Sword and Sorcery of Avondale

by Kai Kazi

  “You bitch.” Shaitani snarled as her voice lost it’s softness. Her eyes flickered yellow, and her nails seemed to be growing. Avondale backed behind the statue as she approached; it had shifted on its stone alter while they leaned against it. Avondale closed her eyes, took a breath, and pushed it hard with all her weight, “No!” Shaitani rushed to save it as Avondale fled, making for the door. An in human howl and a crash followed her flight up the stairs.

  Not a witch, Avondale thought as she took the stairs two at a time, lungs burning. Something, but not a witch. Her stomach felt heavy, churning as the sounds of the battle drew closer. The corridor she found herself in was uniform, and Avondale found she could not tell which way would take her to the innards of the castle, and which would take her out to the battlefield. She looked from side to side, and then closed her eyes, taking a deep breath.

  She made up her mind, and took off at a light run. She had to find Aiden.

  CHAPTER XXII

  The dragon was dripping blood from its injured head where Sonja of Aledale had struck her blow: Aiden had known that she was a firebrand, but his shock was matched only by admiration as she cut a swathe of blood through the battlefield. She drew the demons attention, making those she didn’t cut down easy pickings for Rothsays men, too. But she couldn’t finish the dragon. They watched it circle overhead and dip towards the ground beyond the castle walls. A battle for another day, then.

  “The throne room?” Aiden asked Master Greendale as they passed through the great doors of the castle,

  “That’s where I’d start looking.” He grunted in return, motioning for the Royal Guard to check elsewhere, “Evacuate those you can, empty the rooms adjoining to and overlooking the throne room, if there are any. Then converge on the throne room.” They peeled away in silence, like well-trained hounds. Aiden swallowed; just them, then.

  The corridors of the castle echoed, briefly, with an inhuman wail. Aiden looked to Master Greendale, but he was forging on ahead,

  “Did you-”

  “Aye.” He said curtly,

  “What was it?”

  “I reckon we’ll find out one way or another.” Greendale replied, “Nothing to worry about right now.” Aiden hurried so that he fell into step with the old warrior. The corridors of Castle Bledd were grand, finely decorated, and well lit, but still they seemed dark, grim, and cold. All roads let to the same place, too, as they crossed paths with Royal Guardians, panting and bloodstained, more than once.

  The doors of the Throne Room lay wide open, and the Vlad stared at them with a strange amusement as they entered. The ornate fountain which had been the talk of many a court after its construction was spewing blood, the enchantments burning bright with the taint of dark magic.

  “Well, you took your time Greendale.” He said, “I expected you to land on my head with both feet long before now.”

  “I fight with honor.” He said curtly, and Aiden found himself nodding with grim pride, “Kneel and we may yet spare you, Drakho. I saw you at your fathers knee. It need not end this way.” The guardians face was stoic and unreadable, but Aiden gaped,

  “What?” He gasped, but Greendale did not reply,

  “That witch, that Weyvren, yes I know what she is,” Greendale said, “she has promised you nothing, Drakho, lies and snow. It will melt away when she gets what she wants.”

  “And how do you know what she is?” The Vlad narrowed his eyes,

  “You’re not the only man to seek the counsel of women, boy, my counsel comes from the wise, however.” Greendale said, and Aiden knew, somehow, that Eramys was in touch with him.

  “Enough.” The Vlad snarled, “I will not have you speak ill of her.” As the words left his mouth his face seemed to twist, as if he too knew how strange they sounded.

  “He’s gone.” Greendale said, unsheathing his sword.

  When the first arrow flew by Aiden raised his shield reflexively and turned; they were coming from above, however. Royal Guardians began to descend upon them, draw by the battle cries, but those of the Vlad men who had been hidden away in the room itself began to emerge, making their way to the fountain without drawing steel.

  “Stop them!” Greendale cried, and a few guardians above began to fire on them. Aiden cut one down as he passed, but some were passing through the blood already, drinking the foul liquid as they did so. One by one they fell to their knees and began to writhe, screaming in agony. Greendale seemed to abandon honor and started to cull them where they kneeled, but Aiden’s shock was replaced by horror as they started to rise as monsters rather than men. The Vlad laughed as they began to advance on Aiden and Greendale. The arrows from the guardians above more often than not clattered uselessly against their inhumanly thick skin.

  Aiden hefted his shield, slamming it against the face of an approaching demon before following up with a thrust of his blade. It screeched and went down, but did not die. He had bring his sword up for a downward thrust into the creatures back. The first Royal Guardians flooded into the battle and began to throw themselves against the monsters, but these were tougher still than their brethren outside and the guardians began to struggle. As they began to fall Greendale barked orders; they contracted into a tight circle, pushing out against the incoming demons. As the last bodies fell Aiden raised his head to see only three remaining Guardians beside Greendale and himself. His arms ached his face dripped with sweat.

  The Vlad clapped slowly,

  “Well done.” He drawled and dipped a hand into the fountain,

  “Drakho, don’t” Greendale gasped, but he tipped his head and swallowed the blood without hesitation. The transformation was agonizing to watch; his body, already large, seemed to swell and pulse, twisting as the blood spattered from the fountain onto his twitching form. The Vlad became something else, something ancient, but half-formed. The Royal Guardians approached in uniform grace, swords drawn as Greendale and Aiden circled to the back of what had been the Vlad of Bledd. When he raised his head it was with a roar, and a single swipe of his great arm sent two of the men sprawling before he grabbed the third by the helmet and squeezed until the metal began to crumple under his hand. Aiden gaped in mute horror as the guardian’s screams echoed around the Throne Room, but Master Greendale threw himself into the fray. His sword but deep into the flesh of the Vlads arm, making him howl and drop the soldier, but it was too late. He lay still even as one of his comrades struggled to his feet.

  For a man of his age Greendale moved like a dancer; he ducked the first two swipes of the Vlad’s great, clawed hands, and struck out at the soft flesh of his belly, opening a wide gash there before he was swatted by a returning open-handed slap. The last remaining guardian threw himself onto the Vlads back, short dagger bared for a strike. Though his aim was true the tough skin turned his blade, and he was dragged to his doom when the demon-Vlad sank its teeth into his midriff, shaking him like a rag-doll before throwing him into the fountain. Aiden had been frozen, staring with ice in his veins until the Vlad turned to him, his great black eyes shining with mirth and intelligence. Greendale groaned and struggled to sit up, but the Vlad kept his eyes on Aiden.

  The roar was deafening as he charged, and Aiden had only seconds to spin away from the grasping hands. The monster was too quick, however, and turned with blinding agility to slam its fist against his side. Aiden skidded across the floor on his side, pain ricocheting around his body. The room swam as the monstrous Vlad bore down on him. Aiden reached for his sword, but it was mere inches away from his grasp. With a frustrated sob he stretched while shining claws readied to tear him asunder.

  The scream that came was not his own, and neither was it the Vlad’s. That came after. It was high and shrill, but defiant. The woman who thrust a short, wicked dagger into the creatures throat looked like his Avondale, but it could not be. Her teeth were bared, her body was battered and bruised, her hair was wild. But, by the Prophet, she looked like his Avondale, and she was beautiful. The Vlad spun and thrashed, but she backed awa
y quickly on bleeding feet. Only when he fell to the ground did she turn to Aiden and place a hand on his forehead,

  “Aiden?” The woman said,

  “Avondale?” He croaked, and she nodded,

  “Oh love I was so worried that you were dead.” She sobbed and placed her head on his chest. His Avondale. He wrapped his arms around her, though they were throbbing, and swallowed the hot tears of relief.

  ***

  Aiden was dipping in and out of consciousness; the blood on his forehead was worrying Avondale, but could she do?

  “Avondale?” Master Greendale’s voice had always been welcome, but never so needed,

  “Oh, thank God.” She gasped and ran to him, helping him to his feet, “We must leave.” She gasped into his chest as he hugged her tight, “The woman, the witch, she’s…” she faltered, “she’s not. A witch. I don’t know what she is.”

  “Something old and terrible.” He said, “but she can be slain, Avondale, and I must see that she is.”

  “Greendale, please,” Avondale shook her head, “we must get Aiden away from here.”

  “And we will.” He said, “We’ll get you two on a horse and away.”

  “You must come with us!” She gasped, chasing him as he dragged Aiden onto his shoulders, but he only shook his head.

  “I need to do this.”

  “Fiona needs you!” Avondale all but screamed. Men and their pig-headedness would never cease to amaze her, “Others can kill the witch.”

  The rumbling laugh was like stone grinding against stone; the Vlad was struggling to his feet, the dagger still lodged in his neck. Greendale slowly circled him, lowering Aiden to the floor as he staggered to and fro.

  “Fool.” The word was sharp as a blade, and cold as death, ending in a slight hiss. Shaitani, or what used to be her, strode to the Vlad, “If you were any use to me once, you’re nothing now.” She gripped the blade and ripped it from his neck before pressing her hand to the wound. She was going to heal him, Avondale thought with dizzying dismay… but he sank to his knees with a whimper and began to shrink like fruit drying in the sun.

  “She’s eating him.” Avondale croaked, and the witch laughed, tearing her hand away from the dying monster.

  The wings that unfurled from her back were scaly, leathery, and huge. Her eyes became fires in her grey face, and a strange heat seemed to radiate from her. Aiden groaned. Greendale hauled Aiden to his feet and pushed them towards the door,

  “Run.” He gasped,

  “Greendale!” Avondale shook her head,

  “Now.” He snapped in that tone he had used when she climbed trees, when she ran too far, too fast. When he was protecting her. Avondale sobbed and pulled Aiden with her, not daring to look back lest she lose her mettle.

  ***

  Jon drew his sword, extending it to block the path, but Shaitani only laughed,

  “I’m not going to hurt the girl, fool.” She hissed, her voice like silk tearing on steel, “she has something of mine. I’ll collect when I’m good and ready.” Jon blinked slowly, breathing deep as he tried to ignore every word pouring from her mouth; battle was no time for such thoughts. Bran and Shannon burst through a side door, breaking his reverie,

  “Master Greendale?” Bran asked, waiting for direction. He was a good soldier, Jon thought, but perhaps not a leader.

  “The Princess needs assistance in the courtyard.” He said, and they wavered. Shannon nodded and slipped by Shaitani with the tense muscles of a dog expecting to be kicked. Bran circled her as a tail slowly unfurled and twitched on the flagstones. They moved as one, the three of them; Jon and Bran lunged as she pushed upwards, great wings sending forth a gust of air which nearly knocked them from their feet. Her hands crackled with energy as she hovered above them,

  “Silly boys,” she crooned, “I will own this world. You are nothing to me.”

  When Bran hurled the first rock she was taken by surprise, as was Jon, and it paid off; it struck her wing, and she dropped a few feet, within striking distance. Jon slashed at her belly, missing and sinking the blade into her thigh. Her tail whipped from side to side, knocking him from his feet as Bran, younger than he by far, ran and pressed his foot against the lip of the fountain to jump towards her. He wrapped his arms around her and dragged her down to the ground. Jon dragged himself to his feet, heart hammering, lungs screaming, and ran to join Bran as he tried to force his dagger down into her heart.

  Shaitani’s hand was coated in gore as it burst from his chest. Jon hesitated for a mere moment and then brought his sword down severing Brans head and her arm at the shoulder. He closed his eyes against the grief while she screamed, and when he opened them he was settled with the decision; he had spared a good man days of agony and an inglorious death. He had weakened the monster that would have devoured both their families. It was enough. He raised his sword once more, but gasped as agony bloomed in his chest. He looked down; her tail was lodged in his chest. Shaitani ripped the barbed end from him and flapped her wings hard enough to knock him to the ground. Then she was gone. Jon coughed, blood pooling around him; his own, and hers, and Brans. He had failed.

  “I’m sorry.” He gasped.

  CHAPTER XXIII

  Avondale leaned against the wall with Aiden’s arm over her shoulder, gasping and sobbing with each beat of her heart. This was not, she reflected once more, how her life was supposed to be. Aiden groaned and straightened his legs, taking more of his weight from her,

  “Avondale?” He moaned, “what… what’s happened?” His head lolled, and blood poured onto her shoulder.

  “Worry not, my love.” She said, “all is well.” She watched the dwindling numbers of men fight on the battlements and in the courtyard; there were no horses to be seen. Nothing but blood and bodies and gore.

  “My lady!”

  Shannon appeared from the crowd, his armor spattered with blood,

  “He needs a healer.” She cried, and he nodded, understanding instantly, looking around,

  “I will find some horses.” He said as they slumped to the ground. Weariness took the strength from her legs and made her bones feel like jelly. The nightmare that stretched behind her was like one long, tireless day in which there had been no rest, and no hope. When had she last been warm and comfortable? She stroked Aidens hair with one battered hand, running it through the blood and sweat. He had come for her, and that was enough to bring forth the love and grief and guilt; she had been unfair to him. To the prospect of their life together. And he had been unfair to her, to her potential.

  They would change that, if they had the chance.

  When a shape flashed by her, Avondale cried out and curled her arms around Aidens head, but the blow she was waiting for never came. When she opened her eyes she saw the winged shape in the distance falling from the sky. Shaitani. It had to be, for it was too small to be the dragon. She smiled and let her head fall back, taking two deep breaths before the chilling question wormed its way into her head; where was Master Greendale. She sat up, looking over her shoulder for him. He would be here, he had to be… he would walk out of those doors with a bloodied grin on his face and his sword in his hand.

  She waited.

  The battle cries began to dwindle.

  Avondale suppressed a sob, holding Aiden tighter.

  “He’ll be here.” She whispered,

  “Who?” Aiden murmured quietly against her chest,

  “My lady, come on.” Shannon held the reigns of a fine destrier, “You must leave.” She helped him pulled Aiden onto the horse, but couldn’t mount it herself.

  “I can’t.” She said, “I have to find Master Greendale.” Shannon frowned, shaking his head,

  “It’s not safe.” He said,

  “I am not asking for your permission, Guardsman Tethetras.” She said quietly, “Take Aiden to safety, and then return for myself and Master Greendale.” The words tasted like dust in her mouth. He gave her a curt nod and slammed his fist to his breastplate,

 
“As you wish.” He said and mounted the horse, Holding Aiden upright,

  “Take care of him, Shannon.” She said, “He is precious to me.”

  “I know. I will.” He said and spurred the horse on.

  Avondale watched him go with mounting panic; her last chance of escape might be riding away. She stooped to pick up a fallen sword, wincing as every fiber of muscle in her body screamed. Avondale the princess was gone, she realized, she was not that soft, naive girl anymore. She was not that hopeful or optimistic anymore. Her feet seemed to be made of lead as she retraced their steps. The blood stretched out in front of her like some grisly breadcrumb trail from a faerie tale. As she entered the throne room again Avondale was struck by the overwhelming relief at being unable to place her guardian in the midst of the chaos, and then a groan pulled the rug from under her.

  “Oh God.” She gasped and ran to his side, but when she got there she found she could not stoop; the blood all about him could not be only his, but the idea of letting it soak into her shift was terrifying. She knelt slowly, “Uncle.” She said, the term she had used jokingly as a young teen, and in earnest as a child. “Oh,” her words were cut off by a sob, and she stroked his forehead. He smiled at her, but she had the idea that he was looking through her.

  “Fiona?” He asked, and Avondale let her head fall, tears flowing freely. She gripped his hand and pressed it to her face, “Fiona is that you?”