by K. E. Walter
“I hope that I can keep it up, then,” he jested as he drank from a jug of water.
She laughed and peered out the window. In the courtyard, a grand carriage was being prepared. Its wheels rested on golden axles, which were adorned with rubies, and a long silk strand ran down from front to back. It was red, and it held the crest of Henrig’s family emblazoned atop its roof and bottom. A magnificent sight, it looked like a chariot ready for battle.
Atop its glamorous base, a plush velvet cushion sat with a backboard of solid mahogany. The King’s loyal servants prepared a spot for him atop the carriage, as the white horses were affixed to the reins at the front.
“There’s going to be a parade, Neach. I’ve already told my father that you won’t be able to do your act; he seemed to understand,” she spoke, not knowing the consequences of her actions.
“I need to be there Jenos,” he said as he nearly choked on his words. Now that she knew of his background, she would not let him near anything that would occur today.
“Look, Neach, whatever reason you are here for, it must wait. We cannot act rashly in the face of great danger. You will stay here at rest for the remainder of the day,” her words cut like a hot blade into his flesh, and he bled the blood of his friends and family into the sheets of his bed.
He knew there was no sense in fighting the Princess. She would remain strong in her decisions, just as a ruler should.
Outside, a large number of people began to gather. Nearly five hundred men and women, subjects of the King, gathered in front of the horses. They wore great, red outfits. Long silk dresses for the women, and thick red cloths for the men, all in the spirit of the summer and the King’s family crest. Their hair and faces were done with makeup and other products, to make them look as stunning as possible, as they led the King’s carriage through the city.
From out of the shadows, the King emerged bearing a long, golden scepter with a wolf’s head attached to the top. He mounted the carriage and sat in his velvet seat atop the glistening jewel of craftsmanship. He wore a black tunic under a long red cloak, and his breastplate bore the crest of his house atop its black iron. It almost appeared evil, but the people who surrounded him looked far too happy.
To the south, his troops would be gathering, preparing to take him through the city in a celebration unparalleled to any seen before. Bards would walk with his bejeweled chariot, encasing his every move in song while flame eaters consumed the heat of the sun without injury. A grand spectacle for the people of Leirwold, the people the King served.
Near a thousand men were stationed throughout the city of Leirwold, and they all converged around the entrance of the castle to greet the King as he was lead out by hundreds of his subjects. He bore no smile to accompany his grand procession, but he wore his pride on the sleeve of his shirt. The warriors wore their finest armor, encrusted with the crest of Duncairn, and they wielded fine steel swords, only taken out for this special occasion. The King waved to them as he passed, and they responded with cheers and laughter. For a man who was so revered and feared around the Kingdom, Henrig held a respectable relationship with his people.
When they left the castle gates, a sea of onlookers was unleashed upon the procession. The citizens of Leirwold lined the streets in the thousands, as they camped along the parade route, which would lead through the craftsman and university districts, to the brewery district, and through the estates district before returning to the castle. It would be the culmination of a week of celebration in honor of his late, beloved father.
Flowers were thrown at his feet as the carriage proceeded slowly through the crowd. The people threw themselves before the King out of respect and appreciation for his loyalty. Trouble was brewing in the city, however. Atop the roofs of buildings which made up the city’s university, strange shapes glided atop the shingles and wood. They wore brown to blend in, and to the trained eye, near a hundred men could be seen.
But the King proceeded in blissful ignorance. He threw gold pieces to the on looking crowd and accidentally hit some of his soldiers. They laughed and he did as well, reveling in the glory of the power and wealth he held.
The first death was swift.
A man lunged from a rooftop before stick his knife through the throat of an unsuspecting soldier. Like bats they came from the tops of buildings, screaming and shouting in their fury.
The procession which had now numbered in the thousands scattered as the soldiers were left to fight off the attackers. The King urged his men onward, while a portion stayed behind to deal with the miscreants.
Leading the charge was a man by the name of Sep. He was the King’s most trusted military commander, and was held in the highest regard by people across the land. Successfully orchestrating defenses of the capital and other villages throughout Duncairn, Sep was revered for his prowess. Today, however, his plan of attack would need to be different.
They moved like the night.
Furious blade swipes and quick movements made difficult work for the King’s men. Individual struggles went in favor of the aggregates in most cases, as they held the advantage of light, stealthy tactics. At the head of the battle, Sep sat atop his steed, swinging down at approaching attackers with his long steel blade.
He called the blade limb because it had claimed so many, he believed it was turning into one of his own.
The men in brown dodged around fountains and benches, as they slashed and swiped at the soldiers of Duncairn’s fighting force. At one end, an angry girl shouted as she was cut down by a steel blade. Her throat opened, as blood poured out, before the man put her out of her misery by placing his blade between her ribs. Another man shouted for her as she fell to the ground.
“Plyxx!” his words echoed over the other cries of battle emanating from the spot.
He too was cut down from behind, as he looked on in agony at the girl who had crumpled into a heap at the base of the library.
Daniel lay on the ground outside of the lecture hall with a deep red stream of blood running from his stomach. A blade had pierced his right about the kidney and there would be no saving him now.
He shouted at a soldier in anger.
“Kill me now, heathen. Do it before I’m forced to live with this pain any longer,” his words were exasperated and it took every ounce of his energy for him to get them from his throat.
The man simply looked down at him, with blood running from a cut below his eye and laughed. They would be no mercy on this field of battle.
He writhed in pain and shouted for help, but none arrived. He was destined to die at the hands of the King, like so many of his brothers before him.
Blood ran down the steps and into the grass, creating a sickening brown puddle.
The men slashed and hacked at their elusive attackers until one by one they were rounded up or killed. At the end of the bloodshed, nearly all of the attackers had been killed, some had been captured, and inevitably, some would be unaccounted for. They were joined by nearly eighty of the King’s men who lay writhing in the mud around the university’s grounds.
Though they were separate in life, they existed together in death. Their flesh would decay and their bones would pile just the same. Man and woman, dissident and crusader; whether they fought for the righteous or died for their own greed, they died in unity; rulers of their dirt kingdom, hoping to find solace in the Gods of old as they lived a life rejecting their wishes. Neither man nor woman purely to blame, only life itself could harbor such a burden. In the streets they would sing of them, in their homes they would cry, but tonight they slept alone in a heap of flesh and bones, strewn in patterns of disarray across the city.
They moved like the night.
The King and his men ran quickly from the battle and slowed back to a trot as they entered the brewery district. Drunkards and beggars alike would not know of the fighting just to their south, so Henrig resumed his normal position as the commander of his own personal parade.
Rooftops shook and chimneys wh
istled as the stalkers moved into position again.
This time, however, the King noticed in time.
“There, atop the roofs!” he shouted to his soldiers.
Before the attackers could do any damage through their surprise tactics, the King’s men were scaling the sides of the buildings in pursuit of their fleet feet.
Men and women alike were killed without reprieve, their throats slit, allowing the blood to run out before their bodies were tossed to the side.
Some were taken as prisoners; others ran as fast as they could, out of the hands of their enemies.
The King did not discriminate, and he watched as his soldiers killed nearly a hundred people in the grounds surrounding his castle. The rebels had come close to his throne, but they had ultimately been put down, for good measure. The righteous always prevailed in the end.
Carnage covered the city streets in the two districts closest to the Castle, and the King surveyed it with tears in his eyes. Hundreds of his men, taken out by a handful of people from the House he once called his own. Their tact was honorable, but he could not forgive such an attack on a day of celebration as this.
They would all die; those in captivity first, and those who escaped, after. A fire burned in his heart for all of the wrong reasons.
He saw men he had known all of his life, consigned to death in their own city at the hands of people he had once considered brothers. He saw Sep and it hurt him the most. His most tactically savvy commander, slain along with his horse. They laid in a disheveled heap next to each other, a collection of flesh and bones.
Henrig removed his crown as he pushed his hair back. It seemed as if his brow were permanently furrowed these days, but today it wrinkled to a new degree. His loyal servants, taking part in a celebration, had been slain in their most innocent form. Many of them had refused to carry swords that day, something that Daniel and his counterparts must have known.
When he came to Daniel’s body, he dismounted his carriage and walked toward the lecture hall, avoiding dead bodies which lay at his feet with every step.
He was clutching a wooden medallion which had the crest of the House carved into its soft flesh. Even in death, he held a smile upon his face as if he were laughing at the possibility of living a life without burden, once and for all.
Years ago, Henrig called this man a friend. Today, he stood before his dead body as the target of his most ruthless attack yet. No doubt orchestrated by Daniel, this assault had taken everyone by surprise and left the city in panic.
“You were always a bit naïve, Daniel,” the King spoke softly as he held the medallion in his hand.
“None of this was necessary, but I guess it is fitting for a man as twisted as you,” he ripped the medallion from the man’s neck as a sort of sick war prize, claimed off of the most prominent victim of the battle. If not for the sudden shock of it all, the King would have produced tears at the very moment.
In the castle there was calm. Not a single sound could be heard throughout the courtyard after the grand procession left through the main gates. Jenos looked down at Neach as he lay in his bed, sapped of his energy.
“I believe it is time you tell me your story, Neach,” she whispered softly, as she sat down next to him once more.
A simple task, it seemed, but, unfortunately, he wasn’t sure of it himself.
For the next twenty minutes he dazzled her with tales of Spleuchan Sonse, the trip to Leirwold for the first time, his journey to Rosalia, his training, meeting Tyrin, and ultimately the rest of his House. He told her of the times he thought of her, in the mountains, on the sea, in the city’s crowded districts. He told her of his brother Ealar and his parents, whom he hadn’t seen in months. He told her of the anger he often felt for his family for hiding such a secret from him for so long. He told her everything, and she listened to every word.
When he was done, he lay back, further exhausted from his memories. They seemed a nice consolation after it all, but some which he harbored brought him more pain than anything else.
“So, you and my father are part wolf then?” she asked quizzically.
He laughed to himself softly before responding.
“To be honest, I’m not sure what I am. But according to legend, we were all descended from a wolf, ages ago, in the Godless time,” her eyes grew wide as he recounted tales from the Toriik Riamendi to her. Only a few months ago, these same stories would have seemed just as absurd to him.
“Neach, my father is plotting something heinous. I do not know the specifics, but he rides East frequently, to the Forest of the Wicked, and he does not tell me why. I fear danger for you,” her eyes welled up minimally and Neach sensed weakness for the first time. The usually stoic princess was rife with emotion, as she thought of him in danger.
“Do not worry, my lady, I will not let anything happen to me,” he chuckled again, obviously tired of the constant seriousness and talk of danger that filled the halls of the castle.
She too laughed, as she wiped the tears from her eyes. The two sat in peace, something that rarely happened in the last few weeks. Solace held the courtyard in its grips and threatened to never let it go, a welcomed respite by the two young lovers.
They moved like the night.
A hawk screeched high above the castle as two men came riding in atop their horses. They travelled unusually fast and disrupted the tranquility that presently resided over the grounds.
Jenos peered out of the window in curiosity and was confused by what she saw. These two men were her father’s soldiers, but they were spotted with blood.
They pulled up short of the room where her and Neach sat and walked in briskly.
“Your Highness, there has been a battle,” the man on the right spoke softly. He appeared to be out of breath and was losing blood from a deep gash in his side.
“What, where?” she asked, confused.
“Near the university, and a second ambush was attempted in the brewery district. It seems the rebels have gotten much more audacious,” he winced as he prodded his fingers into the wound in an effort to stop the bleeding.
“Very well,” she said, assuming her role as resident ruler of the Kingdom, “Is my father okay?” she asked sheepishly, her resolve dwindling.
“He is indeed, should be arriving within the hour; he is surveying the dead as we speak,” his voice held an ominous tone, but his face appeared white as a summer cloud.
“Thank you, gentlemen; see to it that your wounds are healed as seen fit,” the two men left, hobbling and grimacing. Jenos turned back to Neach.
“Neach, my father knows you are one of them; I fear he will not spare you if he finds you here,” she said, her voice quivering.
“Then come with me, Jenos. I know of a place in Fletwod that can hold us until further notice. There’s no telling how many people died today, and I believe the King will see me dead once he finds me,” he sat up in his bed, more confident than he ever remembered being.
And then the princess cried.
Tears streamed down her face like a deep river cutting a channel through the Kingdom. He stood up at once and embraced her, hoping to calm her down.
She sniffled and unleashed every ounce of sorrow and anger which she had held in for so long, all at once. Looking up at Neach, she kissed him softly before removing herself from his arms.
“I have been lied to for too many years, Neach. My father has betrayed me, my mother, and many others in the Kingdom. But your House threatens to do the same, how can I trust you?” the tears streamed down her face without any sobs. She regained control of her emotions for the time being.
“Jenos, I know little of this House or your father, but what I do know is you captured my heart when I saw you for the first time months ago. I will not betray your trust, and I refuse to put you in danger by being around your father,” he rose to his feet as he spoke and clutched her hands in his.
