by Lee LaCroix
“They have traveled too far west now to be headed here. They have missed the coastal tides which would have brought them here faster,” Merill explained and stroked his wispy beard.
“They seem to be a ways out, maybe hiding themselves for a surprise,” Ayden suggested.
“They would not dare attack Kal’resh after our crushing victory,” Dontas boasted.
“No, not Kal’resh,” Garreth spoke, folding the spyglass into a round in his palm. “Malquia.”
Act Five
Chapter Twenty-Two
The seaside stairs and all entrances to the dock were soon packed with the citizens of Andalvia come to send off their foreign allies with pomp and appreciation. The remainders of the Malquian force had marched through the streets in formation regardless of their diminished numbers, and their red tabards drew every eye to them as they passed. The Kal’reth had followed them out of the western gate and down the cliff side stairs to the docks where the Windwalker was being loaded for its voyage home. The brave survivors of the Malquian squad could only stand, set-faced and anxious, while the barrage of cheering and thanks wafted over them from the excited crowd. They pleaded with themselves and hoped that the Vandarian fleet was not headed to their homes and their families.
“We bid you farewell, noble Malquians, as you set sail for home this hour. Your selfless sacrifices will not be forgotten, and we will mourn your absence like we would our prodigal brothers and sisters. We await the hour that you return to us with news, with friendship and with trade, and look forward to our next meeting with great interest. May the sun be warm, and the seas be kind,” Ayden offered from a top a crate.
The crowd cheered with him, and the Malquians and their heroes bowed in response and strode onto their ships. The dock was still packed with bodies as the Windwalker pulled around the northern coast of Andalvia with the Bluebreeze following behind. Even though the sea was calm, the wind was strong without bite, and the sun was warm without tiring, there was little each of them could do to set themselves at ease. Each of them knew they could only speed back to Malquia as fast as the ship could take them, and they all lamented as they recalled the three-day journey from Amatharsus to Nacosst. As much as Garreth wished to speed them on with abandon, he could not risk running the Windwalker and the Bluebreeze too close to the Vandarian fleet; it would only take a small portion of their enemy’s naval force to make sure the Malquians never saw home again.
“Can I get you anything?” Novas asked as he put a light hand on the shoulder of Opram, one of the Malquian soldiers, who was standing alone and wretching over the side of the boat.
“No, no, I’m fine, I just need to empty my stomach. Give my nerves time to calm down. My family is in Amatharsus. Do you really think the Vandari are headed there?” Opram asked before spinning his head back over the railing and heaving again.
“I’m not sure, comrade. When Garreth has a hunch, we listen. Better to be safe than sorry. Little good we were doing in Andalvia after the battle, anyways,” Novas explained.
“I suppose you’re right. Nothing we can do until we get there. I think I’m done, I’m going to go rest and lay down for a spell,” Opram explained as he left the railing and staggered below deck.
Novas watched him get into the deck safely and then turned his back towards the sea. It was not long before another Malquian was ill but not of sea sickness. Although his face was red, he not scorched by the sun, and he frothed at the mouth from not poison but anger. He staggered around as if drunk, throwing his fists as if he wanted to fight someone. Soon Garreth and Behn were on the deck where a circle had formed around the man and his fury.
“My whole squad is dead! We just fought a war last night! And now you tell me we’re headed home to fight a hundred ships!” the man yelled as he wheeled about and spat at his fellows.
“Calm yourself, soldier. We have a long way to go until we meet that fate. And we’ll have the entire Crown Army to fight beside us then. You have no need to fear,” Behn reasoned.
“Fear? I’m not afraid. I know what’s coming. We were told we would take a ship to another land… to play guard duty in a town in the middle of nowhere. And look where we ended up! In a massive, doomed city where we were all nearly massacred by the Order!” the soldier yelled, his eyes bloodshot and pupils rolling about.
“It is your duty as a soldier of the Crown Aegis to do what needs to be done,” Behn explained.
“I have done enough!” the soldier explained as he unsheathed his sword and whirled about.
“If you don’t drop that sword, you’ll have a lot more to worry about than the Order,” Behn stated, growling as he clenched his fists.
The soldier looked at Behn and all the other soldiers who were watching him with concern and distress. He flexed the grip on his sword and then let it drop, bending over and bringing his hands to his face. He turned back to the railing on the ship and put his arms on it as if sulking. As each of them breathed a sigh of relief, knowing the man’s madness had finally passed, he put his hands to the railing and leapt over the edge. Body, armour, tabard, and all, the man dropped with a deep splash into the water stories below. He was never seen again.
The remaining days were spent in the silence of reflection and repose. Nothing more had to be said that hadn’t already been spoken; that man of sacrifice had expressed the anxieties and the fears of all those who had traveled through Kal’resh, and they all had liked to believe that he took them to his grave. If any of the other soldiers felt that way, it did not show on their faces. Instead, many appeared to be calm although they could have easily been in shock. On the final day of their voyage, very few remained above deck while others resigned themselves to the darkness below deck in search of either its cool embrace or the nothingness of a pitch black cabin.
Like an inken speck upon a page, Garreth could see the endmost sail of the Vandarian fleet through the spyglass that Ayden had gifted him. Although he did not warn the others, he did not need the instrument to spot them on the horizon before long, nor the billowing flames that darkened the sky a terrible smear. Although the scene of destruction unfurled before him, Garreth moved towards it without hesitation, for he had already accepted the trial ahead as inevitable. Ilsa had come to join him then, satisfied with her shadowy meditation, and held his arm close as the land and its fire stretched out before them.
“Do you think we’ll make it on time? Can we save the city? Our people?” Ilsa dared to ask.
“I have enough faith in Berault and Lord Cross not to worry. We knew that this attack was coming. Our people should be evacuated. Our soldiers should be ready,” Garreth explained.
“I can only hope,” Ilsa dared to speak.
Like remnants of shattered bone, the western watchtowers of Amatharsus stood cracked and jagged, for only their bleach white spires remained while their fiery peaks lay ruined in the city streets. The angled sails and the graceful hulls of the merchant’s ships were devoured by flame as they floated away and blackened the sea. The skyline of the Upper Quarter, once bright and reaching, was now crooked like a set of smashed teeth. As the height of the city loomed before them, the Malquians watched as a collection of Vandarian ships unfurled their sails and began to lurch towards them.
“They mean to intercept us! Take us to the southern beach!” Garreth yelled, pointing to the stony shore to the south of the city.
“Archers to the portside! Show them we will not be threatened!” Garreth continued, taking up his bow and priming an arrow towards the closest Vandarian ship.
Although Garreth and Novas both heard the cranking of the Vandarian ballistae before they had seen them, they did not flinch as their pursuers slowly raced them to shore. Each of the Malquians were claim and steady, searching for the whites in their enemies eyes, as the pair of Vandarian ships continued to stalk them. Although the Malquians could see their dooms before them—the sinking of their galleons by ballista bolt and their deaths by enemy archers as they swam in the sea—they hope
d against it and wished for the wind. As many were thrown to the deck, they doubted the blink of their eyes and looked around for destruction but found the stern arched upwards and beached upon the shore.
“Disembark! Into the shallows!” Garreth yelled before he leapt from the deck of the ship.
All of the Malquians had not made it into the water before the first ballista bolt whistled through the air and tore through the side of the Windwalker, tossing wooden debris amongst those who waded towards the shore. Even the weighted Kayten and Novas made it to the shore before the Vandarian archers had begun to rain down upon them, and each Malquian scrambled to the rally at the southern training grounds.
“Behn, take half our forces here and make your way through the Lower Quarter. Evacuate any remaining citizens from their homes and the streets, rally the Crown Aegis to your side, and move into the Trade District if possible,” Garreth ordered, nodding to Behn.
“Understood,” Behn replied with a stiff salute, backing away with his remaining soldiers.
“Eyrn, take the remainder of our forces and continue with us to the Upper Quarter. Help the people out of the city and keep the route to the palace secure,” Garreth explained, staring at Eyrn.
With a nod, Eyrn stepped away with the rest of the soldiers, leaving Ilsa, Novas, Kayten and Garreth to stand together.
“The greatest of terrors now lies before us, at the doorstep of our homes, at the bastion of our people. The punishment for defying the Order lay before our eyes. And while you can see that our city burns, it still stands. We must reflect that strength as we enter and let no horror disway us from our victory. Malquia has defeated the Vandari here and afar. If we can turn their most dire of threats, our victory will be complete. No longer will we look to the horizon with fear but see the shimmering beyond once again!” Garreth spoke before them.
Darkbreaker, Dawnbringer, and Blazeheart, followed by the rest of the Malquian blades, stood unsheathed against the fiery sky. They grasped their weapons close and strided into the city.
It was a scene ripped from the darkest of their dreams and the most forgotten of memories. Like the Blackwoods massacre the year before, the streets were filled with blood, shadow, bodies, and fire. It pained them even in traveling through those streets as they traversed the wreckage of the buildings spilled onto their path, knowing that their kin and comrades lay buried beneath. It was no reprieve to them that there were more soldiers slain than citizens; they only had the slightest hope that some Malquians had survived. Their only strength came from knowing that they had once survived that terror and moved against it with a will to survive again. As they came to the first intersection of the Lower Quarter, the first signs of turbulent life were apparent again.
“With me!” Behn yelled as he pointed his outstretched sword down the street.
With a quick gaze over the rest of his allies, he spirited his unit away towards the engagement of Malquians and Vandari. As the others passed through the crumpled gates of the Trade District, Behn’s remaining allies could hear the deep roar of his battlecry above all else before it was lost beneath the cacophony of clashing steel and crackling fires.
They sensed the intense heat first as they made their way into the wide open pavilion of the city’s center of trade. Beyond the raging inferno of the merchant’s stands and the minstrel’s stage, the Malquians could just barely see the crack in the sky where the harbour gate had collapsed, blocking the entrance to the besieged docks. A dark ash swirled up around them as the soldiers coughed and choked through the thick smoke that swirled around them. As the sound of billowing flame and splintering timber took prominence, they hurried north through the near impenetrable clouds to find a place to clear their lungs and eyes.
The towering buildings of the Upper Quarter had taken the brunt of the Vandarian bombardment and held the smoke and inferno closer to the darkening sky. However, it did not keep the bloodfire from spilling into the streets, turning the carved garden artistry on the streetsides into ghastly blazes. Delicately painted murals blackened alongside the wide panes of shattered glass. The intricately bricked street fashioned like expanding ripples upon a stream were shattered asunder by the crumbling debris of the toppling domiciles. It was only then that they began to follow the damned path of corpses of the Crown Aegis and Vandari alike, leading towards the Royal Palace.
“Forward! We must clear the courtyard!” Garreth yelled, pointing towards the palace steps.
As the remaining Crown Aegis defended the bottleneck at the doors of the Royal Palace, the Vandari had no warning of the oncoming ambush, believing that they had cleared all resistance in the streets beforehand. Where the traitorous Queen’s Aegis had stained the palace stairs with their blood, the Vandari did as well when the defenders pushed out of the palace in unison with the returning Malquians and defeated their foes with an effective pincer attack. The Malquians barely time to kick the corpses from their blades before they felt a rhythmic marching shake the ground once again. Garreth put eyes on the ranked Vandari that had marched around the corner from the docks before he searched through the crowd to find Eyrn, who was looking at him too. No words needed to be spoken. What needed to be asked and what needed to be done was already known.
“To me, palace defenders! To me!” Eyrn commanded as he held a sword on high.
Although gathered around him was less than thirty, they formed up their ranks at the top of the steps and watched the Vandarian waves pace towards them. Garreth looked above them one last time before turning away through the palace doors, Ilsa following close behind.
“Father!” Novas yelled, standing at the border of the doorway. “I will not leave him to this fate! This man has taught me the sword, he has raised a nation of warriors. This cannot be forgotten!”
“He has trained us. Novas, I, the Malquians, the Kal’reth. We owe him more than this,” Kayten stated from her place beside Novas.
Garreth bowed his head and closed his eyes slow.
“Then knowing this, you will not fail,” Garreth spoke as he looked over them.
They each shared a nod. Across the distance, they touched their heads as they did in a breezy apartment seasons ago before Garreth turned away. Kayten could hear his heavy footsteps fade as the flame of her sword crackled to life.
Chapter Twenty-Three
The only clear view of the sky was from the wide window of the royal audience chamber on the highest floor of the Royal Palace. The sun still poured through the opening and landed upon the throne of white and gold, giving the Queen a radiant glow despite being cast in shadow. Her final defender, standing with a sword in one hand and a cane in the other, kept his breathing still as he watched the crimson assassin move forth. As Malic bowed low and eloquent, deep with sarcasm, Berault meditated on a surprise attack but relented due to old age and injury.
“Some assassin you are. Don’t think I’ve ever had to send a man to kill someone twice,” Berault stated, pointing his broadsword at Malic.
“Your fate is no consequence to me, old man. Your will is bound utterly to those under your command… those whom the Order have crushed thoroughly,” Malic replied as he began to pace back and forth, savouring those last words.
“The song of soldiers and steel still resounds below us. Until I hear the silence of defeat and death, my courage will not waver,” Berault spoke as his eyes traced the assassin’s path.
“Ah, but not are all as hard as you, old warrior. Would it not be kinder to spare the Queen the misery of her absolute defeat? I can think of much more terrible deaths than the one I could grant at this moment,” Malic replied as he stopped in his pacing and then glanced from Berault to the Queen.
“I can’t think of a more terrible death than that for you though,” Berault explained as his eyes darted behind Malic and his rigid face softened with a sharp grin.
A brief fear came over Malic as he considered the old man’s bluff, but he soon glanced behind him to the audience room doors. A tremor of rage, nearly imper
ceptible, swept over him as he put eyes on Garreth and Ilsa, but then he turned back towards the throne as if unconcerned. As he spun about, a knife sailed from his hand towards the Queen, and a shattered vial dropped towards the floor. The thick blanket of exploding light did not falter Berault as he pushed off of his cane and threw himself in front of the throne. The Queen caught him. For the first time, she accepted the blood of her people.
“The King will always… be close to your side,” Berault whispered, coughing up the rest of his life, and a finger fell pointing away from the throne.
The window of the throne room shattered as Berault’s hand fell to his chest, and the Queen wiped the blood away from his stilled face and was humbled by the softness of his beard.
“Get the Queen to safety,” Garreth asked Ilsa as he sprinted past the throne towards the broken window, and his eyes trailed across the body of his mentor for a second too long, forever burning the death into his mind.
Garreth watched as Malic hung from the monument of the Malquian Kings, and the ranger loosed an arrow. As Malic fell from the spire of the crown to the base of the shoulder, the arrow missed, and Malic leapt upon the siding of the palace and began to scale towards the western face. Garreth did not look back as the Queen and Ilsa placed Berault upon the throne and began their escape as well. Garreth could still hear the battle below as he made his way into the hallway and into the royal chambers where he burst through the balcony doors to see Malic fall into the gardens and then make his way towards the city walls.
A faint mist rose from the collision of the sea wall and was forced upward by a fierce wind that also carried the billowing smoke of the city. The breeze that whipped Malic’s hair around like a bloodied flag was only second in volume to the sound of the raging waters below. While a lesser man may have been caught unaware, Malic was expecting to be followed, and he turned about from his seaward gazing to find Garreth reach the top of the steps. The daggers that he withdrew were no longer mirror-like steel but dark and depthless, for he wielded mursame blades to rival the Malquian swords. As Garreth withdrew Darkbreaker, both ravenous blades ate of the light.
