar took her hand and brought it to his mouth, kissing it.
‘You’ll see soon,’ he told her. ‘Be patient.’
Patience had never been a virtue of Salina’s, but she settled in as best she could and watched as the landscape began to change around them. They had gone from the hard earth of the camp to the soft, blowing sands of the desert, but now the world was changing again, becoming jagged and studded with stones. Salina looked over Aztar’s shoulder and saw a stand of hills in the distance covered with shrubbery, the kind of hearty plants that thrived in the dry desert. Beyond the shrubs were a few taller trees, and beneath the shade of these trees some flowers bloomed, bursting with colour against the desolation.
An oasis, thought Salina happily, like the one she had taken refuge in. And like that one in the north, this oasis must have had water. Salina could tell by the way the trees had grown in circles, taller at the centre of the oasis and thinning out along its outskirts. The place was small, yet lovely and welcoming, and seeing it made the princess smile. She glanced over her shoulder and realized that their camp was miles away, and that she and her lover were truly all alone.
‘It’s beautiful,’ she said with a sigh.
‘It is,’ Aztar agreed. ‘It is a place I come to sometimes, to be alone and think. But the oasis is not the surprise, Salina. There’s something else.’
‘What else?’
‘Wait,’ directed Aztar.
He slowed the drowa as they entered the oasis. Wide-eyed, Salina took in its beauty. The fronds of a tiny palm brushed her shoulder as they rode past. Salina reached out for it and grabbed a handful of its delicate leaves, letting them tumble like sand from her fingers. Beneath them, the ground was sugary-white. Trickles of water from a bubbling spring meandered through the glassy stones. Salina took a breath, filling her nose with the sweetness of flowers. The palms overhead knitted a canopy to shade them.
‘This is a special place,’ said Aztar. ‘There is something very rare here that I want to show you. It should be the time.’
He had piqued Salina’s interest now. She urged him to stop the drowa so they could get down. He did so, then followed her down off the back of the beast, dropping into the soft sand. Salina put out her hands and felt the glorious breeze on her face and the sunlight dappling through the palms. The gentle music of the spring plied through the oasis. She knelt and took up a handful of the water snaking between her feet, tasting it.
‘Sweet,’ she said with a smile. ‘It’s so clear!’
‘Like a diamond it sparkles,’ said Aztar, squatting beside her. He too tasted the water, cupping up a man-sized handful. When he was done he ran his wet hands through his dark hair. To Salina he looked fabulous, just as striking as their surroundings. She never saw his burns when she looked at him, only his eyes, which were always filled with love. She nudged him with her elbow.
‘So? What is this surprise, then? Not the oasis.’
‘No, not the oasis.’ Aztar glanced to his left where a hill rose up to border the greenery. ‘Over there,’ he said, and took her hand.
Salina let him guide her deeper into the oasis, and when they reached the hil
l they rounded it, stepping out into a tiny meadow of grass and flowers. Thorn stuck her legs as they entered the grass. She cried out in protest, but Aztar urged her on.
‘No, come with me,’ he told her gently. ‘It’s not far.’
‘What are we looking for?’
He took her a few more steps into the grass, then paused. With a great smile on his face he said, ‘That.’
Salina followed his finger to what looked like a rose bush sprouting out of the hillside. It stood alone, defiantly breaking through the rock, full of thorns and twisted shoots. Its leaves were tear-shaped and spiky, a waxy, deep green that sparkled in the sunlight. Its roots pulled out of the earth in spots, holding fast to the difficult ground. There were no buds along its limbs, nothing at all to make it remarkable.
Except for its single, fabulous flower.
Proudly bursting from its crown sat a perfectly formed bloom with bright, multi-coloured petals and two fuzzy stamen that seemed to move with life in the breeze. Mostly orange, the flower sported reds and yellows as well, blushing its petals like gentle brushstrokes. Big as a hand, the flower somehow balanced on the delicate limb, held up like a prize by the bush. Salina stopped breathing when she saw it.
‘That’s it,’ Aztar whispered. ‘That’s why I brought you here.’
Salina took a step toward it, forgetting the thorns that clawed at her legs. ‘I’ve never seen such a thing! What is it, Aztar? A rose?’
‘We call it a rainbow kiss,’ said Aztar. ‘It’s a Voruni flower. I don’t think it grows anywhere but this part of the desert.’
He was still whispering, as if to talk too loud would somehow damage the fragile bloom. Salina stopped edging toward it, but could not pull her eyes away.
‘A rainbow kiss.’ She smiled. ‘Yes.’
