by G. P McKenna
Ramsey smacked himself in the head and Ilya grabbed his wrist, “I apologize, Commander. I wish we had the time to explain, but it’s vital to know where the Shield is.”
“The Shield?” Ramsey looked towards the battlefield, “the last I saw of him, he was out in the field, escorting the Princess.”
“Her Highness is out there?” Ilya asked. Ramsey nodded, and Ilya followed his gaze, looking out just in time to see a black armoured troop lose his head, “whatever for?’
“We were moving her to a safe location when the enemy broke through the gate,” Ramsey replied, “You of all people understand what she is like. There was nothing we could say to persuade her to continue on while her citizens were in danger.”
“We must get out there,” Ilya said.
Ramsey nodded and straightened his back before raising his hand with a shout. Though not a word was spoken, the two troops directly before us separated, creating a space barely big enough for Ilya and me to squeeze through. Ilya grabbed my hand and stepped forward, only to be blocked by Ramsey’s arm. The Commander looked back at the two of us with a smile that awkwardly stretched his scar, “be careful out there. Your mother is vital to the success of this war, and I’m not convinced she’d survive losing you too.”
Ilya’s hand tightened on mine as he nodded, “she’d be fine, but thank you. You too.”
No sooner had we stepped foot outside the corral did the shield wall close behind us, but Ilya didn’t appear to notice as he pulled me down the hill. The fire in the darkness made it near-impossible to comprehend what was happening as we ran. People were screaming. Blood was spraying, oozing, dropping, and yet I was deaf and blind to everything but the crashing glow.
“Watch out.”
Something grazed my ear as a hand shoved into my back, sending me tumbling to the ground and landing right atop a brown-skinned boy. Armoured in black and gold, his wide dark eyes became increasingly prominent as the colour drained from his face alongside the blood pouring from an above the knee amputation. Deities, he couldn’t have been much older than us. War was a cruel master who made no concessions for the young, loved and needed. Something gurgled to my right, and then a second black-clad soldier fell to their knees with a dagger protruding from their chest. The blood steamed in the night air.
“How did you see him?” I asked.
“I told you, I see clearer in the dark than you,” Ilya leaned down and twisted the dagger until the soldier ceased moaning and twitching before removing it. He straightened with a hiss.
“You’re not injured, are you?”
“No, I have a stitch is all. Here,” he squeezed his right flank before limping over to help me to my feet. He leaned down, pulling his dagger across the amputee’s neck. The boys’ eyes widened, and I watched as panic, fear, and finally realization of death pass through him in a matter of seconds. Gone, just like that. It didn’t leave the impression that some people claim.
Twice more we had to stop for much of the same. Ilya killed without hesitation, without blinking, and sometimes without even stopping. It was little wonder the Royal family had weaponized him. At the bottom of the hill, where the poorer merchants and displaced citizens had set up camp, a pair of Ilvarjo were escorting a group of dazed and bloodied women away from the burning tents. Ilya pulled on one of their arms, whispering a few words that I couldn’t even begin to decipher. The Ilvarjo replied only in hand movements, punctuated by pointing to the left. Ilya’s breath audibly hitched in his throat and he spun around, barely pausing to take my arm before sprinting with renewed energy. Every few metres, he would throw a dagger, but no longer paused to retrieve them. It soon became apparent why.
“I believe you were instructed to clear this area,” Princess Amicia’s voice was almost cocky as she said those words considering she had only four Royal guards, a single Ilvarjo, and her scaled ivory armour to protect her from the dozen black and gold-clad soldiers surrounding her.
“We had, Your Highness, but they came over the walls,” the Ilvarjo explained, “please allow me to evacuate you to the safety of the Armoury.”
Amicia adjusted her grip on the golden sabre in her hand and shook her head, “No, I shan’t. We will remain and fight. They must pay for what they’ve done here tonight.”
“Your Highness-”
The Ilvarjo’s pleads were lost to a burst of booming laughter as the largest human I had ever seen stepped forward. Thick scars criss-crossed his bald head, making his scalp appear little more than an exposed brain. He lifted a heavy hatchet into the air, causing the remaining soldiers to join in his laughter, “Big words from such a fancy girl,” he bellowed, “let’s see you back them up.” The laughter increased in volume, only to abruptly die as an ominous snarl broke the air. Like a wolf in the dead of night, Pogue emerged from behind the tents. The inhuman glint in his eyes made them almost appear to glow in the light of the flames. In a single swoop, the Casteel Sword was in his hands, fingers flexing and unflexing around the hilt. The giant displayed yellowed teeth in a smirk, “and an ornamental Shield. We’ll eat good tonight boys. Charge.”
It was impossible to tell who was who as emerald and black merged into one with a clatter of swords, shields, and maces. Ilya took the final dagger from his belt and straightened up, clutching his side as he stepped from the safety of the tree we hid behind. I grabbed his shirt and pulled him back. “Let go,” he snapped and pushed me away.
“No,” I hissed, “even if you could walk without holding your side, Pogue would be focused only on you if we step out now. You’re a liability.” Ilya winced in a way that didn’t seem to be caused by his stitch and glanced over to fight as one of the Royal guards severed an artery in the leg of one soldier. Ilya crossed his arms and nodded, pulling back into the shadow.
It was for the best really, as Pogue had already bitten off more than he could chew. The giant grinned as he windmilled his hatchet above his head, closing the distance between them before bringing it down. Had Pogue been any lighter the blow certainly would’ve carved him in two, but he managed to bring the Casteel sword up at the final moment to block it and jump back with wide eyes, only for the giant to immediately lunge into another series of attacks without so much as a moment to recover.
Pogue had little choice but to dodge, duck, and roll out of the way of the giant’s hatchet. Under different circumstances, I would’ve enjoyed watching him rely upon the fighting style he had so severely scolded me for, but in that moment I could barely find breath, and lost what little oxygen I had when an unexpected forward roll caused the hatchet to become embedded in the bloodied grass, forcing the giant to pause his movements to rip it free. A second was all Pogue required. With impressive accuracy the Casteel sword was brought down upon the base of the hatchet, separating blade from handle. The giant’s reaction was slow as he looked up, gulping to suddenly find himself staring down the pointy end of the world’s most infamous blade. He fumbled in his pocket, withdrawing a puny knife, but it was too late. Bone and flesh parted effortlessly with a flick of the Casteel sword, the giant’s deformed head falling to the ground with a thump.
Somebody screamed.
My head snapped towards the sound, and I almost wished it hadn’t. I’d been so preoccupied with what was happening with Pogue that I’d failed to realize an identical scene was happening with Amicia until the disembodied head of her guard was staring me in the face. The Ilvarjo circled the Princess, keeping themselves between her and the short, surefooted soldier who mimicked their movements, but Amicia appeared more interested in wiping ferociously at her bleeding mouth than assisting in the process.
Pogue growled and leapt forward, swinging at the masked attacker. They ducked effortlessly before popping straight back up. Again, and again, they flurried and feinted, dancing around Pogue with one hand behind their back and their weight evenly distributed between their feet, so similar in style to those elegant sword sports the nobs were so fond of. Without effort, Pogue blocked a blow from their sa
bre, only for the fighter to kneel to one knee and swiftly withdraw a needle from their boot. They stabbed it into Pogue’s knee.
Pogue howled in pain, “fight with honour, damn it!”
The fighter froze and glanced up, seeming confused at the unexpected scolding. Pogue took full advantage and kicked out, catching the fighter below the chin and forcing them onto their butt. Pogue’s enormous right hand encased their neck, his left balling up and punching them once, twice, in the face. The fighter dropped onto their back, and I couldn’t retain the gasp that escaped at the unprecedented display of rage. It was just so…brutal.
Everything went still, and for a moment I thought that was it. They’d witnessed the wrath of the Shield, and that was it. Life is never that simple. From the shadows, another figure emerged, clapping slowly and deliberately with each step. Their armour was identical to the rest, with the exception of a heavy helmet that was decorated with a golden beak and talons. They came to a stop only steps from the Ilvarjo, clapping one final time in an almost mocking manner, “Princess Amicia of Ascot,” they called loudly in a deep voice, “your guards have fallen. Surrender now, and King Deniliquin will show mercy to your subjects,” Pogue growled and moved to step forward, only to stumble at the weight of the needle still embedded in his leg. The beaked soldier turned towards him and chuckled, “I see the Shield is present also. The King will be most pleased.”
“Screw you,” Pogue snarled.
The beak laughed and clapped once more, “this is your one opportunity, Shield. The King has only requested that the Princess be captured unharmed. No such provisions have been made for you. Drop your sword and take the knee,” Pogue spat on the ground by the beaks feet. He sighed and looked to the other soldiers, “unarm the Princess, then unmask her pet. The blood-eyes whore hasn’t been located yet, we can use it to lure her,” he tipped his head and snorted, “kill the Shield.”
Pogue’s eyes narrowed, and he hobbled forward as the soldiers closed in around them. Ilya shifted. I grabbed his shirt, but that time there was no stopping him, and he all but dragged me with him as he stepped out from behind the tree and flicked his dagger. It spiralled through the air before hitting the soldier closet to Pogue in the neck. Everybody turned to us as Ilya withdrew Kazia, the wind choosing that moment to pick up and blow his hair majestically in the moonlight. Typical. Ilya back from the dead not even an hour and mother nature was bowing over to make him beautiful, while I stood beside him looking like a Baba Yaga coated in blood, vomit and toad guts. Never let it be said that the Deities didn’t love the pretty ones best. Was it really any wonder the remaining soldiers all appeared to pale at our sudden appearance? Some even took a couple of steps backwards, as if seeing a ghost. Which, in essence, they were.
“What are you morons doing?” the beak shouted, “it’s just another blood-eyes and… girl?” and with that said, he too paled. I didn’t blame him. We must’ve been quite the unexpected sight.
In contrast, Pogue’s face lit up brighter than the night sky, such a stark difference to Amicia’s shocked look which quickly dissolved into tears, “About time you woke up,” he exclaimed.
Ilya stared at him for a moment before frowning, “are you alright, Your Highness?” Amicia tears only increased, and Ilya’s face twisted. He glared at each enemy soldier individually, “which one of these spineless miscreants would dare to lay a finger on Ascot’s rightful heiress?”
“Enough,” Beak yelled as the soldiers all looked at one another, “kill them. Kill them both.”
Nobody moved. Ilya looked at the Ilvarjo and said something sharp. They nodded and took the crying Princess’s hand before grabbing the Shield by the shoulder. Beaks face reddened, but none of the soldiers moved to stop them as they passed. The moment they arrived by our side, the Ilvarjo released both Amicia and Pogue to unbuckle their dagger belt, silently passing it over to Ilya before leaning into my ear, “you look like shit.”
“Get Her Highness to safety while I finish off these monsters,” Ilya said before I could retort. Pogue opened his mouth, but Ilya hissed before he could speak, “do not argue with me. You’re injured, you’re no help.” Pogue’s eyes narrowed, but he nodded and swung his arm around my neck.
“Don’t let them leave,” Beak shrieked, “kill the Ilvarjo and the girl. Take the Princess.”
But nobody followed us up the hill.
Twenty Eight
Eyrthophobia
Fear of the colour red
The battle was coming to a victorious end as we reached the top of the hill, but that wasn’t enough to stop the Princess from crying. The heads of troops everywhere turned towards us as we passed by, pausing in their dousing of flames to stare at their beloved leader in tears. More than one balled up their fists, eyes narrowing as they took in the Ilvarjo trying their best to soothe a Princess who didn’t want to be comforted. An emerald coated Poota took a step forward, but Pogue nodded towards him and gently took Amicia’s arm to pull her behind the trunk of a large tree before embracing her.
“It’s okay now,” Pogue said while stroking her hair, “everyone is safe now.”
“It’s not okay,” Amicia cried as she attempted in vain to free herself from Pogue’s embrace, “didn’t you see their reaction? It isn’t true, Pogue. What Deniliquin claims cannot be.”
“I know it’s not,” Pogue said. He looked over at the Ilvarjo and me before leaning to whisper in Amicia’s ear. I glanced at the Ilvarjo, but they merely shrugged and pushed off the tree to approach the Princess and Shield.
“Your Highness,” the Ilvarjo said, and gently placed their hand on America’s shoulder, “please calm down so I can escort you to safety.”
“No,” Amicia slapped their hand away, “you haven’t any idea what has just occurred.”
The Ilvarjo looked back to me, their red eyes unreadable, before gingerly placing their hand back on her shoulder, “I do, Your Highness. Isn’t it a good thing that Ilya is no longer dead?”
Amicia spun around so fast that the scales of her armour flared right along with her nostrils as she looked the Ilvarjo over with wild eyes, “what did you just say?” she demanded. The Ilvarjo’s hand dropped as if the Princess burnt and looked to the ground, only to freeze entirely as Amicia grabbed the folds of their mask, “I asked you a question, Mercy. Who went behind my back and informed you that Ilya had died? Did you have a hand in this?”
“No, Your High-”
The sound of flesh meeting flesh rejuvenated so clearly even through the material of the mask. Amicia’s pretty mouth twisted into a hideous scowl as she drew her palm back and folded it into a fist. “You wouldn’t lie to me, would you, Mercy?” Amicia asked through gritted teeth, “you’ve seen what happens to liars. Lying is unforgivable. It goes against the paths. Every.Single.Path.”
Amicia drew her fist back, but Pogue caught it before she could strike. “Stop,” he demanded in a voice deeper than usual, “She didn’t do nothing. It was Kilco and me.”
“Kilco and…” Amicia broke off with a shrill laugh, grinning like a banshee as she looked between us with fresh tears flooding her eyes, “you haven’t any idea what you’ve done. You-”
“Your Highness?” The grin dropped from Amicia’s face as she turned to look at Ilya and the bleeding soldier being dragged along behind him. The black armoured man gave a pained cry with each and every step. It was easy to see why. His left Achilles tendon was neatly sliced, his ankle protruding outwards with a sickening crunch as Ilya lifted him to stand through a scream of agony, “is this the one who struck you?” Without even glancing at the man, Amicia nodded. Ilya’s eyes narrowed. He looked to the sobbing man and cleared his throat, “what do you have to say for yourself? The Princess is merciful. If you ask for clemency, she may find it in herself to forgive you.”
“Clemency?” The soldier attempted to chuckle, though all he achieved was blowing bubbles of snot, “it isn’t me who needs clemency. You’re helpless out here. Outnumbered. Sitting ducks. It’s only
a matter of time before King Deniliquin destroys this camp for good, and when he does, you’ll curse the Deities that they didn’t take your Princess on this night. Oh, I can only imagine the things my King will do. It will be glorious.”
“You’ve chosen a dark path,” Ilya said and swiftly brought Kazia down, slicing through an unfortunate area for any male. The soldier howled a cry the likes of which I had never heard as he dropped to roll in the grass and clutch at himself.
“You little prick, you’ve cut off my-”
Whatever colourful description he intended to spew was lost forever as Ilya brought Kazia down again, severing the head for the neck in a single cut. Sighing, he squatted down and swatted the twitching head away before wiping the blade clean on the dead man’s pants, “nobody threatens the Princess and survives to brag about it,” he muttered before straightening up. He looked at the four of us with brow furrowed, “I apologize for- ‘' Amicia crashed into his chest, squeezing so tightly that I felt genuine concern for Ilya’s ribs. He winced before gingerly hugging her back, “Your Highness?”
“Ilya, I… you-”
Everything else she said was covered up by nasally sobs. The furrowing of Ilya’s brow deepened, “I’m sorry, Your Highness.”
Amicia pulled back and looked at him with a deep sniff, “for what?”
Ilya blinked and tipped his head to the side before shrugging. He looked at Pogue and me, shaking his head, “I’m sorry, but if it’s alright by you, I must urgently speak with Kilco and the Shield in private. It’s something that cannot wait.”
Amicia turned to look at us too, her eyes flashing darkly before she pulled away with a nod. Wiping excess fluid from her face, she motioned towards Mercy, “That’s fine. We shall go and watch over the troops. I must pray over the dead regardless.” Mercy pushed off the tree and went to Amicia’s side, hissing something in Ilvarjo as she passed Ilya. His eyes narrowed, but he didn’t say anything, merely crossing his arms and waiting for them to kneel beside the first corpse before stepping in front of Pogue. For a long moment they simply stared deeply into each other’s eyes before Ilya raised his fist and punched him between them.
