“Dawyn!” the king exclaimed, standing and stepping down the stairs to embrace him.
Dawyn returned the embrace. “It is good to see you, my king.” Stepping back, he swept out a hand, indicating Anwyn, John and Ashley. “Your majesty, it is my pleasure to introduce you to my companions.”
The king greeted each of the three in turn, kissing the back of Anwyn and Ashley’s hands. His grip was firm and his eyes warm as he shook hands with John. “A pleasure to meet you all. What brings you here today?”
“I felt it was important for them to make your acquaintance, your majesty. John and Ashley have been training hard at the Tower under Alivia.”
“Oh yes, Alivia, the mage who accompanied you on your journey to stop Lord Garik. How is she?”
“She is well, and has been raised to the rank of master and afforded great acclaim for her heroics.”
“That is good to hear,” the king replied. His eyes turned to Anwyn. “This must be the druid you rescued previously?”
“Aye. This is Anwyn, my companion. She is a druid from the eastern woodlands.”
“You travel with powerful companions, Dawyn. That is good. Welcome to the Celestial Palace. You are welcome here. Any ally of Dawyn is a friend of the crown.” He turned and gestured to the woman seated to his left. “Allow me to introduce my daughter, Coryn.”
The young woman stood up and marched down the stairs. She saluted to Dawyn. “Dawyn, it’s good to see you again.”
Dawyn returned the salute, smiling. “I am no longer in a position where you should salute me, Coryn. You are a princess and I am a commoner now.”
“You are anything but common, Dawyn.” She nodded to his friends in turn, having heard the introductions offered to her father. “Welcome.”
“Coryn is my eldest child, and thus poised to ascend the throne upon my death,” the king explained to John, Ashley and Anwyn.
“Father,” Coryn chided. “You speak as if your death is upon you. I will not ascend for many years yet.”
“Regardless,” her father continued. “You are the heir to the throne. Please come back to my chambers, you four. Let us talk over an evening meal. If you have time?” The king arched his eyebrow while asking. As if they could refuse an invitation from the king.
“We would be honored, your majesty,” Dawyn said with a bow.
Together the group of six exited the main throne room through a side door and traveled through a tunnel to the king’s antechamber. There, they enjoyed a multi-course meal of duck, boar and a strange, spiced dish that John was told came from Imperial lands across the sea. His mouth burned after the first bite, and the sweet wine did little to quench it.
The group kept the conversation light, with the king asking innocuous questions of the others - questions related to their likes, dislikes and origins. John and Ashley gave vague answers as not to reveal their origin. The group asked similar questions in return about the realm and the royal family.
Coryn, it turned out, had a keen interest in martial matters. From a young age she had defied conventional wisdom that said women could not be fighters or trained to fight. She was proficient with sword, axe, bow, spear and mace, and trained each day for several hours. John thought her a fitting commander-in-chief to take over for her father one day. She was less interested in domestic matters, as she made clear during the conversations. Her head was filled with battle strategies and logistical knowledge such as the movement of troops and supplies, rather than bookkeeping and the administrative task of running the kingdom.
The king explained he had three other children. His son, Theodore, only three summers younger than Coryn, despised fighting and preferred to bury his head in books in the library or pore over the accounts for the royal coffers. The youngest daughter, Emily, had seen ten summers and followed in her sisters footsteps, adventuring throughout the palace, much to the chagrin of her mother. The king’s second son, George, was the youngest, having seen seven summers, and followed Emily around the palace grounds, much to the chagrin of his father.
The queen was not present during the meal. The king explained that she was visiting a neighboring lord and lady’s manor with the other three children. There was talk of a marriage alliance between Theodore and Lord Alliston’s daughter, Daedra, and the queen had left to begin negotiations. Such traditions struck John as barbarous, reminding him that for all the scattered modern remnants from the time of the Founding, the social atmosphere of Tar Ebon had not advanced much.
“How are Jason and Bridgette faring?” the king asked. It had been several weeks since his encounter with them, but John found it no surprise that the king would yet remember them.
“They are well,” Ashley said. “Honestly, they haven’t talked much, with Bridgette running off to bring Lord Garik to justice. But they are working on coping with the link.”
The king nodded. “Yes, it can take some adjustment. The queen and I spent months learning to communicate to one another through the link. It felt strange having another person privy to my deepest thoughts and desires.”
Dawyn cleared his throat. “Your majesty, that brings up a question I had. Why them? Why did you choose them to be linked?”
The king became solemn. “When I saw your sister, I saw the darkness battling the light within her. I knew, somehow, that she was trapped, like a small candle surrounded by darkness. Then I looked at Jason and saw nothing but pure light within him, like the sun. I thought that to set her free from the darkness, it was necessary to bind her to another. In a way, I chained her to the light in order to free her from the darkness.”
Dawyn nodded as if he understood. John was confused, however, and spoke up. “You saw the darkness and the light? Like physically? Are you a mage?”
The king chuckled. “No, I am no mage, but it is a gift, passed down in the royal family since the days of the Founding. Legend says that each king has possessed the ability to peer into the soul of those who come before him, judging the truth of their words and their character.”
The conversation slowed and the meal came to an end with Dawyn and his companions departing the castle and heading back to the Dancing Mare.
Chapter 31 - The Shadow Falls
Gaspar leaned against one of the stone parapets atop the ramparts of the Haguesfort, his chin resting on his fist. He huddled against the bitter north wind, for even in the midst of summer, the north knew how to make men shiver. He sighed. Watch duty - one of the most boring jobs around the fortress. No, wait, all of the jobs were boring. Standing watch during the day was merely the most boring of them all. Nothing happened during the day, except crows and other birds attempted to defecate on him. At night though, things could get interesting. The northmen might try to scale the walls - a feat they were seldom successful at, or the howling of wolves in the distance could provide a distraction.
He had been sent to the Haguesfort after receiving low marks on his training tests. Rather than discharge him from the army, they sent him to the “majestic” fortress as far north as you could go and still be within the kingdom of Tar Ebon. Here he manned the walls, mucked the stables, cleaned the mess hall and swept the halls in the name of the kingdom. His counterparts included the likes of old retired soldiers, who were old when the last war began, and other misfits like himself with no place to go.
Gaspar closed his eyes against his will - the boredom and lack of sleep, from the night before playing dice games were taking their toll on him. He snapped them open, however, when he heard a warning horn bellow. There, in the distance, was a swarm of dark creatures. Like a swarm of insects, the creatures covered the landscape. They’re heading for the bridge, Gaspar realized. Standing up straight, he looked around. Other men along the wall were staring toward the enemy, shouting in alarm, while in the courtyard below, men stepped out of the barracks to inquire as to what the alarm was all about.
One man among the crowd strode toward the wall. Commander Laroche was an older man, but the spring in his step had never left him
over the years. He bounded up the stairs and stood looking out one of the crenels, only a few feet from Gaspar. “Bloody hell,” he heard the commander say. Turning, the man shouted to the courtyard below, “sound the alarm! Possible enemy forces incoming. Get some archers up here!”
Alarm bells began to clank, the horns echoing them like a broken chorus. Men rushed inside to don armor and ready their weapons.
“You, boy,” the commander snapped, “come here.”
Gaspar jumped, for he had not realized that Commander Laroche was addressing him. He shuffled toward the commander. “Yes, sir?” he asked, focusing on the first button of the mans uniform.
“Do you know where the ravens are?”
“Yes sir, I do,” Gaspar replied.
“And do you know how to write?”
“A little. I haven’t done it in a while.”
“It’ll have to do. Listen well, boy, and be prepared to write it in the aviary. ‘Your majesty, the Haguesfort is under attack by an unknown enemy. They possess great numbers and speed. Please send aid. We will hold as long as possible.’ Did you get all that, boy?”
Gaspar bristled at being called “boy”, but nodded. “I got it, sir.”
“Go then, and send the message.” The commander turned to survey the oncoming siege engines.
Gaspar cast one last glance toward the oncoming swarm, then headed for the aviary. The aviary smelled of bird excrement and held ravens cawing for freedom. The man in charge of the aviary, Lieutenant Vespin, stood at the balcony, looking toward the north. “Lieutenant,” Gaspar called out, “I have a message to send.”
Lieutenant Vespin eyed Gaspar. “What’s the message?”
Gaspar repeated the message exactly as Commander Laroche had relayed. Vespin scribbled away. Finished, he folded the parchment, hoisted up a stick of wax, held it over a candle, and let the wax drip onto the parchment. Pressing the commander’s seal into the hot wax, Vespin walked over to one of the raven cages. Grabbing a large raven, he offered the parchment to the creature. The bird grabbed the parchment. Vespin carried the bird to the balcony and released it, watching as it flew southward toward Tar Ebon.
Gaspar exited the aviary with a word of thanks to Lieutenant Vespin and stared at the scene to the north.
Closer now, the swarm had almost reached the walls. Gaspar saw strange creatures on four legs, with upright torsos like humans. They possessed claws on the end of each arm and massive pincers jutted out from the sides of their mouth. Thick armor or skin covered them, like the carapace of beetles. They looked to be at least twice as tall as a man.
Atop the walls of the Haguesfort, men with bows rushed up and formed a ragged rank. Their leader, Captain Gestalt, ordered them to release their deadly payload. Arrows rained down upon the oncoming horde. Most of the arrows splattered against the hard carapaces of the creatures and fell to the ground, ineffective.
Onward the creatures came, unrelenting. The first creature leaped toward the wall. Instead of being repelled, the tip of its leg stuck into the stone. Chips of stone went flying. Another of its legs slammed into the wall, followed by its rear legs. It began to race up the wall, making holes in the stone as it went. Other black shapes began to follow the creature up the wall.
“Brace yourselves!” Gaspar heard a man shout further down to the wall. Men with swords, spears and shields rushed to the space of wall directly above where the creatures were climbing up.
The first creature reached the top of the wall, bent its legs and leapt into the air. It crashed into the first rank of soldiers. The razor-sharp tips of its feet slammed into two of the soldiers, knocking one man with a shield to the ground and impaling the other. It’s feet firmly on the stone wall, the creature lay about with its claws, knocking soldiers aside.
The soldiers atop the wall attacked the creature, spears stabbing, swords slashing, but the weapons struck hard carapace as if the monster were clad in steel armor. Another spider-like monster leapt up, causing men to jump back or be crushed. Crab-like claws struck out and sliced into the soldiers, cutting off limbs. The razor-sharp pincers jutting from its mouth beheaded several soldiers. A group of soldiers were surrounded when the creature from the third creature leapt up and pressed them toward the its companions, gutting two men before they noticed it was there.
Gaspar shook his head, breaking him out of his stupor. Fumbling for his sword, he strode toward the crowd of soldiers that surrounded the trio of monsters. Before he could engage, at least a dozen more of the creatures had leapt up, landing among the men and around them. Gaspar could envision more monsters climbing the walls.
We’re doomed, Gaspar thought, his legs growing weak. All is lost. We should flee, run away. There’s no way we will hold.
Chapter 32 - The Goodbye
The roar of the crowd served as a distraction to Boris as he faced off against his opponent. He looked around at the sea of faces, each face belonging to the body of an eager spectator in this deadly bloodsport. Seated at the end of the arena was Victor Helgstad. He stood, arms up, his calls for quiet drowned by the crowd. Across from Boris stood his friend Clarence, shield and sword held in his hands.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Victor shouted above the din. “Today we have a special match. Two of our house’s greatest champions will face each other! There is a catch, however. You, the audience, will decide whether the loser lives or dies. Their fate will be in your hands! Let the battle begin!”
Boris lifted his sword and advanced toward Clarence. Clarence moved forward at a slower pace. Blades clashed as they made their opening strikes, testing each other’s strength. Boris looked into Clarence’s eyes and saw resignation in them. He was ready to die. Pushing his sword against Clarence’s, Boris disengaged from him and brought his shield up. The strike he was expecting, however, never came. “Strike, you idiot!” Boris whispered. “Put up a fight or we’re both dead.”
Boris’ words seemed to awaken the man, for he lifted his sword and began to strike repeatedly. Boris blocked the blows with ease. Distantly, Boris could hear the volume of the crowd rising. He retaliated with his own deluge of sword strikes, circling the man.
For several moments the two men traded blows, neither landing a hit. Then Boris’ sword struck flesh, slicing into Clarence’s leg, causing him to stumble. Boris capitalized on the moment and shoved forward with his shield, causing Clarence to trip and fall onto his back. Boris moved forward and placed the tip of his sword at Clarence’s throat. “Don’t move,” he commanded.
Clarence lay still, eyes wide. His arms lay out to the side, his sword in the sand. “Just do it,” he said.
Instead of pushing the sword deeper into the flesh of his neck, Boris looked toward the booth where Victor sat. The man wore a superficial smile, a mask intended to fool the crowd, but Boris knew he was disappointed in the outcome. Darin had no such pretense, openly wearing a frown, his eyes blazing.
Victor stood and cleared his throat, holding his arms aloft to command silence. The crowd slowly quieted and he spoke at last. “People of the city, the time has come to decide whether the man lying on the ground shall die! Give a thumbs up to vote that he lives, a thumbs down if you vote that he dies. Vote now.”
All around the arena, spectators thrust an arm out in front of themselves, thumbs pointing up, or down. Boris scanned the crowd. All he saw were thumbs pointed down. Desperate to save his friend, Boris dropped his shield and thrust out his own arm, thumb pointed upward. He held his arm high in the air, hoping to catch the attention of the crowd. Some spectators flipped their thumbs, following the action of the man they were cheering for, but too few changed their minds. His eyes fell to Clarence. “I’m sorry, friend,” he said.
“You have nothing to apologize for, Boris. ‘Twas not your fault.”
Victor let the crowd make their decisions for a few moments more, before he called for silence again. “The decision has been made. Boris, champion of the arena, kill your opponent!”
Boris stared at Victor
for a moment then looked up and thrust his blade forward. He felt the blade sliding into Clarence’s throat, heard the final choke as the man died. Still keeping his eyes toward the point above Victor, he withdrew his blade, spun on his heels and walked toward the tunnel, cheers chasing him.
Once in the tunnel, Boris dropped his sword and collapsed to his knees. By the Founders, he had done it. He clenched his teeth and closed his eyes as the tears came unbidden. He had killed countless enemies, yet the loss of a friend hit him hard. Images of Veronica lying on the floor of the tavern that fateful night assaulted him again. He had been as powerless to save Clarence as he had Veronica. For all he knew, even Alexandra was dead, killed by her abusive husband. Why did death seem to follow wherever he went? Was it payback for his time as an assassin? Perhaps a cruel joke of the gods some people worshiped?
“Get up, slave,” one of the guards ordered after several moments.
Boris didn’t move.
“I said, get up.” Boris heard boots crunching in the sand as the guard stepped toward him. He was expecting the boot to the chest that came next, shoving him backward. He put his arms out behind him to stop from landing on his back. Using his arms to catapult him backward, he kicked the guard and somersaulted into a standing position.
The guard, surprised by the kick, drew his sword and held it out. “Stay back. Don’t you try anything.”
Rage filled Boris. Don’t try anything? Perhaps that was his problem. He had never tried anything when it counted, and others paid the price. He had stood aside as bad things happened to those around him. When Veronica died, he had stood there. Perhaps if he had rushed forward he could have parried the killing blow and saved her. When guards rushed into the room of Alexandra, he could have fought, could have tried to escape. When Darin told him he and Clarence were to fight, he could have choked the life out of Darin or bashed his skull in. Years ago, in his home town, he could have tried to explain, instead of running.
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