Sword and Sorcery of Avondale

by Kai Kazi

  CHAPTER XX

  “My Vlad,” a guard tore Drakho from his preoccupation with the princess, “the Avondale knights are pushing their way through the advance guard.” He stared briefly at Avondale, pinned beneath him, shaking around him but frustratingly clothed and almost painfully dry. She was shivering. Drakho smiled; she had wanted him all along. He knew she would come around. “And the girls have escaped the dungeon.” His blood ran cold,

  “What?” He hissed, staring at Avondale, but she said nothing. Did nothing, could she have…? She did not blanche; she had no guilt.

  “My lord.” The guard pushed, and his head snapped around, “What should we do.”

  “Call my advisors.” He said, “And ready the dragon.”

  Avondale closed her eyes, a tear escaping,

  “Stay here.” He said, “I will return.”

  “I should come with you.” She gasped, “I… please, I can help!” He laughed,

  “No. Stay.” He kissed her lips, touching her rigid shoulders, “You have nothing to fear.” She nodded, head jerking a little.

  The throne room was already full of his advisors,

  “Men.” He said, “What is it we are facing?”

  “The ships are sinking, my lord,” Serj said, “but they have armored knights and managed to pull some siege weaponry ashore before the ships sank.”

  “The advance guard was too small, my Vlad,” the Duke Bendoch said, “but the Duke Rothsay and his forces have been spotted on the horizon.” Drakho nodded,

  “Then we need not send out more men,” he said,

  “If they breach the door-”

  “They will still be flanked.” He said simply,

  “The princesses have escaped,” Serj said, voice laden with implication, “and Crinna is nowhere to be seen.”

  “Have him found and flayed.” Drakho snorted, “the fool has no idea what he has done.” But it stung; his father’s friend. His oldest advisor. “Where is Shaitani?”

  “Preparing a ritual of some kind.” Serj said, “she wanted your presence when you have the time.” Drakho nodded, rapping his knuckles on the throne.

  “Find Crinna, and bring him to me when you do. Gather the unchanged Royal Guards, too.” He said as he swept from the room.

  The ritual room was full to the brim with whimpering girls and children,

  “What is this?” He said, and Shaitani turned to him, as she had that first night,

  “Since you could not keep the girls,” she sneered, “I have provided a back-up.” Drakho flushed with rage,

  “I-”

  “You were too busy rutting the princess Avondale.” Shaitani snarled, “but it is of no consequence. We can still make this happen, little Vlad, if you do as told.” Drakho licked his lips and swallowed his wrath,

  “What must I do?” He said, “Will I live?”

  “Who knows.” She said, “The princesses are gone,” she shrugged, “without Royal blood you cannot be made immortal, but pure blood will still guard. You may survive this and choke on a piece of meat.” She dropped something into the boiling pot with a click of her teeth, “But only time will tell that.” Drakho drew in a breath,

  “So what must I do?”

  “These girls will feed the dragon,” she waved to one side of the room, and one of them wailed, “and he will do your work. These girls will provide the energy to change your remaining guard. And these will give you strength. You will stay in your throne room, and change the men and yourself when the Avondale Guardians and the Prince find you. The prince must live. I have a use for him.”

  Drakho looked to the girls. It was a shame; they had provided distraction from time to time. But needs must.

  ***

  Metan scrabbled quickly up the side of the cliff, his heart practically pounding in his ears. His muscles were aflame with the effort he was putting forth, and he just prayed that the Knights wouldn’t see him. His hopes that he would be able to scale his way to safety without being noticed were short-lived; arrows zinged past, bouncing off the rock with a soft yet deadly dink. One barely missed his head; another, his hand as he was reaching for a handhold. He quickly discovered, though, that musculature wasn’t enough; an arrow soon found its mark, finding a weak spot through his armor simply by chance. Somehow, Metan managed not to howl out from the sheer agony of the wound; somehow, he threw his now-weak arm up, scrabbling for a handhold at the top of the cliff, where the mountainside castle was. It was enough. Sucking in a ragged breath, he hurled himself upwards, sprawling flat on the ground with his breath rasping heavily.

  Closing his eyes, he reached over and yanked at the shaft of the arrow, nearly passing out from the fiery pain that surged through every fiber of his body. Of course, the arrowhead was still neatly lodged in his shoulder, but the shaft broke off tight to his skin. He breathed raggedly for a couple of minutes, feeling the heat of shameful tears in his eyes as he fought down the pain and fear. Metan staggered to his feet, trying to regain his balance. He didn’t have much time, though; he heard a low rumbling growl. He drew one of his swords, still feeling staggered, and stared at the huge dog that was pawing the ground and staring at him fiercely. Before he could fully recover the steel jaws clamping around his armored forearm. He tried hammering on the dog’s head with the hilt of his sword, but he might as well have been hammering on solid iron. The dog was not letting go. Metan swung with his sword, flailing desperately. He heard the thwack of metal tearing through flesh and hitting bone, and judging from the stifled howl, he knew he’d made a successful hit. It was not enough; he was dragged to the ground, shaken like a doll until the pressure suddenly slackened. He opened his eyes to the flash of golden armor, he gasped. It was one of his kingdom’s famous royal guardians.

  “My lord,” he breathed. The royal guardian seemed to stare down at him, his gaze inscrutable as Metan finally struggled to his feet. He swept his golden helmet off his head, revealing dark curls. His seemingly luminescent green eyes revealed his identity immediately to Metan. Broad shoulders, sharp, angular features, his face battleworn and smudged with fatigue; Metan knew that this was none other than Master Greendale that had come to his rescue, though he was uncertain yet again as to why one of the royal guardsmen had chosen to join the crew of the Gidown. Metan stared wordlessly at his savior for a few moments, their collective breaths hanging hot in the cool night air between them. Finally, a mixture of curiosity and awe prompted Metan to ask,

  “Master Greendale, why have you joined this humble crew?” The grim smile seemed to flash through Master Greendale’s bright gaze before it ghosted across his lips.

  “Young sir, it is because the very honor of our people is at stake.” His gaze flicked to the rapidly assembling mass of soldiers standing a few meters away. “Care you to join your fellow warriors?” Much as Metan did not want to continue with this war, he knew the consequences to he and his family should he turn down the royal guardian’s request. He knew it was more of an order, but he had no more intention of declining Master Greendale’s invitation than he did of entering the cave of a dragon. He obediently took his place with his fellow Avondale warriors, ready to storm the castle.

  “My Lord,” Metan asked, “where is the siege equipment.” Master Greendale laughed,

  “My boy, many will tell you of the honors of war. The only honor is in survival.” He said eventually. Metan nodded, not comprehending, and jumped as the great drawbridge came crashing down. No men rushed to meet them, the sentries cried out; they had been taken by surprise.

  “Infiltration?” He breathed,

  “Of a sort.” Master Greendale replaced his helmet and set off at a charge without preamble, a volley of flaming arrows rained down on them, piercing some of the armor. Inhuman screams pierced the air, and while Metan did not flinch at the sound as he once had done, he was still unnerved to realize that the sounds were from the very men that surrounded him. It was the sound of dying, one that Metan had never heard, and he briefly hoped that he would never
hear the sound again. The smell of burning flesh began to pervade the air around him. Metan scarcely noticed the pain in his shoulder anymore as he ran with his fellows; the weight of the other men drew him to the ground, and when he looked up he noted the open doors of the great hall. Open as if in invitation or challenge.

  Metan crawled on his belly through the struggling men, whispering a prayer to every God he could name as he waited to be pinned to the ground like a bug in a case. No sword came, however, and he made his way to the central fountain, clambering into it. As he turned to look at the fray he saw, with a sinking heart a throng of men charging into the courtyard in the armor and regalia of Bledd. They swept into the fray, but Metan found himself blinking owlishly when they began to slaughter their own. A tall, proud looking man came in on horseback, leaning to fell a man fighting Master Greendale,

  “Rothsay.” Greendale barked, “You’re late.”

  “I had trouble on the road, Crinna let you in?”

  “Aye,” Greendale grunted as he thrust his sword into an oncoming knight, “your man did his work fair enough.”

  “See to Drakho, then,” the man, Rothsay, said, “and we’ll mop up the filth.”

  ***

  Avondale shivered by the fire; the sounds of battle were drawing nearer, and in the distance a great rumble signaled the awakening of the dragon. She closed her eyes and rocked on the spot. She could have saved them, she should have begged him to stay, but the relief at his withdrawal, the sudden, bone melting joy at being freed from his hands had rendered her mute. Mute and deaf to the cries of those she had set out to save.

  The door creaked open, and a man slunk in. Avondale watched him as a rabbit watches a fox. His grin was, indeed, vulpine, and his eyes shone like daggers. Another predator. Another animal. She struggled to her feet and swallowed, shaking wearily,

  “Do you know who I am?” She croaked, and he nodded, she huffed. Of course he did. That was why he was here, no doubt. She picked up a poker from the fireside, though it was a mere formality; he had a sword. He surged forward, discarding his sword in his confidence, but when he reached her he froze, mouth opening in some kind of horror. He wheezed, and coughed, spraying her face with something warm and wet. Avondale stepped backwards, watching him fall in horror. The poker was lodged in his gut.

  Avondale staggered backwards, covering her mouth as sudden horror and tingling fear filled her. Her face flush hot and felt tender, her mouth filled with acrid spit as he twitched and groaned… and then it was gone. A cold wave flushed the fear out.

  “You deserve this.” She said as tears trickled down her cheeks, “more than I.” She knelt by him, pulling a dagger from his belt, “Tell me where the Vlad is, and I will give you a quick end.” He shook his head, wheezed and then coughed,

  “The Throne Room.” He said eventually. Avondale nodded and felt for his heart,

  “Go with God.” She said when she could feel it pulsing beneath her fingers. She imagined he was a hurt dog or deer as she held the dagger to his chest and plunged it down as hard as she could, with her weight behind it. He fell still almost instantly, and she gathered what was left of Avondale the Princess about her as Avondale the warrior shambled on.

  CHAPTER XXI

  The dragon that soared into the heart of the battle met fierce resistance from the knights brought by Rothsay; they knew of their Vlads plans and the depths to which he had fallen. The Magus among them, though they were few, threw up strong shields which foiled its fiery breath. Still it wreaked havoc, landing amongst the men, scaring their horses and swiping huge chunks from their ranks with its great, scaled claws. Metan screamed as it’s huge tail snapped by, dragging chunks of stone from the paved courtyard with the shining spikes on its end.

  The sound must have drawn the creatures attention, however, and it turned to him, rearing back to howl in rage. As Metan fell back, feet kicking against the flagstones as he tried to escape it; the dragons great jaws snapped shut inches from his body as Metan rolled away from the dagger-like teeth. As it lowered its face to bathe him in its scalding breath Metan closed his eyes and waited, once more, for the pain of death. A cry sounded from somewhere behind him and he was showered with wet heat; Metan opened his eyes to see an avenging angel. Her red hair flowed down her back, and though she was in rags she seemed unafraid. The sword in her hand shone with dragon blood. The thing reared and howled, blood dripping from its face,

  “Get up, boy.” She snarled, pulling Metan to his feet, dragging him along behind her as though he weighed nothing at all.

  There were woman on the battlefield!

  Metan gaped at them as they slipped through the fighting men, largely ignored, or too swift to be caught by the shocked fighters, and disappeared out of the main gate. The woman pressed a short sword into his hand,

  “See them safe, and get home, child.” She said, pushing him out of the gate as she turned on her heel and streaked back into the fray. Metan turned from the battle with relief in his heart. Was this all war was? One moment of arse opening terror after another, and sheer luck as to your life or death? If so he wanted none of it. He thought of his father, but didn’t look back as he chased the fleeing women.

  ***

  Drakho leaned back on his throne, watching Shaitani prowl around the whimpering girls like a fox by a hen house,

  “Please, my lord.” She gasped, “I have done nothing wrong.” Drakho turned his face away with a strange half smile; she was… familiar. Though he couldn’t say how he had known her, or when. “Please, Drakho.” She begged as if she knew him, and, like a voice in the fog, she was so close to him and still so far. He turned to look at her, eyes narrowing as he tried to pull her face from the fog of his mind.

  “My Vlad?” Shatani said with a sly grin,

  “Do it.” He croaked; the girl was of no importance. There would be others of all kinds. There would be Avondale, yes, and Shaitani. She swung the sword so elegantly, as if it were an extension of her own arm. The girl jerked once, as if slapped, and a red weal appear in her throat, bubbling over until her blood trickled into the grooves between the flagstones and made its way to the fountain. As the girls dropped one by one the fountain turned red, and the smell of human viscera seeped into the air.

  Drakho blinked slowly at Shaitani as she slithered to him,

  “Soon we will have what we need, my Vlad.” She said, “I will see to it that our little prince makes it to the ritual room.”

  “You’ll have to find him first.” Drakho said with a smile,

  “Try not to choke on your tongue whilst I am away, lover.” She said and slipped by him, he nodded curtly.

  ***

  The stairs that led ever downward were sure to take her to a servants exit of some kind, eventually. They were not those which had brought her from the dungeons. She clutched her stolen steel with sweaty hands and crept through the flickering corridors. As she descended into the bowels of the castle once more the air took on an oily chill, and the air began to stink of something coarse and meaty.

  Avondale swallowed and gathered what little courage she could find about her like armor; the door that had come into sight seemed to pulse with malevolent energy. It was wet and hot to the touch, seeming to throb with its own heartbeat. The room behind it was worse; coated in blood and gore. Shining and dull at once, the air was thick and unhealthy, and she fought to suppress the sensation that shadows were shivering and moving in her periphery vision. In the very center of the room a black statue stood tall and imposing; the dragons open jaws seemed ready to snap shut at any moment, and it’s cruelly pointed tail seemed poised to do real damage.

  “My prince.” A voice made her snap to face the door. The woman who had been with the Vlad slunk into the room like a hunting cat, “Is he not beautiful?”

  “Very.” Avondale said eventually, holding the sword tight, and the woman sniggered,

  “Put that down, girl.” She said, “You won’t use it. I have seen your future.”

 
“You don’t know my future.” Avondale said, raising her chin, “You’re a hedge witch. Nothing at all. I am a princess of Europia.”

  “And I am Shaitani.” The woman said with a shrug, as if Avondale’s birthright was nothing. “And I am not going to kill you.” Avondale faltered as the woman, Shaitani, shook her head.

  “This has not gone to plan, princess, but fate favors those who prepare.” She moved close enough to touch. “You have something I need.”

  “You won’t have my blood, witch.” Avondale stepped back, raising the sword to press its point lightly against Shaintani’s breasts.

  “I don’t want your blood, child.” She sneered, “You’re filthy. A killer, a seductress.” Avondale faltered,

  “You’re a liar.” She whispered, but her mouth was dry. When Shaitani slapped the sword aside it flew from her limp hands,

  “No. I’m not.” Shaitani hissed, “I was going to have your prince.” She whispered, “But I might have this instead. It was to be mine, after all.” She pressed a hand to Avondale’s stomach, and she quailed,

  “No.” She gasped, shaking her head. It couldn’t be true. “No.” The witch nodded,

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll kill myself,” she said, “I’ll die.”

  “No.” Shaitani stroked her face, “You won’t. You want to live, girl. You’re a fighter… which is good. You have to be, to be a woman.”

  Avondale groped behind her for purchase, and hissed as pain slashed across her fingers. She gripped the object, despite the pain and thrust it forward into the witchs side. Shaitani screamed, jerking back, head snapping upward, thrashing from side to side. Blood poured from under her breast. Avondale looked at the wicked blade and took its hilt with her uninjured hand.