The Princess Knight

by G. A. Aiken

“I’m sure it is.” Keeley looked at the monks. “Maybe you three can explain it to me?”

  Instead of lying—which was what Keeley was expecting from them—Brother Katla just told the big male, “Do not start crying, Kir.”

  But a tear was already sliding down his cheek before he said, “We should not have been fighting amongst ourselves. I will always blame Sprenger for what happened to us. We should not have been fighting each other there at the end before half of what remained of us went off to die in glorious battle. We should have been united as one, then gone off to die in glorious battle. That’s the way it was before Sprenger and that’s how it should have been until the end. But he destroyed our unity, and I hope he burns in hell for it.”

  Brother Katla closed her eyes, shook her head. Brother Shona simply grimaced.

  Keeley, however, grabbed Ainsley’s arm and yanked her close. “I see what’s going on here.”

  “You do?” Shona asked.

  “You’re trying to recruit another sister of mine to your death cult. Is that it?” Keeley accused.

  Ainsley held up her hand in front of Keeley’s face. “You do understand that I can take care of myself, don’t you?”

  “Since when?”

  “Well, since all of you keep forgetting I exist—”

  “Can we discuss that later?” Keeley quickly cut in.

  “And just so we’re clear, we’re not a death cult,” Brother Katla argued. “Death cults only care about their own deaths and, of course, the end of the world. We, however, kill everyone else.” Now she grimaced. “That came out wrong.”

  “Truly? Because it sounded so perfect from here,” Keeley replied with an intense amount of sarcasm. Even for her.

  Brother Shona stepped in front of Brother Katla. “Look, I see that we’ve gotten off on the wrong foot. We’re not attempting to recruit anyone. Gemma just asked us to introduce ourselves. So you could get to know us.”

  “Why in the fuck would she do that?”

  “She actually did think it would be a good idea in the hopes that you’d feel more comfortable with all these war monks here at your doorstep. At the time. Of course, our monastery had just burned down. So maybe she was still in shock.”

  Keeley jerked her chin at the giant male, unwilling to release Ainsley for fear they’d steal away with her. “Why is he still crying?”

  “We didn’t mean to upset you so!” he sobbed out.

  “You know what?” Keeley finally admitted. “I now understand something. Why none of you are like Brother Emmanuel. He’s a pacifist monk I met very recently. He goes out and makes people feel better. He’s been doing it for days. I’ve watched him. No matter the sect or the god worshipped, he puts all at ease.” Keeley shook her head. “But I think we can all agree. That is not a job you three should ever have.”

  Shona let out a long sigh. “I wish we could argue that point with you, Your Majesty . . . but we cannot.”

  * * *

  Gemma decided to pass through a town to pick up a few supplies. That was where she caught sight of three witches standing outside a pub. She only knew they were witches because her order had battled their coven several years back. It had been an ugly, violent conflict that hadn’t ended well for the nearby townspeople, who were left with nothing but a burnt-out husk of a village, a lot of dead farm animals and, most likely, a never-ending hatred of war monks and witches.

  Immediately, Gemma pulled the list of names out of her boot and studied it.

  “Shit.”

  “What’s wrong?” Quinn asked.

  “They’re on the list.”

  “Who is?”

  Too annoyed even to answer, Gemma dismounted Dagger’s back and walked over to the three witches.

  “Ladies,” she coldly greeted.

  “They sent you?” Adela demanded.

  “It could be worse,” Gemma shot back. “Ragna could have come. She’s the one who burned your grandmother, I believe.”

  Adela raised her gloved hand and Gemma had her sword out when a man’s explosive laugh had all of them looking around.

  “Now, now, my lovelies! No need to be so angry! We can all get along! And I guess we’re all here for the same thing!”

  “Who are you?” another witch demanded.

  “I am Vicar Ferdinand,” he said grandly, bowing at the waist. “At your service.”

  “Oh, no,” Father Aubin said from behind Gemma. “A truce vicar.”

  There was nothing but sighs and groans except from Quinn, who asked, “What’s a truce vicar?”

  “Hell on earth,” Faraji of the Low Mountains drily complained from behind his assassin mask.

  * * *

  “I, young man, am here to bring healing and peace among all the different factions,” Vicar Ferdinand explained to Quinn.

  “That seems helpful.”

  “It’s not,” Gemma muttered, putting her sword back in its sheath.

  “The war lovers among us,” Ferdinand went on, “feel I get in the way of their glorious deaths.”

  “Do you?”

  “If I’m lucky! Because the work of a truce vicar is to stop all this unnecessary killing! That’s why I’m here. To help Cyrus see the many wrongs of his ways.”

  “Good luck with that,” Father Aubin told him. “You should go find him and start talking.”

  “I think it would be better to meet with the great Queen Keeley first. I’ve heard wonderful things about her. So let us be off!”

  “We’re not staying here for the night?” one of the witches complained, looking at the pub longingly.

  “No,” Gemma said without an ounce of pity. “So get what supplies you need. We leave in ten minutes.”

  “Fine,” another witch said. “Have my bags brought along, War Monk.”

  Quinn saw Gemma reaching for her sword again, but he caught her arm. She didn’t fight him this time and instead said to the witch, “I’m not your servant, Adela. You want your bags, you fucking carry them yourself. That goes for all of you.”

  After Gemma went to get supplies, the truce vicar slapped Quinn on the back. “You’d make a good truce vicar, my boy. You have a knack for keeping the peace.”

  “Does it matter that I actually have four legs?” The vicar frowned. “I’m a centaur.”

  “Ahh. No. Not to the truce vicars. We welcome all!”

  “That’s nice.”

  “Except for those evil divine assassins who should burn for eternity in the pits of all the hells.”

  Quinn stopped and let out a sigh. “Seriously?”

  That laughter exploded again. “I’m just joking, my four-legged friend! Truce vicars deal with all! I promise.” He again patted Quinn’s back. “And that includes even those we find to be pure evil like the divine assassins.”

  * * *

  The entire group rode for a few hours until it was late in the evening. Then Gemma led them into the trees and found a relatively safe spot for them to camp for the night. Quinn built a fire and one of the priests returned with a few rabbits they could roast over the fire.

  Gemma had also picked up some fresh bread from the baker in town and handed out loaves to everyone. As they ate, no one spoke. And, once they finished eating . . . no one spoke. Not even Quinn.

  Quinn always had something to say. Of course, he probably wasn’t used to this much silent animosity. He was used to sisterly fights about past bullshit. He was used to two brothers arguing over Gemma’s mother. What no one was used to was sitting with members of religious sects that loathed one another and, on more than one occasion, had attempted to destroy the other’s sect over the centuries.

  And, of course, when the silence was finally broken, it was in the worst way possible.

  “So,” Father Aubin finally asked a silent Quinn, “do you feel unholy?”

  Quinn shook his head. “No. I do not.”

  “Unclean?”

  “No. I feel blessed.”

  “Huh. Interesting.”

  “Do you fee
l like a dick?” Gemma asked the priest. “Because, you know, you are.”

  “Do you have something to say to me, War Monk?”

  “I think I just said it.”

  “Now, now, my friends!” the truce vicar cut in, making everyone but Quinn roll their eyes. “Why must we argue and bicker and make the unholy one feel uncomfortable?”

  Quinn dropped his head but Gemma could see he was grinning, because the centaur had no sense.

  “First off, he’s not unholy. He’s a centaur. He’s annoying and a pain in my ass, but he’s not unholy.”

  Adela the witch lifted her head and asked, “Are you looking at me, War Monk?”

  “I guess I’m just wondering why you’re here?”

  “Fear of Cyrus the Honored?”

  “Oh, please. Try again.”

  “She’s right,” Balla agreed. “I can’t think of any reason why you would be here, witch.”

  “Shut up, virgin. What do you know anyway?”

  “Yes, I’m sure I’ve missed much in my life because I haven’t had a cock in my mouth.”

  “Ladies!” the truce vicar exploded. “Can we all please remember our manners?”

  “The vicar’s absolutely right,” the divine assassin Tadesse chimed in. “You don’t want to disturb the priests by talking about sex they will never have.”

  “It’s a sacrifice we are willing to make for our god,” Father Léandre snapped. “What sacrifice are you willing to make?”

  “Our god never asked us to make that particular sacrifice,” Faraji of the Low Mountains calmly replied. “Because our god actually likes us.”

  That’s when poor Quinn lost it, laughing so hard he had to get up and leave. He walked off into the surrounding trees, his laughter echoing back to them for a very long time before it finally tapered off.

  “What was that all about?” Aubin finally asked.

  Gemma shrugged. “I’m guessing he found all of you fucking ridiculous.”

  “But not you?” Balla asked.

  “No,” Gemma answered in all seriousness. “Not me.”

  CHAPTER 16

  The first day of travel and already Balla was annoyed by . . . well . . . everyone. Absolutely everyone. The witches. The priests. The divine assassins. And that truce vicar. She wanted to stab him in the throat if only to shut him the fuck up. Goddess, the price she paid for her powers. She didn’t mind keeping her virginity. For her, sex wasn’t really that big a loss. Men in general annoyed her and she found offensive the way many of them insisted on waving their cocks around. But being forced to leave her precious temple, where she’d been in complete control for the last decade, to travel not only with whorish witches; overbearing priests; dangerous assassins; a disgusting, foul-mouthed war monk; and a never quiet truce vicar was her goddess asking entirely too much of her.

  All she could hope was that they arrived at Queen Keeley’s castle sooner rather than later. Balla longed for a bath and a few minutes of silence.

  The centaur, who traveled with a horse he did not ride, suddenly stopped, his head moving one way then another, before galloping off; the war monk chased after him. Balla was more than happy to let them go but everyone else went after them so she felt she had to as well. Of course, Priska waited for her to make the decision for both of them as she should.

  She followed the others and ended up at a ledge that overlooked a drop of at least sixty feet. The others had dismounted from their animals and were staring down at something, so Balla also dismounted and went to the edge to see what they were looking at.

  It was a fairly large company of soldiers surrounding a woman. It seemed an excessive number of soldiers to guard one lone woman or one lone man until she noticed the soldiers’ colors. Cyrus’s green and gray.

  “All that for one woman?” the centaur asked.

  “A nun,” the war monk pointed out.

  “One for you to pick up?”

  “No. There were no nuns on the list.”

  “Excellent,” Balla said. “Then we should be off.”

  She turned to go but when she had nearly reached her horse she realized she was walking alone. With a sigh, she faced the others. “Do we really have time for this? She’s just a nun. Don’t you agree, War Monk? Don’t we need to go?”

  The monk looked at the centaur and together, the pair began to walk toward Balla. But when they drew near her, they pulled their swords, turned, and charged toward the ledge. When they reached the edge, they both jumped.

  Balla stomped her foot. “This is why I hate war monks!” she bellowed.

  * * *

  Gemma landed hard on the back of a soldier, slamming her blade into his spine and using his body to break her landing. When he hit the ground, she rolled off him, dragging her sword out of his back at the same time, and got to her feet.

  She quickly moved until she was on the nun’s left and Quinn was on her right.

  “War Monk,” the nun greeted, holding tightly onto a steel walking stick. “I have to say I’m most heartened to see you.”

  “Sister.”

  “Stay behind us, Sister,” Quinn said, his long sword out.

  “Unholy four-legged thing!” one of the soldiers cursed at Quinn even though Quinn had quickly shifted back into his human form, and the nun seemed confused by the insult.

  In response, Quinn dramatically pointed his sword at the man and promised, “I’m going to shit on you.”

  The expression on the soldier’s face was so horrified that Gemma started to laugh and then she charged, killing the soldier closest to her. It was the last thing anyone was expecting from her, which was why it worked so well. She’d hacked her way through nearly ten soldiers when she noticed that Quinn was just standing there.

  “What the fuck are you doing?” she demanded, but he didn’t answer her. He just continued to stand there, staring . . .

  She turned and . . .

  The nun tore through soldiers. One after another after another. Gemma could not say she’d never seen such a thing before. She had. But never from a nun. And this was definitely a nun. Not a war monk dressed as a nun, but a true nun.

  And yet . . . she ripped through those soldiers like they were nothing. It wasn’t a steel walking stick she’d held but a steel battle staff. A battle staff that was designed so the nun could easily pull it into two pieces, each of those pieces equipped with a spike on the end. She used those spikes to rip open throats, abdomens, inner thighs, spines, and to tear out eyes. She never said a word, she never made a sound as she did her brutal work. There were no war cries, no curses, no spells cast. She just decimated.

  She butchered.

  That’s when Gemma knew who this woman was! The Abbess Butcher!

  She’d always thought the Abbess Butcher—called just the Abbess among the sects—was a tale told to scare novitiates. But her existence made sense. How else would a convent filled with virginal, defenseless women be able to protect itself except to choose one nun to be trained in the art of killing? So while her sisters were lost in peaceful love, prayer, and contemplation of their god, there was one among them who was prepared to destroy any man or men who thought a convent in the middle of nowhere might be ripe for the plucking.

  “Behind you,” Gemma told Quinn.

  “Huh?”

  The centaur couldn’t stop watching the white-robed nun brutally killing everyone around her, but he really needed to stop. Because their job was not nearly done.

  Gemma grabbed Quinn’s shoulders and spun him around. He raised his sword in time to stop the axe aimed for his head.

  “Thanks!” he yelled at her before diving into the soldiers coming for him.

  Gemma buried her own sword in the belly of another soldier, then took his weapon. She used both swords to slash her way through the soldiers closest to her. She kept an eye out for the wizards that usually accompanied Cyrus’s soldiers, but that must be only for the legions and field armies.

  Still, there were more than a hundred soldiers
to battle and they’d only gone through about fifty. But before she could worry about the next fifty, Gemma saw ten abruptly drop. Quickly and without warning. She stepped back, her swords raised and ready.

  Something whizzed under and near her before sliding up and around the legs and bodies of several soldiers she’d been facing. The creatures were inky black and once they were near their victims’ faces, they pulled back enough to reveal snake heads. The soldiers screamed but the snakes bit into their necks or lips or eyeballs. The soldiers died quickly from the poison but the deaths were painful. Seconds later, the snakes were gone, turning to liquid and evaporating into the ground beneath the bodies of the dead.

  Lightning lashed from the sky and skittered across the ground, striking three more soldiers and roasting them to death.

  Aubin and Léandre appeared next to the Abbess with their black spears. She’d already put the two pieces of her staff back together, allowing the priests to decimate the remainder of the soldiers, while she batted away any that came too close. That way, it was the priests who could claim the glory; their male pride would not be harmed by a woman possibly showing them up with her battle skills. How nice for them.

  “Now can we leave?” Balla demanded once the soldiers were all dead.

  “Where are the witches?” Gemma asked Balla.

  “You are joking, aren’t you?” Disgusted that the witches didn’t even attempt to help, Gemma moved toward the Abbess.

  “Come with us,” she urged the nun.

  She glanced at Balla, raised an eyebrow. “You travel with pagans.”

  “True. As well as witches and assassins. But it would still be good if you come. Safer for you at least.”

  “Come where?”

  “To Queen Keeley.” Gemma grinned. “Actually . . . I would love for her to meet you. I don’t think she’s ever met a nun. At least not a real nun.”

  Quinn snorted, covered it with a cough, and quickly turned away.

  * * *

  “I appreciate the offer,” the Abbess replied. “And gladly accept. Unfortunately, I don’t have a horse. I’ve been traveling on foot.”

  “You can take my horse,” Quinn offered. “Scandal. He’ll appreciate how lightweight you are.”