by Louis Emery
Lothrin turned to his comrade. “What are you saying?”
The man lowered his bow. “She’s royalty. She’s King Kieran’s daughter, the princess.”
Lothrin turned. “This changes things. We can definitely work out an agreement. Valiant will want to make good relations with Crowley and Ballardia. Returning you will strengthen our alliances.”
“You’re not taking her anywhere,” Malcolm challenged.
Lothrin drew his sword. “We’ll see.”
Malcolm pulled his longsword just in time to deflect his enemy’s blow. He heard Artemis draw his own and then saw his sergeant run through the Rouser who’d lowered his bow. Malcolm knew he had to get rid of the second bowman. In a sweeping arch, he hammered his sword at Lothrin who blocked but fell back at the force.
Malcolm turned just in time and hit the ground, a bolt flying over his head. Regaining his footing, he charged at the archer as the man knocked a second arrow. With a great swing, he cut the man’s bow in half, through to his midriff. Two down, three to go.
Leora was standing back amidst the fighting. Artemis clashed swords with another, while Lothrin and the third Rouser went for Malcolm. Both men launched their blades, and Malcolm parried. To even the odds, he used his left hand to pull Leora’s sword off the strap on his back. Lothrin swung to his right, and the other swung left. Two different clangs of steel rang out, and Malcolm countered in a robust assault of two swords in hand, slicing the arm of the man to his left.
Angered, the injured man landed a hard blow while Lothrin followed. Malcolm stepped aside to dodge the attack on his right. Blocking lefty’s swing, he rammed home his sword through the man’s breastplate. Pulling the blade from his victim, a spurt of blood fountained before he hit the ground dead.
Turning, Malcolm saw Lothrin’s face remain calm, though his eyes flicked in hesitation. Out of his side vision, Malcolm saw Leora searching the body of the dead bowman. Lothrin continued to strike hard, knocking Leora’s sword out of her hand. Malcolm blocked more attacks, using his remaining longsword. Each hit rattled his body, stunning his hands. Though Malcolm was used to the feeling, it created a dull ache in his wrists.
Then from nowhere, he felt himself being shoved at his side, causing him to fall. Leora had tackled him, and with a dagger she stole from the bowman, cut the pouch from his belt off. Before she could grab her magical sword, Malcolm regained his footing and stomped on the blade. He raised his sword, threatening her. Before he could stop her, she sprinted away.
Malcolm heard a groan. Artemis got the better of his sparring partner and ran him through with his sword. Lothrin was nowhere to be seen.
Malcolm followed Leora’s direction, leaving her sword behind. He whizzed through the trees and came to a clearing. Listening for movement, he heard nothing. The silence broke with the clank of armor. Leora blindsided him from the back, colliding with him a second time.
Scampering to his feet, he saw Leora held a Rouser short-sword and wore her necklace.
“Leave me be,” she said.
Malcolm wondered if there was any power in Leora’s newly acquired blade. It didn’t seem to glow. “I have a duty to take you to Em Regis, and to the king.”
Growling in rage, she charged at him, swinging the short-sword. He blocked and whirled around her to avoid her mad dash.
“Your small sword doesn’t hold any power.”
She gave a tired laugh. “A brilliant observation. This isn’t exactly a sword, now, is it?”
She attacked him again, and he dodged the jabs. Malcolm gripped the handle of his sword, his knuckles cracking. He grew frustrated and hammered back, careful not land a fatal blow. He struck hard, knocking the small blade out of Leora’s hand.
He held his sword up to her. “Now, you forced me to bind your hands the entire way home.”
“How about this. I’ll take my vial off, you give me my sword back, and we’ll settle this the honorable way.”
Malcolm paused, considering. “If we did this, one of us will die. It won’t be first cut.”
“Isn’t that the point? It’d be the same if I’d killed you on the battlefield.”
He gave her a long look. A vulture crowed overhead. Malcolm lowered his blade. “No more alternatives. I’m taking you to King Greenvale—alive.”
17
The victory was hard-won. Final tallies indicated two hundred casualties, including eighty or so dead. The Konteran figures were almost double that, and on top of it Gav now had over one-hundred prisoners. A handful of captured officers now inhabited cells separate from their subordinate comrades—easier to question those who had more information. The Cylarnti officer sat in her own private cell with double the guards. Gav knew all too well about his kind’s art of escape.
Rewards of battle comprised of a flat vista of soft earth intermixed with the rigid ironlike bedrock of dried lava bed. Their camp view offered sweeping panoramas of pristine beaches of jagged rock dotted with tropical trees and shrubs and the occasional minute fishing village, all likely abandoned. Gentle breezes swooped down from the dormant volcano above them, overlooking the palm lined jungle that provided shade, game, and coconuts adjacent to their camp, set on open-ground before the verdant vegetation.
Gav looked around the gradually sloping land, technically the side of a mountain, but more like a sideways plain leading up to mountain jungle and eventually the tip of Mount Kintleera. The sun shined in the quiet afternoon, and he basked in the tranquility of low temperatures and humidity, sipping his ale brought to him by Sergeant Trammell. The brew tasted a bit dry but not bad for the amount of time it had traveled in a cask with the army.
Today was a restful day, common for the follow-up of a battle. The previous night, the troops spent twelve hours working together to bury the dead, secure prisoners, take stock of losses, and make camp. By the end, every woman and man, including Gav, collapsed on their beds and drifted to abysmal sleep in seconds. Many soldiers and even a few officers slept till midday. Gav didn’t mind. It would be eighty miles or so before they rendezvoused with General Byers’s forces. Hopefully an uneventful journey, but no one knew if a rebel army or contingent stood in the way.
The plan was to sync with General Byers’s army, which had landed north on the island. He had five thousand men and cavalry, enough troops to annihilate an unsuspecting Konteran army or lay siege to one of the four major cities. Gavin did not know when and where they were to meet, but Lord-general Zulltah had ordered him to be ready when approaching either Robonni or Hyanti, two of the major Konteran cities still under rebel control, both with standing armies eager to defend.
Gav walked further along the smooth black rock at his feet, coming to an overhang that offered a vantage point down the unencumbered slope. Tents and cookfires dotted the vicinity, and he smelled grilled beef and pork some soldiers were making for an early dinner. The sun perched on the horizon in blood-orange hues intermingled with pinks and ochres. Thin hazy clouds lay over the picturesque scene on top a light watercolor blue backdrop.
Gav shifted his stance and grimaced at the pain from the gash on his leg. The Cylarnti woman had cut deeper than he thought, and last night he discovered he had to clean the wound thoroughly with alcohol before bandaging it. It was nothing he couldn’t handle, but that still didn’t mean the pain wouldn’t linger for a few days. Cylarnti blades always seemed sharper than others.
He planned to visit the woman at her cell later that night. Questions needed to be answered. Ultimatums needed to be given. Gav hoped she would talk. Kontera was a sizable island with a dozen mid-size and large cities. He needed every bit of information he could acquire regarding the whereabouts of lords Hannery and Appleton. They were the leaders of the Redwoodian Council, Hannery the leading speaker and Appleton the treasurer. The two most powerful men on the island, spark lighters and leaders of the uprising. They needed to be found at all costs. Not only his troops, but the troops on the many sister islands were counting on it.
He cou
ldn’t help but wonder what he would get from the prisoner. Gav lingered on her face in his mind’s eye, a face of determination and defiance. An attractive face. There was no denying it. Not only was she an adept Cylarnti, but also a gorgeous and assertive woman. It made Gav think of the women he’d spent time with intimately back in Em Regis. Three flings and a more serious courting that only lasted at the initial stages. Being a well-positioned military leader and soldier, women tended to flock in his direction, but many were money or status grubbers encouraged by their appearance-driven parents. They were all tomcats without the company of their proper familial chaperones, and Gav had taken many of them to bed.
When his short, but—he thought, promising—courtship of Agatha ended, his spirits depressed like an arrow-struck wineskin. Agatha was the closest thing he had in a relationship to that of the one he endured with Naomey. He was with Agatha a few months, but with Naomey a few years. And as bad as it was towards the end with Naomey, a deep history existed there, a history of joy, experience, passion, and unbridled possibilities of youth. Now all gone.
He looked around the camp, and the process somewhat cheered him. This is what always soothed his melancholy. The camaraderie and comradeship of military service; the use of his art that he so enjoyed and worked so hard to acquire. He loved that his mother and sister were proud of him, and that, somewhere, he knew his father was looking on with pride. His father served the Backlands, and Gav thought it a blessing that he got to use his talents in that same path.
Gav walked back to his tent, nodding to Heinrich, his bodyguard. He sat down at his small table and finished the written report of yesterday’s battle. He popped the cork off a jug of wine he kept in a bag at the foot of his bed. He always liked to have a pre-dinner drink to ease his mind.
“Here’s to you, father. And you, Master Yentay.” He raised his mug up then drained it. A custom he developed after his first battle, he always thought it fitting to make the toast, both as a praise to his mentors and a small private celebration of victory, and survival. He sat back down to his table, just in time to catch the remaining sunlight fade to a darker twilight outside on the horizon. Sergeant Trammell strode in, bringing him his dinner, asking if he’d like to join him and Sergeant League around the fire, rather than eating alone.
“Not tonight, Sergeant,” Gav said. “I’d like to be alone to gather my thoughts before paying the Cylarnti officer a visit later.”
“Very good, sir,” Trammell said. “We’ve discovered her name is Veela.”
“At least now I know what to call her. Let’s hope we can discover more than that before the night is through.”
18
While eating his dinner, Gav reminisced of his youth while still in training under Master Yentay, focusing particularly on the time he snuck into Lord Androus’s keep to surprise Naomey.
Thirty feet below meant death, serious injury at the least. Not to mention, a stream of guards exiting the barracks on which he now stood. He looked down on the stone cobbles. One misstep and he’d fly off the roof and meet them, most likely exhibiting how much his head could burst like a summer watermelon.
The first houses and shops were always the easiest to climb. Just like life, he mused. Everything was always easier at first. The you grow older, you become a man, and all these pressures and complications line up at the door ready to break it down—a riotous mob called life. He couldn’t exactly say his youth reeked of leisure, though.
Nevertheless he definitely preferred the shorter drops and thatched roofs of the Hilontera’s dwellings and the tarred slate of their taverns and smithies. From where he stood, the roof of the soldiers’ barracks, the stone was slick and smooth, inviting a skulking Cylarnti trainee like himself to slide on down to meet the gods or abyss. Yet this was the only way to reach the top of the guardtower without being noticed.
He moved further towards the roof’s edge, careful not to slip down its slopes. He came to one of the chimneys and smelled hot oatmeal and cider. It made his stomach speak and he paused to enjoy the scent before carefully maneuvering around the brick aperture. Below he saw the town shuffle about, preparing for the day’s activities. Carters wheeled along the thoroughfare to make early morning deliveries or set up their stalls to sell their wares. Tavernkeepers swept their foyers and front steps to rid them of the residue of the previous night’s patrons. Smiths kindled the budding fires in their kilns and organized the prepped metal for forging.
He hadn’t noticed any guards on patrol. No, they’d be on the keep walls. Stealthily, he moved along the apex of the roof, using his two hands to steady his body as he stepped forward pas the second chimney. Now at the building’s edge, the guardtower appeared taller and the keep behind it imposing and ancient.
Known as the Keep of the Turrets, Androus Keep consisted of numerous towers of sundry sizes. There was a legend that five hundred years ago when a different family lived here, a giant cyclops had impaled itself on the keep in a feckless attempt to seize the past lord’s new wife. How they ever removed the body was beyond him. Of course, perhaps legends such as that existed only in conversation.
The first tower he had to climb stood right in front of him. It was a six foot jump—normally a cinch, but the long drop made him hesitant, along with the fact that the guardtower’s roof had nothing to grab onto save for a small vent at the top and a window ledge near the bottom. He’d always wanted to reach the top of these things and now was the time. He had to reach Naomey, without alerting anyone inside the keep, especially Lord Androus’s guards. That wouldn’t bode well.
He took a few steps back to give himself a running start. Charging toward the end of the roof, he met empty air and plunge toward the guardtower. Landing agilely with a thud, he thrusted his arm up in the hopes of grabbing the vent. The early morning dew sticking to the tiles caused him to slip down, There was no handle for his grasping hand. He looked up and saw that the vent was out of reach, and he slowly slid towards the edge and the deadly drop beyond.
He immediately maneuvered his body toward the small roof window. His hands screeched along the tiles in an effort to slow his descent. A foot caught the ledge of the pane as he shifted his second foot slid alongside the first. At least now he could pause and assess his positioning, or should he say predicament. The guardtower stood between the grand barracks and the rampart walls of the keep, all three close together. The problem was, he wasn’t close enough on his side of the tower to merely jump onto the keep walls like he’d planned to. That would require him running up to the top of the tower and moving over to the other side before he could slide off. He’d then have to jump the ten feet or so to make the ramparts.
It didn’t faze him much. This was a cakewalk compared to the jump he made from one banyan to the next when chased by one of Yentay’s pupils during tryouts. The girl had tried to bash his head in with a staff, which is why he opted to jump several feet to the next tree, using vines and momentum.
In a half second, he sped to the top of the tower, putting weight on the balls of his feet to avoid some of the slippage. He used the point of the tower roof to swing himself around to the other side and launch down toward the ramparts. With the grace of an inveterate feline, he landed with a mere patter not even a midnight mouse would hear. Now he had to find Naomey and surprise her. He loved surprising her, whenever there were any chances, which were few. Her father Lord Androus had a tendency to watch her like a hawk. Perhaps due to the fact the lord didn’t like him and liked him even less when he was around his daughter.
Best to not get caught then. Ducking low, he moved along the keep walls and listened intently for any passing guards. Off to the northern side of the keep he could see one exiting one of the guard turrets, yawning and stretching and apparently about to start his rounds. To avoid the sentry, he moved south, noticing the coastal redwoods beyond the city’s edge. Further off in the distance he made out the edges of the other Prestonpan Isles, the most notable being Monterim.
Momentarily
distracted, he failed to see the guard emerge from one of the southern towers. If the guard chose to turn left, he’d be right in his line of sight and his game would be up. He crept along slowly and crouching as he moved. The wallwalk broke off into several paths leading to their corresponding towers. As the guard grievously turned left, he made sure to dart down the walkway and hid behind its crenellated stone. He moved closer to the tower at the end of the walk, hoping to hide in an alcove should the approaching guard survey the area. Fortunately the guard continued forward toward a northerly direction, passing him and his hiding place. As soon as he was about to head back towards the southern wall, he heard voices approaching. They came from just inside the tower. If he made a run for it now, he may be caught by whoever opened the door.
He froze in place ready to scale the walls when the door opened and pinched his body against the cold stonework.
“Them pirates and smugglers been at it again,” a voice said, “raiding folks trying to make an honest living.”
“Aye,” came a reply, “and probably selling their prizes to the Rousers or the Monterim Trading Company—turning a mean profit.”
The two guards walked away towards the opposite end of the wallwalk, and he maneuvered behind the tower just in case they turned back.
“Lord Androus should send us off to the coast to protect his merchant vessels,” replied the first. “I could sure use a different view. Keep stone and town rooftops can bore a man to death.”
“And there’s nothing like the nice sea breeze near the docks,” said the other.
When they were out of sight and earshot, he headed once again to the southern wall.
Skirting the ramparts he moved closer to the entrance on the second floor of the keep. Ahead of him sat a large double oaken door. He’d finally reached a point of entry and as he turned the handle the door wouldn’t budge. Just great. Locked from within.
