by Kai Kazi
“I have a confession, Master Greendale,” he said, his voice low so that no one would overhear him. When Master Greendale smiled slightly, he took it as an invitation to continue. “I have been trained by some of the best soldiers in all of Europia, and I have learned well about swordplay, strategy and leadership. I have, however, never had the opportunity to put any of this into practice; my kingdom has been a peaceful one for many decades, and so, I have never gone into battle.” Greendale nodded, rubbing his chin,
“A dilemma, sure enough.” He said, “But one we all have to face, young prince,” he gave him a grim smile, “you’ve proven you have the mettle by your actions in the castle. You fought when others might not have.”
“I only want Avondale back,” he admitted. “I will do whatever it takes to make that happen, but still, I am frightened.” Greendale leaned closer to him.
“If you were not, Prince Aiden, you would not be human.” When the prince looked at him questioningly, he smiled and said, “I am fearful with every battle I go into. I would only be a danger to myself and to my men were I not. Fear is your friend, it shows bravery from folly, you understand?” Aiden nodded swaying, and Greendale sighed,
“Go. Get some rest. We will need a prince that is rested, not one that is about to drop on his feet.” He said, “I will wake you when it is about to begin.”
***
Metan watched the prince go below decks, realizing that he was heading for some rest but wondering how he could rest when they were getting ready to head into battle. He saw Master Greendale, who many in the kingdom idolized for his skill as a knight and for his kindness, look wistfully at a chain he had pulled from around his neck and bring it to his lips. He guessed – correctly, it turns out – that the necklace was likely from Greendale’s beloved wife Fiona. Metan and the other youth that had been recruited into the army to fight the dragon had heard about the love story between Fiona, who had been a maid in the castle from the time she was a teenager, and the usually stoic Master Greendale. Master Greendale’s life had been completely upended when he fell for the lovely young maiden, and the story was that the top royal guardian was now showing something of a softer side. He was still as fierce in battle as ever, but the ferocity was tempered by his love that he now felt free to express. Metan could only imagine how his devotion to his family would drive him in battle, and that he would become even more determined to come home safely from every battle.
He could only hope.
A rowboat pulled alongside them, and a strange man boarded, talking with Master Greendale for a few moments before simply returning to his boat. Metan kept his head down, and prayed for a swift end to the battle.
***
“Your majesty!” Ibrahim gasped, staggering into the library as if his shadow was after him. Drakho licked his lips and stretched his legs out,
“Ibhrahim, what is it?” He sighed; he had been thinking of Shaitani, and of Avondale, and of the future.
“There are ships in the distance, heading for the bay.” He said, “They are flying the colors of Avondale and Archibald.”
“Archibald has no army left.” Drakho snorted,
“Scouts think the prince is aboard.” Ibrahim said, and Drakho sat forward,
“Really,” he said, “that is something.” He laughed, “I was sure the boy was dead after Jan was done with him.”
“Apparently not,” Ibhrahim said, “will I get Serj?”
“No. Get Shaitani.” Drakho said, Ibrahim nodded, hesitating,
“Crinna’s back. Wants to see you.” He said, Drakho quirked a brow,
“Show him in then.” Drakho said. And there he was, tail between his legs,
“I was wrong.” He said, “I want in.”
Admitting he was pleased would have been too much, though Crinna was one of his oldest advisors and friends.
“You’ll have to earn it.” He said,
“Front and center, chief?” Crinna said with a half laugh; the killing ground was where the fresh meat proved themselves. Crinna would survive that, and earn glory while he was at it. No, he needed something inglorious and out of the way,
“Guard the dungeon entrance.” He said, “And wait for relief.”
“What?” Crinna frowned, “That’s a fucking insult-”
“I know.” Drakho said, “Hop to it.” Crinna skulked from the room, avoiding Shaitani as she slinked in,
“They are here.” She said, and it wasn’t a question. Drakho nodded,
“You saw this coming?”
“It was inevitable.” She shrugged, slipping into his lap,
“And you didn’t think to prepare me?” He hissed, but she was sliding her hands between his legs. “This is hardly the time.” He said, smirking,
“Is there a better?” She purred, and for a moment he was tempted, he always was when it came to her, but the first crack of canon fire broke the moment and Drakho stood, tipping her from his lap.
“It has begun.” He said with fierce excitement.
CHAPTER XIX
The first crack of the canons made Avondale jump; the sound was unmistakable, and could only mean one thing. Her father was here. They had been a gift to him from the college of Magus, and were mounted on his flagship. She looked up at the slit window which was their only source of light and fresh air.
“What the hell was that?” Sonja frowned, raising her head,
“My father is here.” She said, “With whatever is left of Archibald’s army.” The other girls sat up, looking to the window,
“Then we’re getting out of here.” One of them said,
“If they don’t slaughter us first.” Sonja said, jaw set against the fear that Avondale had come to realize lay just below the surface of her bravado.
Avondale grimaced,
“We need to get out of here.” She said after some time, “Don’t we?”
“Yes.” One of the Everglade girls, Marjolaine, said. The others nodded and there was a moment of fearful, thoughtful silence. Avondale struggled to her feet, the rough-spun dress scratching her sensitive skin.
“I have an idea.” She said, but her face must have shown on her face,
“You’re going to see him?” Sonja asked, and she nodded,
“Maybe I can barter for your lives.” She said, shaking her head, “I don’t know.” She said, “I have to do something.”
“It might not work,” Sonja said, “it’s a big risk to take.”
“What’s the alternative?” Avondale asked. Sonja nodded,
“There’s that.” She said, and rested a hand on Avondale’s shoulder. “I’d say go with the Gods… but I fear they can’t see us here.”
Avondale leaned on the door and called through the bars,
“Guard.” Her voice echoed, “Tell the Vlad I am ready to think about his proposal.” No answer came, and eventually she sank to the floor, fearing that he had discarded her and her one chance to save the women held here.
“Come on then?” The sympathetic guard, Dran his name was, seemed to appear from the darkness. He unlocked the door and pulled her out. “Sure you know what you’re doing?” He asked suddenly, as they entered the lower corridors,
“No.” She said, and he seemed to smile at that,
“Your funeral.” He said, “Not that you’ve earned it.” Avondale looked at the side of his face; it was a heavy profile, but she fancied that he had kind eyes despite it all. It was the kind of face, she decided, that had children somewhere. The kind of face that had not meant to be caught in all of this, but who would see it to the end because that was his way.
“It’s not your fault.” She said suddenly, the same words Sonja had said to her, but this time they sounded like an accusation. Dran looked at her as he opened the door,
“I know.” He said.
“Princess.” Drakho said in the same nonchalant, arrogant way he had the first night she had sat before him. He seemed not to notice the weight she had lost, the smell of her unwashed body, or her g
reasy hair as he closed the distance and kissed her knuckles.
“I… want you to take care of me.” She said, “You were right. I deserve more than what Aiden can give me. I need your protection.” She said, looking up into his face. His eyes were so unlike those she remembered, even from the meeting with her and Aiden’s fathers; they were glazed and dull. As though he was present, but unmoved by the world around him.
“I knew you would come around.” He said with a lopsided smile, and how his eyes sparkled for a moment, “But I’m afraid, darling that I have to deal with your father. Call the Dragon, Shaitani.” He looked over her shoulder, and she turned in time to see the cold woman slink out with fire in her eyes. And they were alone, and that hurt more than it should have. Avondale shivered; the plan she came with was in tatters. But he wasn’t interested in her; he was slipping away to the battle, to her father, to the other women, to Aiden.
“Don’t leave.” She cried, fear and desperation clear in her voice; she could only hope he was arrogant enough to misread it. She pressed herself to his back and swallowed the disgust that was pushing up her throat, “Make love to me… I… couldn’t bear it if,” she said, faltering, “you died and there was no child… I did not do as you said.”
That stopped him. He turned with a smile, but it was hard and suspicious,
“Could you not?” He said, eyes narrowing as he stepped forward. Avondale backed away, “what made you realize this?” Avondale floundered,
“I… I’ve been here for over a week, and no… help has come.” She said, “They can’t protect me,” she tried to push her love for Aiden into her eyes, “but you would have. You’re right. He’s a boy.” The Vlad’s, Drakho’s, eyes widened, and once again Avondale marveled at how dull they had become. A smile spread unevenly across his face; if he was himself, she thought, this might not have worked. If he was himself… would he have attacked her? He leaned down to kiss her, and it was all she could do to stay still rather than recoiling. Drakho seemed not to notice, pushing forward into the one-sided kiss; only when he seemed to falter could she bring her leaden arms around his neck. As he maneuvered her back her mind began to fly away from her body in a panicked move of self-preservation; her body would stay with him, but she need not be present in mind. It would be over soon, if experience had taught her anything.
But he seemed determined to drag it out this time, as if he was trying to be tender. As if she were his wife, and not his captive. Avondale fought to keep her body relaxed, struggled to breath; this was not for her own sake, she desperately repeated in her mind. She thought of those women in the dungeons, of her father and Aiden. As long as the Vlad was here with her he could not send forth the dragon. So she grit her teeth behind a rigor-mortis smile and let him believe, for now, that he had won.
The canons fired below, into ranks of advancing men and demons, no doubt, but they sounded distant to her.
***
In the bowels of the castle a lone guard crept through the shadows with no torch to guide his way, and yet he moved with the confidence of someone who knew the corridors as well as those in his own mind. When he reached the target door, he unlocked it and slipped inside without ceremony. From the inky abyss a small, hard fist connected with his jaw, bearing him to the ground as the goddess of war behind it appeared with blood on her chin and hell in her eyes,
“I’m letting you free, you crazy bitch.” He hissed, and the woman stopped, her thighs clamped around his neck as she pressed hard enough to make the bones creak,
“Why?” She hissed,
“I need a distraction.” He said, “The Vlad’s going to die.” She sat back on him, kept him in place with her strong legs and a makeshift weapon. He throbbed with pain, arousal, and admiration.
“Why?”
“I have my reasons. I love this country, and he’s not right for it.”
The silence drew out, long and dangerous as a blade,
“We’ll need weapons.” She said finally, “If we’re to stand a chance.”
He pressed a key into her hand and hissed,
“The armory.”
And then she was gone. He stayed on the ground as the others filed by, and followed, locking the door behind him to buy precious time.
***
As he heard the thunk of wood against stone, Metan’s muscles tensed. He knew that the word to attack would come shortly; the canons had been firing onto the beach for hours, but the tide of demons and trained soldiers kept coming. This is what he had trained for from the moment he joined, or rather was conscripted into by his own father, the military.
Master Greendale glanced at Prince Aiden, who looked slightly more refreshed after a brief repose. Metan had seen something pass between them many times over the course of the voyage, but could never decide just what it was. The ex-Guardian of the princess Avondale was an imposing figure, though, and Metan took comfort in his present. Suddenly the deck went silent and Master Greendale turned to them,
“Knights of the kingdoms of Avondale and of Archibald,” he began. “Our moment is at hand. We need to bring with us the spirit of all those warriors of Brookshire, Aleadale and Archibald that fell before us so that we can defeat our common enemy. This is an enemy that threatens our very existence and our entire world. For the love of the freedom that we have all enjoyed and the freedom we wish for our families to enjoy – ” He cleared his throat, gathering himself once more. “We do this for them. We do this because we want our families to live and thrive as they once did. We do this for the love of Europia. Raise your swords and remember – for Europia!” he bellowed, his green gaze flaming with determination.
“For Europia!” came the rallying cry from every side; Metan flinched, swallowed by the volume and ferocity of the cry. His leg muscles tremble with the sudden surge of adrenaline as he and the other knights, led by Prince Aiden and Master Greendale, began to disembark from the ships in droves only to be greeted by a horde of demonic knights who were instantly ready for them. Metan had no time to register any fear; the knights, both demonic and otherwise, were on top of them, ready to kill as they cut through the crew of the Gidown like a hot knife through butter.
Fear and adrenaline throbbed like electricity through Metan. He longed for the quiver and bow now, for the quiet walks through the woods near the family farm, and to be rid of the elegantly barbaric swords that were nestled between his shoulder blades. He detested the blade, knowing exactly how close he would have to be to swing it and be effective. Metan knew how the blades could save his life; the warriors of Bledd were rumored to be incredibly bloodthirsty and more than capable of causing trouble for any man. He swallowed against a suddenly dry throat, feeling the heat of his father’s breath as he leaned forward. This would be his father’s last battle; at nearly fifty years, he was one of the deadliest warriors on this warship, with an array of magnificent scars from multiple battles. He was simply not as swift as he once was; the king of Avondale granted Sarar this one last honor because of his acclaim, and his insistence that he be of use. His muscles still twitched in anticipation of the bloodbath that was sure to come, and Metan was fairly certain that his father, a well-respected commander, was eager to see that the kingdom of Bledd in ruin when the sun set on this day.
“May the honor of Avondale be forever in your heart,” his father rumbled into his ear, “and remember to keep your guard up…” for once Sarar looked unsure, “I love you, son.” He said before unsheathing his sword. He looked every inch the ultimate warrior, his face fierce, dark eyes glinting for a split-second in the moonlit night. He screamed, a timeworn battle cry that Metan had never heard from him until now. He gulped, then mimicked his father’s move, his own battle cry drowned out by those of the other warriors.
He hit the beach, and ducked as a volley of arrows soared towards him, using his shield before he could race ashore with the rest of his battalion. He realized, perhaps too late, that the warriors of Vlad were waiting for them. As he lowered his shield, he brought hi
s sword up just in time to hear the vicious clang of steel on steel as several of the Wallachian Knights quickly dispatch several of his fellow warriors. He swung wildly, ducking just in time as an enemy blade arced at his neck. He felt his blood sing in his ears, felt the prickles of perspiration on his face. The first knight he faced without instant repercussion was a young man, wiry and red-haired. He could have been Metans neighbor, and that tought stayed his blade as the more experienced warrior charged. The Lady of Luck was watching Metan, however, and the knight was felled by a rogue arrow.
Metan did what no-one else could; he dropped his heavy shield and sword before turning back to the surf, away from the oncoming enemy. His light leather armor dragged some, but he was an able swimmer and fought the swell until it did just what he needed it to; it thrust him to the sheer cliffs below the castle. When first he was slammed against the cliffs he could find no purchase, and was pushed under the grey waters, but the second time he managed to grip the jagged rocks there, fingers protesting the cold and hard granite. He hauled himself upward with the swell, using the momentum to ease his passage until it no longer reached him. Then the arduous climb began in earnest.
The moonlight, when it peered from the clouds, turned the cliffs to marble and made Metan frighteningly visible. Every moment he waited for pain in his legs, in his back, signaling that arrow. And what would he do at the top, he wondered. Would he find his own men, or more demons? He looked up in time to see a fireball fly overhead, no doubt aimed at the ships below. Metan stopped on a small, wind beaten ledge and looked behind to the sigh of the kings flagship foundering in the foaming seas. The magnificent canons now silent; the battle had begun in earnest.
