“I learned from you, my King,” Nico said.
“And I learned from Otta,” Bastion said. “Did you find him, Nico?”
“He was nowhere to be found,” Nico said. “I alerted the gatekeepers to keep the gates shut, and for the regulars to garrison your towers in case of a siege.”
“Outstanding,” Bastion said.
“Oh, and I brought you a gift,” Nico said. He tossed him a pitch-black cloak, and Bastion put it on effortlessly. Nico handed him his sword, and a dagger. Bastion suited up. Seeing King Bastion well-armed and wearing black was an inspiration for every man in the grove.
“Thank you, Captain. You boys ready to set some captives free?” Bastion said.
“We are ready, Sire,” Nico said, full of pride. This was his friend, the man he knew, doing his business. Defending the kingdom like no one else could.
Emilee and the gypsy fighters that accompanied her entered the grove quickly, at that moment, causing the black riders who were not expecting them to bristle for a fight.
“Captain!” Emilee said. “We are ready.” Bastion looked at them. There were only six, and they were children. All wearing black.
“No one else has come?” Bastion said.
“They were all afraid,” Emilee said. “They do not want to face an army.”
“And you do?” Bastion said.
“We want to fight for the people of Jedikai,” Emilee said. “We want to serve and fight under you.” Bastion looked in each of their faces. Dimmie, the young boy, Emilee, the wolf killer. Jaelle, Kizzy, and Nadya. Luba, the fortune teller and healer.
“Gypsies,” Bastion said. “Will you take the charge to serve as black riders, under Nico’s command?”
“Aye,” they all said without hesitation.
“You understand that each of us will sell our own lives dearly for this cause, and that each of us could die in battle?”
“Aye,” they said. Bastion was pleased. Nathaniel had trained them well, and Bastion admired their fortitude. They were armed, too.
“Very well then,” Bastion said. “You are the gypsy branch of the black riders, and Emilee is Commander of the team.” He looked at Emilee, as she beamed from the order.
“We are going to turn this army against itself.”
“No one has seen Otta?” Nico asked everyone present.
“Captain, I think I saw him tonight,” Dimmie said.
“Where?”
“Well, I am not sure it was him, since it was near dark, but it wasn’t a gypsy.”
“Where did he go?” Nico demanded. Dimmie pointed the direction. It was exactly where Nico knew the army to be. He looked at Bastion.
“If Otta has conspired with our enemy,” Bastion said, “he will be guilty of high treason. If he is found in the enemy camp, do not kill him. Capture him.”
The group moved out, towards the army. Twenty two men, and six gypsy children- all in black, all in silence.
“You really think Otta would try to usurp the throne?” Nico whispered. It was unbelievable, but Otta had been out of character of late.
“If he has crossed me, he will hang for it,” Bastion said. The thought grieved him terribly, even though it would explain some things. His father’s brother, conspiring to take the throne, and kill Bastion? He thought of Yana, who had turned on him as well. It hurt, like nothing else.
If I die tonight, he thought, it is a better fate than to know betrayal.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Otta hurried to the army from Kaffa. He was dressed in black, having donned the cloak he brought along. Now that everything was in motion, his skill, his luck, and the cover of night were his only hope. He thought of Bastion, his poor young nephew, with the broken heart. Otta hoped that if he died tonight, that at least Bastion would understand.
He greeted a sentry on the edge of the army camp.
“I am Otta,” he said. “I have come to see Degonyat,” he said, looking over what he could see of the army. It was not as large as he would have suspected, and many of them were asleep, resting before the early morning battle they would fight. He could tell that there were some slaves among them, as he had heard. The guard led him to Degonyat’s tent, on the western fringe of the camp.
“Well, Mister Otta,” Degonyat said, coming out to meet him. “Search him,” he said. The guard checked him, as Otta willingly opened his cloak. The guard took the dagger from his belt, and checked around for any other weapons.
“It is good to meet you, Degonyat,” Otta said. “Draiman has told me much about you.”
“That dirty gypsy is worse than most of my own men!” he snorted, following it with a coarse laugh. “We are going to make Jedikai pay for their invasion of Kaffa.” Otta nodded agreement.
“The King is not fit to rule,” Otta said. “He is not much more than a boy who let a gypsy break his poor heart,” Otta scoffed. Degonyat bellowed a good laugh, at that.
“I served under the King for many years; it is a travesty, that I am not King,” Otta said.
“See?” Degonyat sneered. “We are righting a terrible wrong!”
“It was wrong of him to invade your country,” Otta said. “Like I said, the boy is not fit to rule.”
“Come, come in my tent,” Degonyat welcomed. Otta was trying not to stare at the man’s giant eyebrows, as he followed him inside.
“Have you some wine, my new friend?” Otta asked.
“Wine!” Degonyat said. “How about something harder?”
“That will do,” Otta said. “We must not drink too much before the fight.” Degonyat poured him a glass of clear liquid. “This is vodka,” he said. “They make it north of Kaffa. Try it!” Otta sniffed it. It smelled potent and horrible, but he drank it anyway, as it burned his throat. Degonyat sat next to him at the little table.
“I have always thought that gypsies were the worst,” Degonyat said. “But look at you! You sell your own nephew’s life, and your citizens, for your own gain!” Otta could tell he was testing him.
“Believe me,” Otta said, “You have not seen evil, or dirty dealing, until you have met a real politician.” Degonyat bellowed another laugh.
Otta kept a keen ear, trying to mark the passage of time, and when he could make his move.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Yana came to, trapped in the dark, with iron shackles on her wrists, and a splitting headache. She blinked, trying to get her bearings. She was in Draiman’s wagon, she was sure of that. She tugged against her bonds. They hurt. She tried to shake off her awful daze, and listen to the voices outside. Why had Draiman shackled her?
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Bastion looked out onto the spread-out army before them. He was surprised that it was not larger. They were dangerous, but beatable, Bastion decided. Most of them were at rest.
“You all have your orders,” Bastion said. “Emilee, when the fighting starts, I want your team to fight only to get free, and run.”
“Yes, Sire,” Emilee said.
Luba readied herself, with a dagger on her belt, and a bow on her back, with a quiver of arrows. She looked up at the moon, wondering of she could somehow get a read on what was to come. She could tell nothing, except that the moon was a thin, curved sliver. It offered them no light, and clouds even made the stars scarce, in the profound darkness. It was a dark time indeed, she thought. Emilee faced her, and the other gypsies, after they had separated from Nico’s men.
“After this is over,” she said, “we must save Yana.”
Bastion was already on the move. His men maneuvered to position, to begin killing sentries. If everyone did their jobs correctly, this night would end well. If not, every one of them would be dead. A silent assassin himself, Bastion slowly went to encircle the camp.
He headed for the tent on the western fringe.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
“Another drink!” Otta said.
“No more for you,” Degonyat scowled. “What kind of King are you?”
“I am no King at al
l,” Otta said. “Now give me a drink!” Degonyat looked closer at him.
“You are a Jedikai coward, just like the King,” he said. “Maybe it would just be better to kill you.” Otta smiled.
“I was just thinking the same thing about you,” he said. He held the slim, sharp metal blade that had been sewn into his pant leg, firmly in his hand under the table. He thrust it up, shoving it under Degonyat’s chin. He pulled Degonyat’s own blade from his belt in the same motion, slicing his neck, to prevent him from making another sound.
He climbed on the huge man, as he struggled and gushed blood. He leaned his own weight, to tackle him to the ground and wait for him to stop resisting. He made sure not to fall on the table, so as not to alert anyone by making noise.
Degonyat’s eyes held surprise, as Otta ended his life, gripping his mouth just to be sure. Finally he pulled back, satisfied that this man who would kill his King had met his proper end. Otta began to arm himself, with anything he could find. It wasn’t much. He was on his own, and had succeeded in cutting off the head of the attack, the leader.
Now, if only he could sneak away into the stealth of the nighttime forest, their siege would fail before it ever began. If he could not, he would fight to his own death. He looked at the dead slave trader in the dim light of the only candle still burning in the tent. The surprise in his eyes, beneath his massive eyebrows, reminded Otta. He missed being a black rider.
He braced himself to go outside.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Emilee slipped into the camp with her friends, after seeing the assassins go in first, to eliminate the sentries. The slaves were easy to spot, gathered in clusters among the sleeping men. She approached one, who was most certainly a gypsy. She put her hand over his mouth, waking him. The man looked at her, as she held a finger to her lips.
“The black riders of Jedikai are upon you,” she whispered. “We are here to set you free. Lay quiet, and arm yourself if you can. When you hear a horn blow, rise up and smite your captors. You will be a free man by morning.”
The man nodded silent agreement. Emilee moved on to the next man. The other gypsy children were nearby, delivering the same message.
As the sentries were slain by the skilled assassins of Jedikai, the army was surrounded by shadows, and glimpses of black.
Bastion moved close to the tent. There had to be at least one commander inside, or more than one, he figured. His muscles flexed in anticipation of fighting for his life, and hopefully, the satisfaction of victory.
There was only one guard, outside the tent, who had left the nearest campfire to relieve himself in the bushes. He was only a few feet away from Bastion’s position. Enough time had gone by. It was time to strike. He stepped quietly, moving to his left for a good angle, pulling his sword out. The fabric lining of his sheath silenced the metal.
He stood and swung, slicing the man’s neck open. Bastion had hit perfectly, opening his main artery and his throat, so he could make no sound. He fell forward into the bushes. The rustling leaves and branches made noise, and Bastion crouched, waiting to see if anyone had noticed. Moments passed, and no movement. He stepped towards the opening of the tent.
He leapt in, and swung his sword at the only target he saw in that instant. Otta leapt to the side, barely escaping the blade. It struck the dirt, and Bastion looked in shock, to see his uncle there. He was signaling for silence. Bastion took in the scene. Otta, dressed in black and covered in blood. A tall Moldavian man dead, eyes still open in death. He pointed his sword at Otta, who did not move.
“I had to come, my King,” Otta said. “I have been working to destroy the plot against you.”
“Were you not working against me, to take the throne?” Bastion said in disbelief.
“See for yourself,” Otta said. “I have slain the Commander of the entire army. I was going to bring the black riders with me, but I was forced to come alone. I expected to die here, coming alone. But I had to come.”
“You came here to sacrifice your life to defeat this army by yourself?” he whispered urgently.
“We may both still die, your majesty. You should not be here. I came here so you would not be in danger. To protect you. Now, we may have to fight our way out together. Just the two of us.”
“I... I thought you were against me,” Bastion said. He could feel his emotions swelling in his chest. “I thought I lost my best friend.”
“I will fight to the death to protect you, my King,” Otta said, bowing. “We must escape before we are discovered,” he said. “We cannot fight an army by ourselves.” Bastion smiled.
“I brought help.”
Bastion and Otta shook hands, standing tall. They were heavily armed and eager to act. Dressed in black, the two lifelong friends prepared to undertake the biggest fight of their lives.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Yana struggled to get free from the shackles. She had heard the Ursaris outside say things that chilled her to the core. She knew everything.
There was an army set to invade the city, and the palace.
The Ursaris, and Draiman, were slave traders.
Draiman intended to enslave Yana and kill Bastion.
It was not just for her freedom that Yana scratched for, trying to get out of the iron shackles. It was not just what she had heard them say.
It was the fact that her head was clear enough, now, to recall that she had told Draiman of the King’s passage. She had made a terrible, terrible mistake.
Somehow, she had to warn Bastion.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Emilee found her way to Luba, in the dark. They had warned who they could. Not a single one had resisted their secret. She held Luba’s hand.
A horn sounded, as Bastion blew it. He and Otta burst forth from the tent, swords in hand. Pandemonium was immediate, as the enemy soldiers were awakened by the horn as well. The entire army encampment went from fully serene, to fully madness, within just a few seconds of the horn’s shout.
Otta and Bastion slashed their enemies aggressively, giving them no time to arm themselves, or anything else. The black riders that had been killing sentries and cutting throats launched into action too, and the enemy soldiers did not know what was happening, nor did they even know who to fight.
Emilee wielded her staff, calling for her team to come to her. She was vicious, and her moves were flawless. She jammed her staff into faces, stomachs, and necks, with blinding speed.
The gypsies that had gotten the message rose up, and began to battle their own captors. Emilee guided herself and her team out of the center of battle, trying to get free.
Hundreds of warriors clashed at once, as they moved. Emilee heard the shout of a child, but could not tell who. She fought for her life furiously, as effective as any black rider could ever be. The gypsy slaves fought hard as well, for their freedom.
In an eternity of moments, the battle was over.
The slaves began to rejoice, and called out to each other. The black riders killed many soldiers, but there were many left- disarmed or wounded, and eager to offer surrender. Nico organized them, directing the freed slaves, and counting them at over a hundred.
They organized the prisoners too, and corralled them. They would march them to the stockade, to determine their fates. Two of Nico’s men were fallen, killed in battle.
“Otta?” Nico said, as Otta pulled back his hood.
“Captain,” Otta acknowledged.
“Otta got here early,” Bastion said. “He killed their Commander!”
“Sorry Captain,” Otta said to Nico. “I had to come alone.”
“You are loyal to the King?” Nico asked.
“Fiercely loyal, just as you,” Otta said. Nico looked at him.
“You look good in black, Otta,” he said with a smile.
“I only wish I could have killed that man in the tent myself,” Bastion said.
“Believe me, Sire,” Otta said, “After everything I have been through, I earned that one.”
/> “So you did, my friend.” Bastion said.
Emilee and Luba worked quickly. Dimmie was hurt, and bleeding. They pressed in to stop the bleeding, but the wound was too large, a huge gash on the outside of his leg. Kizzy and Nadya made ready with their thread and bandages.
Bastion came up to them to commend them, but saw that they were trying to help their friend. He called quickly for torches, so the girls could see what they were doing. Kizzy leaned over and spoke to Dimmie.
“This is going to hurt like hell,” Kizzy said. “But I need you to hold still. Can you be brave enough?” Dimmie nodded as he grimaced. Kizzy stitched his leg, there in the dark field of battle. Scores of men lay dead around them. Dimmie screamed at the needle weaving his flesh together, as his friends held him down. It went on, as Bastion watched in silence. He was reminded that his men rode to save lives, even entire armies. In his rage and craving for a fight, they had not just eliminated the leader, like they normally would, but had killed far more than any mission before it. He hoped never to see a night like this one again, as he heard the gypsy boy take his own pain in service to the King.
He thought of Yana- the way she cried, after Volga had stabbed her, and Bastion had saved her. He saved his city. Saved his kingdom.
If only he could save himself.
“Emilee, move Dimmie as soon as possible. Make a travois if he can’t walk. I want you all to get back to the meadows,” Bastion said.
“Nico, send some of your men to the west meadows, to make sure they are protected. At first light, we are going to destroy the Ursari,” Bastion ordered. “Otta, you are in charge of this battlefield.”
The Gypsy Queen Page 31
