The King's Blood

by S. E. Zbasnik

  He held up his little key before Isa and she growled, but turned her back to the creature anyway trying to swallow down the acid coating her tongue. As the final bonds cast to the ground with a thud, the Caretaker rose and waddled towards the door. He pulled on it, but the lock stuck fast.

  "Don't bother," Kynton wheezed, "your little key won't get through that. It's an EverHold."

  The Caretaker clucked his tongue, replacing his key and extracting a strange series of picks of varying size and slotting a small jeweler glass over his eye. He peered at the metal and inserted his picks into the hole, jangling up and down with a steady and cautious moment. A click resounded through the door and then another as each tumbler moved into place. With a confident smile, he removed his seeing glass and turned the lock until the door's latch lifted.

  "Dwarven technology," he tsked at the priest, enjoying the discomfort on the man's face, "the only thing that can beat it is company oversight."

  "Now what?" Ciara asked, looking about at the woefully unarmed companions. Her fingers were still intertwined with Aldrin, even as she unsheathed their only sword.

  Taban nodded curtly towards the door, "At least three patrol the halls once every fifteen to twenty minutes. Two in front, one in back. They change their guards at the third hour, unless it is meal time."

  "How in the pantheon did you figure that out?" Kynton gawped at the dark man who was trying to find a single missed blade upon himself.

  Taban turned his honey eyes upon the priest and drolled, "I applied my sense of intellect. It is rather helpful at times."

  The Caretaker waved his hand in the air as if he were answering a question. "Never matter," he said, "I will check to see if the vista is clear."

  Before anyone could object, he yanked open the door and stepped into the hall and right into the patrol coming to investigate the rhythmic pounding of a shelf collapsing in on itself. "What the hell is that!" "I dunno, kill it!" the guards probably said at the ancient grey creature standing before them.

  The sound of metal slicing through meat resounded, but the guards didn't slam the door shut and relock it. Instead there was a strange gurgle, like a drowning scream of terror that became one of pain as first one body fell, then another. Footsteps dashed down the hall, but were silenced quickly.

  As if it stopped to inspect each fallen body for coin or any useful herbs, slowly the only remaining feet padded back and the Caretaker's head poked into the room. "All clear for now."

  "You're bleeding!" Aldrin cried, pointing to the goblin's midsection, which was sliced clean as a Springday ham.

  The Caretaker's fingers were wound about his robe, trying to keep his insides inside. "Yes, it will stop momentarily. Come come!" He motioned they all fall out behind him and stepped away from the door. "Your taken gear was kept beside the door. Perhaps for easy inventory after your executions."

  Slowly Taban walked past what should be a dead man, creature, whatever, and dipped his hands inside the trunk pulling out black handled daggers, swords, quivers, a bow and one vegetable peeler. He prayed he never need to use that again. Isa inched out the door, trying to keep as far away from the creature as possible. The assassin tossed her walking stick to her, as if it could help in a real fight.

  Kynton, curious as ever, dropped to his knees and tried to pry away the creature's hand to see the guts beneath. "How many intestines do you have? Is your liver really green?"

  The Caretaker slapped his hand away and pointed down the hall. Sadly, Kynton rose to his feet and fell in line behind Taban. He held out his hands, waiting for a weapon, but got only a curt shake of the head. "What? Not even a baby sword?"

  Aldrin nodded gratefully to the Caretaker before picking up his only sword, the rusted mess, and locking it in his hand. Ciara followed, her fingers finally slipping from Aldrin's as she leaned down to the Caretaker and whispered, "You're still alive."

  "Yes."

  "And you should be dead."

  "More times over than there are stars in the sky," he admitted, shrugging his bony shoulders.

  "Are you...like Marna?" she asked searching his eyes which only reflected herself back.

  "No," that lipless smile returned, barring the bone crushing teeth, "I am something much more frightening."

  "Halt! In the name of the...ugh!" was as far as the guard got before an arrow found itself in his throat. Another flew into the bleeding man's chest for good measure before Taban lowered his bow. He scrunched up his nose and leaned against the wall, listening.

  Tossing the final pack to Aldrin, he said, "I hear feet. Many feet."

  "How many?" Kynton asked.

  "Too many, we must hide," Taban said, turning towards the staircase and praying the guards weren't coming up that way. Down seemed preferable; if need be they might survive a drop from the windows, and he led the company towards the bottom floors, the priest hot on his heels and Isa trailing behind.

  Ciara looked over at the Caretaker but he chuckled to himself, "Go, follow your friends. I have some...things to attend." He glanced towards another room and smiled wickedly. Ciara didn't look back as she unsheathed her sword and followed the others, Aldrin hot on her heels.

  Turns out winding, twisting staircases are not designed for fighting and certainly not for mad long dashes down their slippery steps. Twice Kynton's toes kicked into Taban's back, nearly sending the assassin on a very bouncy slide to death. Twice the assassin spun about and held his blade close to the priest's inner thigh. One quick slice and their problem would be gone, but he wasn't paid for that and accepting pro-bono work would always come back to stab one, so he continued the lead.

  They burst onto another floor, this one nearly empty as well. He prayed the guards he heard were still rushing up the other end of the floor and also deaf enough to not hear the drunk camels crashing about the keep. Only a young woman, with a basket overflowing with socks, walked aimlessly down this floor's hall humming a song under her breath.

  Taban stalked behind her, hoping she wouldn't turn. She made it past three doors, each locked tight and had her hand upon the latch of the final room before her eyes looked up at the hand clamping upon her mouth. She tried to scream anyway, on principle.

  The assassin's head shot up, the feet were getting off on this floor. "Excuse me, but what is this room?"

  He released his hand long enough for her to bleat out "storage" then replaced it. "Thank you." Opening the handle, he ushered them all in, dragging the servant with. Kynton raced down the hallway, his robes catching around his ankles. Doctors were not built for running he thought as the hems snagged upon another random set of spare blades tossed upon the carpet after the invasion.

  Isa shoved him as he leaned down to free his snag, ripping the robe. She hissed but said no words, afraid of the power they could have, and favored pushing to chastising him anyway. Kynton rose and followed behind the assassin and his room of mystery, as did Isa. Behind, Ciara broke onto the landing just as she caught sight of Taban vanishing. She tried to not let her armor jangle gripping her cuirass and gauntlets as she broke into a run, but they rattled under her grasp until she sounded like an entire cutlery drawer dumped down a thief's trousers. A pair of long shadows appeared at the other staircase, looming across the faded red carpet. Sliding as if she were about to steal home, she dove into the room and Taban's free hand slammed the door shut.

  The footsteps walked slowly down the hall, mumbling about food, not pausing as they passed the prisoners trying to hold their breath. With a steady march, the beat vanished down the hall and into the staircase.

  With a collective breath, they all released a pent up sigh and Ciara turned to look beside her, for the first time realizing her hand was alone. "Oh gods, where's Aldrin?!"

  His right toe thunked against the winding stairs and Aldrin reached out to catch himself against the wall. Ciara disappeared from his sight as he tried to shuffle the unaccustomed armor out of places metal was never meant to delve. Rising cautiously to his steadied feet, he
stepped onto the floor as the assassin cornered some poor woman. He was about to call out to the others racing down the creaking hallway when a sound caught his ears.

  It was a small tune, barely even a song, with a repetitive melody and chorus because the songwriter's beer was getting cold and nothing rhymed with purple. But it tugged at Aldrin, a hidden memory dusted off and yanked from the upper closet of his mind. He stepped closer to one of the uniform wooden doors and laid his ear against it. None of the lyrics were legible through the thick door, but his fingers tapped the tune as he placed his hand beside his ear.

  A noise, like someone tossed the armory down the stairs for fun, brought Aldrin's head up and he looked in time to see a door slam shut at the far end of the hall. He was completely alone.

  "I told you, we're supposed to go left, left, right, left."

  But not for long. The voice grumbled loudly from the other staircase, echoing off the stones. Shadows loomed in the flickering candles poking out of every hole. Someone wanted this Keep to shine even through the night.

  Trying to not panic, Aldrin swallowed a small voice yelling at him to "keep up 'cause we won't come back for you" and his hand grabbed the latch to the singing door.

  "No, it's right, right, left, up, down, then bob's your uncle."

  "My uncle's named Marsha. Long story."

  No choice, he pulled the latch and mercifully the door gave. Trying to move as silently as possible, Aldrin stumbled into the room. He didn't bother to look around, pushing all his weight onto the door and closing it as innocently as possible. Laying his ear against the door, he listened for the footsteps of the two guards tramping down the hall discussing Marsha's nephew. Slowly they faded into the distance and the stones of the staircase.

  "I hope you remembered to heat the water this time. I refuse to take a lukewarm bath."

  Aldrin froze rigid. He hoped this room was actually empty and the singing was all part of his slowly poisoning mind.

  "And your towels here are atrocious," the voice, the condescendingly charming voice continued. Only one person in all of Arda could be so cloying and captivating at the same time. Slowly, Aldrin turned his head away from the door and the retreating tread of guards to look upon the nude back of a man leaning over a chair as he arranged his stripped shirt just so. He was so fussy about his clothes.

  "Henrik?"

  The man rose quickly at the male voice in the room and turned, his eyes glaring hatred and accusations at being caught in half flagranto. Ice crystal eyes turned to shock as he took in the boy before him dressed haphazardly in oversized armor. "Bonny? What in the pantheon are you doing here?"

  Aldrin watched his brother try to summon a dignity he wore like royal robes as he stood shirtless before his smaller sibling. Despite being the one armed and armored, it was Aldrin who felt stripped naked. Every crass word, every curt remark, every cut to a spare son's esteem came back with such force Aldrin's shoulders sagged from the weight. "I...I was...I mean that," he tried to explain, but Henrik only pursed his lips in a thin line as if his little brother snuck into one of the very important adult places he was never supposed to go.

  "You should not be here," Henrik said dismissively like he was excusing a servant, and turned to pick up his shirt.

  But this was a small spark upon a decade's resentment powder keg. He spent the past three months scrabbling through briars and brambles, survived an assassin's blade, faced down their enemy, lost more than he deserved, and every time something tried to swat him down below the depths, he rose back up. Aldrin felt himself rising taller as he pointed an accusing finger at his brother's turned back, "What are you doing here?"

  Henrik paused, his fingers letting go of the fabric but he did not turn as his voice shifted to a honey so many scorned maidens knew all too well, "What ever are you babbling about?"

  "You, you should be clapped in irons rotting away in a dungeon, not living like a Lordling in this extravagance," Aldrin said looking around at the room furnished at what must have been a great expense for those who couldn't afford it. Gold shimmered from carvings and inlays that was just on the right side of tacky. Fat candles graced every corner from the four poster bed laid with velvets and furs to the desk and dressing tables. It was almost as nice as his own bedroom back home.

  Henrik turned, his hands folding across his chest as if that could protect him. He tried to look down at his little brother but was perturbed to find the child staring him right in the eye. "I am the King of Ostero. I am to be awarded certain rights and privileges. And you would do well to remember that," his voice lost the honey, switching to venom as he pulled those pouty lips back into a sneer.

  "The keep is overrun by the Empire," Aldrin cursed back, exasperated by his brother's calm, "the enemy lurks in every corner and you sit in your palatial room taking baths?!"

  Henrik pulled in his lips in thought and unfolded one of his arms for emphasis, "The Emperor has agreed to spare my life if I stay in my 'palatial room.'"

  This didn't have the effect he'd hoped for. Little Bonny would have shut down as his brother loomed over him, he would have scampered to his hole and gone back to whatever he did to pass his wretched life. But Aldrin paced back and forth, his eyes scanning through the remnants of a seemingly joyful existence as a prisoner, while his men rotted below. "You grow fat on the hog while our people suffer."

  "Oh, is the nation's little prince suddenly caring about 'our people?' Will he weep tears for the child whose parents die in the war? Will he gnash his teeth at the bogeyman knocking at the door? I did this for our people!" Aldrin leaned back at the vitriol pouring from his brother, the ice eyes flaring to rage as he justified his actions. Anger covered any regrets.

  But as quickly as it flamed up, the rage receded and he coolly asked, "How did you come to be here? The Tower, as you so pointedly acknowledged, is under Empire hands."

  Aldrin had suffered many bruises, cuts, and one time a broken bone under his brother's disdain, but for the first time he felt from Henrik an honest rage to snuff out Little Bonny's brief candle. He retreated his story, erasing all tales of the witch and the sword, "The Queen's army."

  "She is no queen," Henrik spat automatically, savoring the sensation, "She is nothing but a relic from a bygone era."

  "She is the only one willing to raise her arm to fight our enemy."

  Henrik snorted at that, "She is a fool, running and hiding with her people while we suffer for freedom."

  "Moren survived an arrow to the chest to take down the Empire!" Aldrin shouted, for the first time in his life willing to defend his stepmother.

  Henrik glared at little Bonny, his countenance ice as he said, "It's too bad they didn't finish the job."

  Aldrin wanted to slap that smug satisfaction right off his brother's face, but he continued his pacing instead. None of this made any sense. The Emperor, upon having the spare drug before him in chains, threatened his life. Why let his brother, the actual King of Ostero live, and to live in such opulence? And why hadn't his brother attempted an escape out of an unlocked room rarely patrolled by the few guards in the keep.

  Oh Gods. The color drained from Aldrin as his head snapped over at his smug brother, who still had his arms crossed in triumph at the news of their stepmother's injury. No. He couldn't. He wouldn't. He...Aldrin's head fell down.

  "It was you," he whispered to the wind.

  "What?" Henrik snapped, worry breaking up his handsome features.

  Aldrin looked up into his brother's steel eyes. The eyes of a man who sacrificed the lives of men sworn to protect him for his own selfishness. The eyes of a man who ran and cowered and lied and tricked. The eyes of a man who killed their father.

  "It was you," Aldrin accused, stepping towards Henrik. "At the Castle, you slipped off just before someone threw open the doors and let the Empire invade. And here again...this Keep is impregnable, unless someone holds the fucking door open!"

  Henrik snarled, wanting to beat the certainty off his brother's face. B
ut if he was here then there must be others who support him, others with far stronger arms and backs, others the Emperor would pay handsomely to know of. "And if I did," he tried to start, without really confessing or admitting any wrong.

  Aldrin flew up into his face, "You killed our father!"

  Henrik barked back, "And he'd have killed us all!"

  He stepped away from Aldrin, and paced back and forth as if he were trying to outrun his own guilt, "The man was a fool, a pottering fool who only cared about where his next meal came from and if there'd be pudding. He put everything, everything we have, everything we ever were, in the hands of that bitch of a whore."

  Aldrin cringed at Henrik's classification of Moren, "And you sold everything we were to the Empire."

  "Have you seen war, little boy?" Henrik asked, "Have you felt the soul shaking cries of a man as his own legs are sawed off him? Have you tasted your own blood as you bit back at a crazed man trying to kill you?"

  A flint of steel broke off Aldrin's soul as every horrific moment, every cry, every gram of pain and suffering and loss cumulated behind his eyes while he formed a single word against his brother, "Yes."

  Henrik staggered against that. He wanted to argue, tell the child how ignorant he was but he couldn't break through that force. The truth was too strong, "Then how dare you judge me for trying to stave it all off for our people. All Vasska wanted was this puny tower. Let him have it I told father, I did. Over and over, but the bitch was always at his heels. Whispering, turning him against me. We fought for days, weeks, months, and every time I had him convinced, she'd appear with golden promises of fame and victory."

  He was pacing again, his head bowed as if he couldn't look at his brother as he laid his confession out for the first time. "So I sold our family out to Vasska, promised him a seamless transfer of the Tower if he got me to the throne. But that Lord Albrant and his men proved to be too competent for their own good."