by Bruce Blake
Teryk righted himself and ushered her behind him, then faced the man.
“Is that the best you’ve got?”
The woman’s attacker growled deep in his throat and sprang forward again, swiping left to right at chest height. Teryk shuffled back, his feet scraping in the dirt and fractured pavers without crossing, the way Trenan had taught him. After so many lessons, the master swordsman might finally be proud of his student.
The prince launched his own attack, swinging Godsbane down over his head. His opponent brushed the blow aside with his blade, then flicked its tip against Teryk’s thigh opening a shallow nick.
“Oh.” Teryk glanced at the white flesh of his leg showing through the slice in his purple breeches, but the flash of moonlight on skin disappeared as the hole in his pant leg filled with blood.
“Is that the best ye got, kitten?”
The man waggled his sword at the prince, taunting him, and Teryk knew he shouldn’t let it anger him. Trenan always preached that a calm head prevails in a hard fight.
‘He who loses his temper loses his head.’
Trenan had repeated the mantra over and over until the prince became sick of hearing his trainer’s voice. In that moment, with blood trickling down the inside of his thigh and his attacker advancing again, Teryk wished Trenan was beside him, shouting encouragement. Danya, too.
The man swung his weapon and Teryk jumped back, deflecting the swipe with Godsbane’s edge. A clang of steel rang along the street and sparks flew into the darkness.
“Quite a sword ye got there, boy.”
“I’m not a boy.”
“We’ll see about that.”
The miscreant lunged and the prince jerked away. His feet tangled with the woman’s standing behind him, throwing them both off balance. She fell, Teryk waved his arms trying to keep his feet, the tip of the crown sword flailing in the air, finding a space in the basket guard of the other man’s weapon. The prince toppled over the fallen woman, his momentum wrenching the sword from his surprised attacker’s hand.
Teryk scrambled to his feet and leaped the space between him and the man, preventing him from retrieving his sword. Godsbane’s tip brushed the crook’s throat.
“Leave it,” Teryk said trying to sound menacing.
The man froze, open hand reaching for the weapon, his eyes rolling up toward the prince. Neither of them moved. Teryk heard the woman clamber to her feet behind him; she pressed herself close enough to his back, her breath whistled in his ear.
“It’s time you be on your way.” Teryk rotated the sword so the flat of the blade touched the man under his chin, then used it to prompt him to stand.
“You don’t wanna—”
“No words, sir. You have been bested by a boy. A whelp. A kitten. Take your leave before I release the bear.”
The man giggled, but firmer pressure from Godsbane convinced him of his poor choice. He raised his hands, palms out in surrender, and backed away. After he’d gone four paces, he spun and bolted into the darkness.
“You’re so very brave,” the woman said into his ear.
The thrill of the fight had ignited a spark in his belly, cleared his head of the ugliness he’d experienced so far in the outer city. His chest puffed up, swollen with the pride of victory, and he faced her, ready to accept her appreciation. Moonlight fell across the street, revealing her face to him for the first time.
She appeared older than his mother, with one empty eye socket criss-crossed by a shiny pink scar. Her smile revealed a gap between her front teeth—the cause of her whistling breath. Teryk’s own grin faded as she laid a hand on his chest.
“So brave,” she repeated.
“It was...uh...it was nothing.”
“No, you risked yerself to save me from that bastard. You deserves a reward.”
She stretched up on her toes, closed her eye and puckered her lips. The empty eye socket didn’t close along with its partner, the lid having been either cut away or grown over by scarring. Teryk grimaced and leaned back, stepped away.
“Your appreciation is more than enough, young lady.”
She opened her eye, put her fingers to her lips, and giggled.
“That fellow was right. What an impressive sword you got. Look at the size of it.”
Teryk felt the warmth of embarrassment rise in his cheeks, her suggestive words sending discomfort through his limbs. He held the sword up to feign ignorance of her intent, and the engraved blade caught the moonlight.
“Beautiful,” she whispered.
The prince decided flashing the crown sword in public might not be the best of ideas. He grasped the top of his scabbard and inserted the sword’s tip, sliding it in until it thumped against the bottom, an inch of steel protruding from the top.
“Oho,” the woman said, giggling again. “It looks like it’s too big to fit.”
Teryk cleared his throat. “I must be on my way.”
“No,” she cried reaching out to ensnare him in her arms. He backed away a step and bowed shallowly at the waist.
“Will you be all right getting home on your own?”
“I will, good sir. And thanks be to you again for your brave rescue.”
Teryk nodded and strode away, tempted to look back over his shoulder to ensure she didn’t follow him. No sound of footsteps hurried after him, no shuffle of skirts. When he reached the next corner, he stole a peek back at the woman standing in the avenue, still watching him, and he raised a hand to her. She returned the gesture, then scurried away.
The prince continued along the street, relieved she hadn’t pursued him, pleased he’d been able to help. Most of all, pleased with himself for besting the first man he’d ever faced who wasn’t employed by his father. Judging by the quality of the basket-hilted sword the man had wielded, he took his swordplay seriously, and Teryk beat him.
He stood straighter as he walked, the stench assaulting his nostrils seeming less offensive. If the rest of his journey went as well, he’d find himself the savior of the kingdom in no time.
But where do I start?
His first goal was to reach the city’s outer boundary, where he’d acquire a horse. Despite the exorbitant price the criminals Fellick and Ive charged him to buy back his own sword, he still had a number of coins hidden in the secret pocket in his pack, including five more gold—half a gold should be more than enough to purchase an excellent steed.
Once he sat with a horse between his legs, he was undecided how he’d proceed. From what he recollected, the scroll made the man from across the sea his first priority. If such a man existed, he didn’t expect to locate him in the outer city. But where, then? The prophecy also talked of Small Gods; perhaps the answer lay with them.
Teryk stopped in the middle of the street and looked up at the stars twinkling in the night sky. Stories told by the followers of the Goddess said she’d banished the Small Gods to the heavens long ago, forcing them to spend eternity watching the world but never participating. The prince thought the Goddess-followers’ fables ridiculous. And how could a bunch of pinpricks of light flickering in the sky lead him to a man from across the sea?
No, stars weren’t the answer, but he’d heard tell of other Small Gods. Legends spoke of magical creatures who walked the land before man, a race that hid themselves in the no-man’s-land superstitious folk called the Green at the sunset end of the kingdom. Teryk didn’t believe in those Small Gods any more than he believed the stars were once alive, but it gave him a place to start. In his heart, he knew wherever he went, he’d find himself in the right place. The prophecy said so.
He unshouldered his pack, the coins hidden within jingling quietly, and opened the front pocket. His thumb and forefinger slid inside and he fished out the folded sheet of paper, its blue tint washed out to off-white in the moon’s dim glow. The temptation to unfold it, to read the words he’d written on it as Danya recited them from the scroll, nearly overtook him, but he resisted. Better to not linger in the middle of the street in t
he outer city—likely not the safest place to be, judging by what he’d seen. He stowed the paper back in the pocket and moved to replace the pack on his back when a voice stopped him.
“Ye may as well leave that off, whelp. Yer gonna be givin’ it t’us, anyways.”
Indignant anger ignited in Teryk’s chest before he looked up to find the man he’d recently fought blocking the street in front of him. He held a dagger in one hand, a smoking torch in the other. Two of the three men with him held bare steel in their hands, the third wielded a stout club.
“Do I need to teach you another lesson?” Teryk slipped one of the pack’s straps over his shoulder and edged his hand toward Godsbane’s grip.
“Teach me a lesson? If it weren’t fer that worthless whore, you’d be bleedin’ in the street a couple of blocks from here.”
“Watch your mouth when you speak of a lady.”
The four men laughed and the sound of it sent a shiver along the prince’s spine. He could dispose of one of them, he knew, likely two, but four? His eyes scanned the street for anything to give him an advantage, and his gaze fell upon a door to his left, a sliver of flickering light shining through the crack beneath. Perhaps someone within might help.
Teryk sprang for the door, his hand grasping the hilt of his sword, wrestling it from the scabbard. The four men jumped toward him together, a mass of arms and legs and sharp edges coming for him, shouting.
The prince hammered on the wooden door, rattling it against the lintel. He spun toward the men, back pressed to the wood, but the man he’d fought before swung his fist, caught him in the chin. Teryk’s knees buckled and he slid down the door until his ass hit the ground.
Head spinning, agonizing pain spreading out from his jaw, the prince raised Godsbane defensively only to have the sword wrenched from his grip.
“I’ll be takin’ that.”
Hands grabbed him by the front of his cloak, jerked him to his feet. Teryk raised his fists, but a punch to the gut doubled him over. Someone yanked his pack. He clutched the strap, desperate to keep it, but another fist contacting the side of his head made his grip loosen. The pack slipped off his shoulder.
Bent at the waist, Teryk directed his eyes upward and watched the man he’d fought hand the torch to one of the others and tear open the flap. He plunged his hand in and ripped out the prince’s clothes, his rations, scattering them across the dirt street. When he’d pulled everything out, he flipped it upside down and shook it. The coins stowed in the hidden pocket jingled.
“I knew there’d be somethin’. You ain’t dressed like a man who ain’t got no money.”
“Let—” Teryk coughed, gasped, found his breath. “Let me go and your lives will be spared.”
The men laughed again. “You’ll spare us, will you?”
“Let you live. I’m the—”
The man holding the torch kicked the prince in the belly, knocking the air out of him and cutting his words short. Teryk crumpled, his knee catching the corner of a broken cobblestone and shooting pain along his leg.
“Let’s see what else you got in here.”
The man with the pack jerked the front pocket open sending the button fastening it closed bouncing along the street. He reached in and pulled out the blue paper, held it up.
“What have we here?” He unfolded it, gazed at the words scrawled across it
“Read it,” one of the others urged.
“I can’t read. Can any of you?”
One man shrugged as if he didn’t know anything about this thing called reading, the other two shook their heads. The man holding the scroll peered over its edge at Teryk.
“Well, if we can’t read it, I s’pose we don’t need it.”
He stretched his arm out, extending the corner of the paper toward the torch.
“No.”
The choked word died in the prince’s throat. He reached his hand out, leaned forward, desperate to stop them from burning the prophecy, but flame flickered at the corner of the sheet, spread along the edge.
“No.”
“Make him quit wheezin’, will ya?”
The heavy club smashed into his face, crunching his nose and firing stars before his eyes. Teryk fell onto his side, bashing his shoulder on the hard ground. The man let go of the paper and, through the pain, the prince watched it flutter through the night air, a trail of light following in his doubled vision. The transcription settled on the cobblestones in front of Teryk, the light of the fire showing him the words before consuming them.
Firstborn child of the rightful king.
Coins jangled on the street as the man tore his pack in two, exposing the secret pocket. One of the other men gathered the money and they threw the ruined satchel aside.
“Get his clothes.”
Rough hands tossed him around, yanking his cloak from his back, his coat, his shirt and pantaloons, leaving him in his underclothes. Teryk lashed out at one of the men, poked him in the eye. He kicked another weakly, missing the groin he aimed for and catching him in the thigh. For his efforts, he received a fist gripping a sword hilt to the nose and pain exploded through his head. He clutched his nose with both hands, felt sticky blood on his fingers.
After they stripped him, the men dropped him back to the street. A boot hit him painfully in the gut, the club bludgeoned him in the spine. Teryk threw his arms over his head, pulled his knees up to his chest. The urge to beg for his life replaced any thought of using his name to scare them off, but the punches and kicks kept him from filling his lungs to plead for mercy.
A boot struck his head, dazing him and blurring his vision. Steely fingers grabbed his balls and squeezed; rank breath leaning near his ear whispered words about teaching him a lesson. When the fingers released him, more kicks hammered his legs, his arms, his back, before relenting.
Teryk lay with his face hidden behind his hands, expecting the onslaught to resume. When it didn’t, he spread his fingers and opened his eyes, saw the once blue-tinted paper lying on the street in a sheet of ash. A gust of wind picked it up, twirled it in the air, and blew it across the dirt in a thousand pieces.
The prince reached a quaking hand out for it, as though he might grab the myriad bits and puzzle them back together. A boot stomped on his fingers, crunching them against a stone. Teryk screamed and the man who he’d first fought knelt in front of him.
The criminal grabbed the prince by the hair, tilted his head back to direct his eyes toward his attackers. Teryk couldn’t focus. The man’s face appeared no more than a smear in the dark, the sound of coins jingling in his palm an indistinct rattle. He let the prince’s head drop, his cheek banging the street and shooting pain along his spine, then he pushed him by the shoulder, rolling Teryk onto his back.
The man loomed over him and, through the haze of agony, Teryk recognized Godsbane in his hand. He held the weapon in both hands, the tip pointed toward the ground, and plunged it into the prince’s belly.
Teryk always imagined being stabbed would be excruciating, but with the other pains plaguing his body, he didn’t notice the blade sliding into him. He’d been dealt a killing blow and not noticed it happening. The thought struck the prince as funny. He laughed, he coughed. Blood sprayed from his lips.
The man yanked the crown sword out of Teryk and kicked him in the head; the prince’s laughing and coughing ceased and darkness stole the world.
***
I’m sorry, Danya.
Darkness. Light.
Trenan, a sword hanging from his shoulder where an arm once was before Teryk was born but where none should be now.
The king; pointing, laughing.
Darkness. Light.
Teryk’s lids fluttered, but they weighed too much for him to hold them open. He glimpsed a snatch of dirty cobblestone, a shard of burnt paper, a hint of shadow before they slipped shut.
Pain coursed through him as though it replaced the blood in his veins. He cried out, the mournful sound echoing in his head, but not a whisper passed his
lips. Ragged breaths scraped his throat, burned his lungs.
Please let it end.
A shiver ran along his back, shaking his spine and spreading more pain. How did he let this happen? How did the fate that brought him the scroll and showed him his destiny allow it?
I’m sorry I lied, Danya.
He’d lost Godsbane and the writings from the scroll were reduced to ash. No one knew where to find him. The king and queen might not even realize he’d left the castle.
Blood seeped out of him, snaked along the ground and drained into a crack between two scuffed and broken cobblestones. He couldn’t feel the precious fluid leaving him, but he knew it did, from so many wounds, so much of it.
The burden of his failure pressed down on him, squeezing his heart until it hurt along with the places he’d been punched and kicked, clubbed and stabbed, compressing it until the injury done his soul outweighed all others.
If he retained the ability to weep, he’d have done so, but not over losing his life. He’d weep for the kingdom because his failure left its populace vulnerable to an evil none of them knew, not even Teryk or Danya who’d read the scroll.
I’m so sorry, sister.
Darkness. Light. Darkness. Light.
Fingers pried his lids wide and a face swam into view, though he didn’t know if it was real or a product of his reeling, grieving mind. Gap-toothed, one-eyed. Pink flesh glistened. Breath whistled.
Words floated through the buzzing in the prince’s ears.
“...clothes...”
“...alive...”
Pain in his gut as someone pressed on his belly.
Trenan. I failed you, Trenan.
“...helped me...”
The face hovered over him, lips moving, words being spoken, but he didn’t hear any more. His ears didn’t care for the sounds the one-eyed woman made with her lips. His eyes didn’t want to look at the too-pink skin by her blank eye, or the space between her teeth.
He wanted to be with his sister, see his mother, spar with Trenan. He wanted the pain to stop.
