by A. Rosaria
The moment she left the room, the knights drew their swords ready to pierce, slash, or stab her to death. They reeled back once they saw what Lyna dragged out with her. They stared at the corpse, some cursing, others praying. Her father watched teary-eyed, repeating Claudette‘s name.
“Christine killed her,” she said to her father. “She killed both of them. Now do you believe me?” She turned to the wall where Eadric lay against the wall. “You see now. I‘m not the monster you thought me to be. You–”
Her face grew pale. Eadric‘s eyes were open, but he saw no more. Blood streamed out from his nose and ears, his glazed eyes stared at her lifeless. She gasped for air that didn‘t come; she couldn‘t breathe. Her tears came back, a river making its way from her eyes over her cheeks to the floor. But her sorrow was denied. Something stirred at her feet. A cold hand grabbed her ankle. Her sight impaired with the tears, she looked down but only saw a black blur twisting at her feet.
The knights backed away. Her father fell on his knees, a horrified look on his ashen face. Lyna wiped her eyes and saw the broken arms of Claudette grasping her legs. Claudette‘s head swung from side to side, back to front, while her teeth smashed together trying to bite her.
“Get her off me,” Lyna screamed.
Tristan dashed forward with a speed one would not expect from him. He swung his sword down chopping off one of Claudette‘s arms. Lyna pulled free, watching in horror how her dead sister twisted on the floor trying to get her. She backed to the door, glanced in, expecting to see her brother coming for her, but he lay lifeless on the floor.
“Chop her head off,” she yelled at Tristan.
The old knight did as she commanded. In one swift swing of his sword, he severed Claudette‘s head. The moment the head left the body the corpse stopped thrashing. Knights surrounded the body, talking anxiously, asking themselves what to do next, and questioning how this was possible. Two were taking care of Eadric; they alternated hateful and fearful glances at Lyna.
She waited silently for what would assuredly come. Lord Robert stood up, his shock still clear on his face. He addressed her with a trembling voice filled with sorrow and rage. “My daughters are dead, my son is dead, and I‘ve no heirs left. You may not have done this, but you‘re no daughter of mine anymore, nor is your sister, Christine. You are both dead to me.”
She was not like Christine; she wasn‘t a monster that took pleasure in the killing and suffering of others. “I‘m not a monster.”
Lord Robert pointed at Eadric‘s dead body. “Tell him that.”
“I didn‘t mean to kill him. It was an accident. I‘m not like her, I‘m not.”
Her father‘s mouth twisted in disgust. His hate burned from his eyes, making her quiver a little. He addressed the two knights standing at Eadric‘s corpse. “Bring him here.”
They pulled Eadric up. Robert pulled his knife and slashed Eadric‘s neck. Blood oozed out of the cut, dark lifeless blood. Lyna‘s stomach churned, her eyes fixated on the blood. Her father grabbed her by the hair and pushed her closer. Her nostrils flared at the smell of blood. She fought against the odd feeling of hunger, of a wanting that her mind disgusted. She licked her lips.
“We‘ll know soon enough if you‘re a monster or not.” He pushed her closer.
She could only see the blood now. Tempting her, there was still a fragment of life in it, a siren‘s call to her. Her mind grew blank for a long moment, by the time she got it back, her teeth had sunk in Eadric‘s neck and she was sucking his blood. She let go, gasping. A knife pierced her neck, her own blood sprayed out. She staggered back. Her father stood close, his knife raised, her blood dripping from its tip, ready to strike again.
“Kill her. We can‘t have this abomination walking the earth. Chop her head off.”
“Father?”
Lord Robert turned his back on her and walked away. “Bring her head to me when you‘re done.”
The knights slowly closed in on her, swords drawn, poised to strike at her in a moment‘s notice. Seven sharp points for her. Tristan spat on the ground. “Leave her to me.”
He lunged forward, arms stretched, sword shot forward to pierce her heart. Just in time, Lyna jumped back, tripped over her sister‘s corpse, and fell on her back inside the room. Tristan hesitated a moment, then he raised his sword. Lyna quickly pulled her legs inside the room. The sword came down on her, a powerful blow that would have cleaved her in half. She rolled away. The blade broke the stone tile she had lain on. Tristan quickly raised his sword and sent another blow down. Again and again, the sword searched for Lyna, yearning for her blood. She kicked her way farther into the room, well out of reach of Tristan‘s blade. She crawled back up. Her eyes glued to the sword crushing the floor. They really wanted her dead and all because of Christine, because of what she turned her into.
Tristan stopped. “Lady Lyna, come out and we‘ll make it clean and quick.”
She had no answer to that. She was cast out by her father; she was no lady anymore. Honor didn‘t matter. There was no point of keeping pretenses and allowing them to execute her to save face. A tear rolled from her cheek. Her world as she knew it was gone.
Tristan signaled two young knights. She recognized them as kids she used to play with in a time long gone. “Go get bales of straw; we‘ll smoke that wench out.”
She had no choice. She had to get out before they got back. Five knights waited outside for her, five heavily armored and armed men, while she herself had nothing. She had never raised a sword in her life, and she never had to fight before. As a female, she lived a sheltered life. Strife, war, and fighting were not a part of her upbringing as a lady. She ran to the closest window and opened the wooden storm shutters. It was too high a fall for her to jump and survive. She looked around the room: a large four-post canopy bed made of dark oak and decorated with crosses, a tapestry in the center of the room, a large wooden armoire, a washing stand, and against the wall an old shield and sword.
She ran to the wall and grabbed the thick, wooden, round shield reinforced with iron struts. It had the old family crest painted on it. Faded, but still visible, stood a withered tree. The shield felt unfamiliar when she put it on. She grabbed the sword with the same crest engraved on its blade. The sword and shield felt light in her hands, not the heavy burden she expected them to be on her untrained arms.
She exhaled long, inhaled deep, held her breath, cleared her mind, and charged out of the room. She went for the only gap she saw, between two younger knights. Within seconds she stood among them. Someone grabbed her by the hair and yanked her off-balance. She fell on her butt. Ignoring the pain, she focused on the knights circling her. Their swords were raised at the ready to rain blows on her. She quickly pulled her shield up just in time to catch their strikes. She heard the wood creak with each consecutive blow, and with each hit, the knights cursed louder and hit harder. Soon enough, she saw the first crack in the shield.
She raised it higher, pushing the knights away. She quickly stood up in one smooth motion and swung her sword wildly around to keep them at bay. One knight, Drunn, parried her sword. He cried out when his sword flew out of his hand, him unprepared for the strength behind Lyna‘s swing. She saw her chance for an opening and ran past him, nudging him with the shield. She heard a loud crack and blood shot out of Drunn‘s nose.
She ran down the hallway, light on her feet and making no sound. The knights behind her ordered her to stop. Her head was empty of any other thoughts but to get away. She ran ahead, seeking a way out, keeping herself as far away from the men as possible. Away from her father, her people. Burdened by the weight of their equipment and with her newly gained strength, the distance between her and the knights quickly grew.
She turned a corner and faltered to a stop. In front of her stood Lord Robert. He stared her down with a scowl on his face. Lyna was about to say something when his sword pierced her belly. The steel burned through her skin, muscles, organs, and punctured out her back. Robert smiled cruelly.
“This is for the best, die my child.”
He pulled the sword out, blood gushed from her open wound. Lyna felt oddly faint, but her strength did not waver. The clanking of armor came nearer. The knights were almost on her; if she stayed here, it would be her end. She looked at Robert. He raised his sword. She caught the blow with her shield and bashed it against Robert‘s chest, denting his armor and sending him sprawling on his back. She jumped over him, pulled the first door open, and dove inside.
She was in the castle tower. If she went down the narrow stone steps, she would end up in the courtyard, which likely would be crawling with soldiers. She looked up. Above would lead to the ramparts and there would also be guards but not as many. Where could I go? she thought.
“She‘s in the tower,” she heard Lord Robert call out.
The knights had closed in on her. She ran up the stairs, three steps at a time. With no torches burning it should be dark in the tower, but she could see well enough, actually too well. Instead of everything being dark, she could see the narrow steps winding up. She saw everything in lighter shades of gray.
The knights stormed into the tower. She could hear their curses. Tristan called out for her to come back down and face him in a fight, but she gave no heed to his request and kept running. She left the tower for the battlements, thirty-five feet high. Keeping close to the tooth-shaped parapet to her right, she went on, not knowing what to do or how to get away. She glanced down. The courtyard, as she had expected, was full of soldiers looking up at her, some pointing at her. The archers drew their bows. Arrows whizzed past her. She raised her shield and caught an arrow aimed for her heart. Behind her, knights found their way out of the tower and onto the battlements. She looked back and in doing so, lowered her shield. An arrow pierced her shoulder, knocking her back. She toppled over through the crenel, sending her crashing down to the cheers of the knight.
Screaming, she saw the sloping wall coming fast. On contact the air pressed out her lungs, her back cracked, her legs fell limp. She bounced up, her shield flew out her hands, but she managed to clutch her sword in her hand. She fell down into the moat, unconscious, and sank down in the muddy water filled with the castle‘s filth.
***
Robert saw his daughter–no not his daughter, a demon spawn–fall from the battlements to her death. Her broken body bounced of the sloping wall, fell in the moat, and disappeared into the filth she belonged to. His children were gone, a good young knight was dead, and another was wounded. It was a high price to pay. He hoped Ambos did his part with Christine.
He rubbed his chest. She hit him hard. He knew that such beings existed; he knew and had been forewarned. Yet still, he couldn‘t do what needed to be done, fearing what might become of his other children. It was to be Lyna, but then Aaron came into the world cursing Christine‘s existence. Not the eldest and not the youngest had the dark wander said.
He watched out over the trees stretching far beyond the horizon. In the distance the full moon broke from the clouds, casting its bluish shine on the world. All his children were gone from him. The demon had told him one child, only one child. He never said all. Robert lowered his eyes to the place Lyna had sunk. A tear fell from his eyes down to the moat.
***
Lyna saw only black. Surprised, she opened her mouth and swallowed foul water. She tried to gag, but couldn‘t. She felt the hilt of her sword in her hand. It gave her reassurance that at least she had one thing left when all else had been taken from her. She had fallen to her death, and now she was in limbo, floating in darkness not able to breathe or see. Was this hell for killing Eadric and drinking his blood?
No, her heart still beat; she could hear it. She could also hear fish swimming, the water streaming, and people talking. No, she was not dead, not yet anyway. She felt the pain throb in her shoulder where the arrow had struck her. She must have lost consciousness after she hit the wall before she fell in the moat.
She broke the surface, swam ten feet to the other side, and crawled out of the water. She wiped her face free from the mud sticking to her. She reeked. Gagging, she emptied her lungs. Exhausted, she fell on her back and lay in the mud, resting. The sky was clear of clouds, the many stars visible, and the full moon stood high. How long had she been down? She wondered how such a beautiful sky filled with moon and stars could exist on such a horrible day. Maybe not all was bad, it being just a moment in life‘s existence. She sobbed quietly.
The broken arrow stuck out from her shoulder. Lyna only felt her shoulder throb. She should have a broken back, arms, and legs from the fall, but nothing else hurt, it all functioned as if nothing had happened. The injuries she suffered should have left her dead. She pulled the arrow out. Not ready for the pain, she yelped out loud. A guard called out from the battlements. She heard the exited talk of men and steps running on the rampart. She saw torches being lit. Clutching her sword, she ran for the tree line, to the safety of cover.
From between the trees, she watched the castle, the place that had been her home for eighteen long years. The place she grew up with her loving sisters and little brother. She chocked up. They were all dead now. Her father placed her among the likes of their killer. He blamed her for their deaths and cast her out. Lyna briskly turned her back on the castle and walked deeper into the forest. She kept walking, not knowing where she would end. By the time she came out of the forest and into farmland, the moon lingered at the horizon and the first rays of the sun broke the horizon on the opposite side.
The sword in her hand seemed to grow heavier, and her body started to ache. She sat down at the base of a large oak tree. Leaning her back against the tree and resting her head against the moss covered wood, she watched the sun rise. Her eyes moistened again. She had cried most of the night and thought she was done with that. She wiped her tears away and breathed in. What was left for her to do in this world?
She looked around. Close by, she saw a wooden fence cordoning off the land of a farmer. The farm was a distance away. On the fence a rope dangled. She had no choice really; it all been for nothing. She walked to the rope, grabbed it, and picked up a large stone. It was heavy and she could barely lift it. She tied a noose, fastened it to a branch, and stood on the stone. She put the noose over her head. I survived a fall, she thought. A stabbing. But now was different, whatever that was, was gone now. She felt her strength wane; she really had nothing left and was useless to the world.
The sunlight cast the sky in a bright yellow, chasing the shades of night further away. To think that under such a beautiful sky a thing like Christine existed. She had seen the viciousness and cruelty of her sister. If Lyna could escape that many guards, her sister could do it ten fold. It would be child‘s play. Lyna couldn‘t live knowing that.
A breeze brought the smell of the farm her way. She remembered her father saying something about a farmer, a man who had accused Christine. She looked over at the farm in the distance. Could the farmer know more? Did it matter? Ambos was to take care of Christine. The fighter was a legend. He surpassed the knights in strength and fighting ability, and his stories of fame even reached the ladies of the many courts. Still, Lyna couldn‘t believe he was a match for such as Christine, not without knowing what she was or how to fight her. Lyna couldn‘t live or die knowing Christine was still out there. Knowing she was alive and well, knowing Christine killed little Aaron and Claudette, she just couldn‘t.
Her face flushed red. Her heart beat faster. She balled her hands to fist. She was being silly, wanting to hang herself, running away from her own vow. She had vowed revenge and so she should at least try, should she fail she still would meet the death she so desired. She grabbed the rope, ready to take it off when she lost balance and slipped. The rope tightened around her neck, cutting of her air. She kicked with her feet to gain back ground, but instead she kicked the rock away. Stretching her feet she tried to stand, her toes only brushing the short grass.
She felt lightheaded. No air coming in, she had not m
uch time left. The sun came higher; she felt her skin grow hotter. She tried to pull the noose away, but couldn‘t. She tried to break it, but last night‘s strength was diminished. She grabbed the rope she hung from and tried to lift herself off. She strained her body and managed to lift herself an inch, enough for her to quickly breathe. She had to let the rope go. With oxygen fueling her body, she collected her strength, grabbed the cord with both hands, and pulled up. Quickly, she let one hand go to take the noose off her head. Her strength giving away, she fell hard down.
For a long moment, she lay gasping for air and wallowing in her stupidity. Her pain lingered, her bruises stayed. Whatever went on last night was much less prevalent during the day. She still had some of that strength left; she wouldn‘t normally have the strength to do what she just did.
The sun getting higher, she felt hotter and uncomfortable. She looked at the shades between the trees and longed for them. She watched the big yellow ball of fire rising. Before she could go, she had to do one thing and set it in stone and never forget it. She picked her sword up where she had left it. Raised it to the sky, she swore on it that as long she lived she wouldn‘t rest until she made sure she destroyed Christine. She put the sword away and walked back into the forest with regained purpose.
AMBOS THORNE
His shoulders tensed. Not again, he thought. He pulled the reins, the leather cutting into his hand as he did. The wooden cart, a sturdy thing, was big enough for two grown man to sit in the front and to carry a big enough cargo of whatever one wanted to transport. Ambos Thorne, a man-at-arms in the service of Lord Robert D‘Ang of castle Perring, sat in front. Sitting alone, he barely had space for himself. In the back of the cart it wasn‘t produce he carried, but a big iron cage, rusted with the blood of its many former inhabitants.
