by Jon Kiln
“You are commanded to come with us. The mistress demands it,” Ganry heard a guard speak.
“No, I want to stay in my room!” Cronos shouted at them. “I’m tired, leave me to sleep a little longer.”
The guards said nothing more, but Ganry could hear a scuffle and he guessed they were dragging the boy out of his bedchamber. He needed to act now, and quickly, before they left with the boy, but he could not find the latch in the dark.
Frantically, he ran his fingers down the edge of the door, and at last he had it. Pressing the lever he heard the door unlock, but as he pushed to open it, the door would not move. Something was behind it. He pressed his shoulder against the door and pushed with all his strength. It gave way and Ganry went tumbling into the room. Immediately, he reached for his sword, but too late, the room was empty.
Cronos had been taken.
***
Cronos had no idea where in the palace they were taking him. He just hoped that Ganry would find him, for they had come so close to escaping. The two men accompanying him looked familiar. They weren’t ordinary palace guards, of that he was certain. From their uniforms, they looked like senior commanders of the royal guard.
“Where is my father?” he asked one of them, trying to sound authoritative. They were his men and should obey his orders. When they ignored him, he raised his voice and shouted at them. “I demand to know where your Emperor is!”
He had hoped to attract the attention of others, but he had not actually seen anyone else since he had been forcibly dragged from his room. The palace corridors were completely deserted. No soldiers nor servants.
Ah, I see you are ready for the ceremony, young Cronos, a voice echoed in his head.
That was the voice, the one that had caused him pain on the darkened pathway during his bestowing ceremony.
“Who are you?” he demanded of the voice, loudly.
Not who, but what am I? That is what you should be asking. I am the all-powerful witch Queen Thalia, and soon everyone will kneel before me, or die. All thanks to you.
Cronos felt a chill run through him. He could not understand why it would be thanks to him, but the thought filled him with dread.
They arrived at the throne room where the guards handed him over to a group of women, whose heads were covered in black veils that matched their long black dresses. They grabbed him with an uncanny strength and dragged him inside the throne room. The chamber was different, he saw. The thrones were still there, but in the middle of the room was a stone table. The women pulled him towards the table, and forced him to lay down upon it. As soon as he did so, his arms and legs were restrained with leather straps embedded in the stone.
The women circled the table, chanting words that Cronos had never heard before. Strange guttural sounds that filled him with dread. On the walls, torches burned, the light flickering with an eerie green glow.
“What are you doing?” he cried out. “I demand to see my father. You cannot do this to me!”
His cries were ignored as the women continued to circle him, still chanting the same strange words.
The chorus built to a crescendo, and they all stopped their movements, reaching up with their arms into the air. The circle parted and a figure approached, also wearing a long dark gown. Cronos could not determine if it was a man or a woman. Whoever it was, it mumbled words under its breath. Again, words that he could not make out. When the figure approached, he saw something glinting in the hands. With a growing horror he realized that it was an ornate dagger. A golden blade encrusted with gems down the middle, the sharp edge glinting in the torch light.
The figure grew nearer and pulled back the cowl of the cloak, only to reveal the most beautiful face Cronos had ever seen. Pale white skin, blemish free, with a perfectly proportioned nose and mouth, with dark red lips. All framed with thick long black hair. It was the eyes that drew him in. Dark pools of mystery. The longer he stared, the less anxious he felt. His body completely relaxed, and he no longer pulled at his restraints.
The beautiful woman leaned forward and grabbed his hair, pulling his head back. Cronos did not object or even try to resist. The eyes were hypnotic, overcoming any resistance he may have had. Even when the knife blade was placed at his throat, he simply lay there, not recovering from the trance-like state. Not until he felt the sharp blade cut into his skin.
A goblet was produced and placed at the wound, until it was full with his red fluid. When it was removed, he could feel his blood trickling down his neck and soaking into the fabric of his tunic.
The woman disappeared, and Cronos began to feel dizzy as his life’s blood poured from his body. Was this it? Was it time to die? The thoughts were instantly dismissed as the beautiful enchantress returned, holding the goblet and pressing it to his lips.
“Cronos, son of Emperor Nestor Fontleroy of Mirnee,” she said, as she looked into his eyes. “Take this and drink.”
He felt the warm liquid enter his mouth, and he knew it was his own blood. They had done something to it; it was bitter, and burned his tongue. He did not want to drink the foul contents, but he could not resist the beautiful woman. He drank deeply, and willingly, draining the cup.
“It is done,” the woman said to the others in the room as if she was happy. “Now we simply await until our mistress is returned to us.”
“What of the boy?” one of the others asked.
“Leave him, his blood will slowly drain out of his pathetic human body. He will have a few hours to lay and contemplate on his fate.”
With that, they began to leave the throne room. Cronos remained tied to the stone table, his blood pooling around his weak, pale frame.
17
“It’s the only way, my Lady,” Qutaybah urged Myriam on. “One day’s good ride, and we can be at the forest that borders Vandemland. Once we cross into my homeland, we can look at how to get you home.”
“I know you’re right,” Myriam responded. “But I’m reluctant to turn my back on my people. They need me to help them through the growing threat from Mirnee.”
“Qutaybah’s right, Myriam,” the Duchess joined in the debate. “We can do nothing for our home while we’re stuck here, on the wrong side of Mount Palmern.”
“Besides,” Qutaybah interjected, “the men I sent ahead may have crossed before the wall was conjured. If so, they are in Palara, warning your people of the dangers. They have not returned to us and neither have we found their bodies on the road.”
Queen Myriam reluctantly agreed, and the order was passed on that it was time to mount up and move out. Traveling to Vandemland was quicker, and probably safer than following the other route to the Kingdom of Palara. The journey was known to be hazardous and long.
With the decision made they wasted no time heading out, and made quick headway, even through the abysmal weather conditions. They backtracked until they had returned to the point where Qutaybah had pondered earlier, on whether to go to his own home or not. Now, he wondered if his sixth sense had given him a premonition of the troubles that had been ahead.
Almost a day’s ride away was the thick, impenetrable Forest of Chervin, the only part of Mirnee that bordered his homeland. Once in there, he would feel safer than out on the open plains of Mirnee. He was also becoming concerned for his royal entourage, especially the Duchess D’Anjue. Although she had not complained once, he could see the difficulties for her the longer this journey went on. Yes, the sooner they were in Vandemland, the better.
Qutaybah pulled on the reins of his horse and turned to the queen and her party.
“We need to ride hard now to make the forest. The open plain is dangerous for us, and I fear there are eyes watching. I have felt it since the pass.”
“We are grateful for your help, Qutaybah,” the Duchess said as she moved uncomfortably on her sturdy grey dappling. “But, I know I slow the party down. I’m happy for you all to all to ride at speed and…”
“Grandmother! I will not hear of it, and neither will Qutaybah,
” Myriam cried, shocked at the thought of leaving her grandmother behind. “We did not rescue you from the Akkedis, only to lose you now. Besides, I cannot run the kingdom without you by my side. Now, please, we will have no more of this foolish talk.”
With that, Myriam turned the white bay she was riding, and refused to speak on the subject any further.
“It seems I have been reprimanded by my own granddaughter,” the Duchess smiled at the two men who had witnessed the scene.
“Duchess, we would never have agreed to it anyway,” Artas replied. “We all ride together or not at all.”
“Then what are we waiting for? Let’s ride,” the Duchess said, before spurring her horse and galloping off across the plain.
Artas and Qutaybah grinned at each other.
“She always had spirit,” Qutaybah spoke admiringly. “Come, we must follow quickly, before she gets too far ahead.”
They soon caught up with the Duchess as the horses galloped at full speed across the plain. The forest was visible on the horizon, despite the foul weather. Qutaybah was beginning to relax a little, as soon they would be inside the tree-line. Once in the forest they would be much safer. It was a perfect border for his homeland, thick and dense, and no one could pass who wasn’t familiar with the route through. Legend has it that a whole invading army had been lost in the forest, never to be seen again. Added to that, some say the spirits of the lost can be heard on a quiet evening, still searching for a way out.
Artas sensed rather than saw the danger. He felt a prickly feeling down the back of his neck as he quickly scanned the horizon, but could see nothing through the rain. He rode up beside the Vandemlander leader.
“I fear we are not alone,” he reported, his eyes scanning the road ahead.
Qutaybah nodded his agreement. “I have felt it for a while. We are almost there. If we could just make the forest, we…”
The sentence was left unfinished. Immediately from the left, a group of soldiers appeared riding hard. As they approached they split up, two moving straight for the queen, the others attacking Qutaybah’s men.
Artas spotted the danger and wheeled his horse around, to defend the Queen and Duchess. The attackers were quicker, and before he could reach them, two men were upon Myriam, swords in hand.
***
Myriam was alert. She had been for almost an hour, with an uncomfortable feeling that plagued her. These were strange times. A barrier of lightening blocked her way home, and the Kingdom of Mirnee was once again in turmoil. For now, she could not concern herself with the people of Mirnee. It was her own kingdom that she needed to protect, and she could not do that from here.
Glancing at her grandmother, who she knew was a resilient old lady, she just hoped that she could last out for a little longer, but the ride was taking its toll on her. If only Ganry were here. She knew not how she would manage without her rock by her side. Though Artas was quickly becoming experienced, he was not yet as seasoned as Ganry.
Pulled from her thoughts, she could see to her right that two figures approached on horseback, moving at speed with swords in hand. One headed directly towards her grandmother. Without thinking, as if some primal instinct had taken over, she spurred her horse sidewards to barge into her grandmother’s horse. It forced the grey dappling to jump sidewards sharply, just as one of the Mirneans thrust his sword right into the spot that the Duchess’s horse had just vacated.
Seamlessly, and in a single fluid motion, Myriam drew her sword, and turned her horse to face her own attacker. He was now almost upon her. Her weapon raised, she parried the blow, but the force of his strike sent her sword tumbling from her hand.
The attacker raised his sword again, a menacing leer on his scarred face. Myriam was defenseless and unable to protect herself. The Palaran queen braced herself for the final strike.
***
Myriam’s actions had given Artas a few valuable seconds, which was all he needed. Riding at a gallop, he was soon upon the attacker. Just in time, he thrust his sword into his opponent’s side, between the gaps in his armor, just as his mentor, Ganry, had taught him. He felt some satisfaction as the sword slid easily into the soft flesh, giving a fatal blow, he was certain. Yet, his enemy did not fall. Instead, he turned to face him, sword swinging down in an arc which Artas only just managed to avoid. Artas was stunned. The man should be dead, or at least seriously wounded. Unbelievably, he was still fighting.
The man engaged him again. This time Artas was ready for him, avoiding his blow and countering with one of his own. Again, he felt the man’s flesh yield to his blade as he thrust it into his body. Still, his enemy remained on his horse, and now he had more to contend with as a second attacker also rode at him.
Artas was in a fight for his life and a battle madness kicked in. No matter how many times he struck with his sword, his opponents seemed oblivious to their wounds. He parried their blows, using all the tricks that Ganry had taught him. The clever feints and body postures, but he was beginning to tire.
As he glanced around, hoping for help, he could see that Qutaybah and his men were all engaged in their own battles. The situation was becoming desperate. He did not fear for his own life, but his Queen’s. Ganry had bestowed on him the role of protecting Myriam, and he worried that he was going to fail in his personal quest.
“Their heads, Artas!” the Queen yelled at him. “Aim to cut off their heads!”
Leaning back to avoid a blow, he let his momentum take him forward, and swung his sword aiming right at the man’s neck. It was a difficult target beneath all the armor, but Artas cut clean through. The severed head flew into the air, before landing with a thud on the ground. An arc of almost black blood spurted from the neck of the body that still sat upon the horse. Slowly, the corpse slumped forward to the horse’s mane. The horse bolted with the smell of death upon his back, galloping across the plain. The headless rider remained prone in the saddle.
Artas had no time to drop his guard. The second attacker was unperturbed by the fate of his comrade, and leaped into battle. Artas felt a sharp sting on his upper arm as his opponent’s sword sliced through his tunic and into his arm. The cut was not deep, but it was painful, and left him vulnerable.
He was tiring rapidly, the new wound making it more difficult to fight as his attacker came at him relentlessly. The swinging sword arm seemed oblivious to any counter Artas made. The man had a strange blankness to his eyes. Another possession, of that he was certain. How could they fight demons?
Just as he felt that all was lost, help came from an unexpected source. A long doleful howl cut through the air, which was answered with another, and then another. Seemingly, from all around, the group was surrounded with the echoing sound. The baying seemed to unsettle his attacker, as his head moved from side to side as if urgently trying to seek the source of the noise.
From out of the murky rain leapt a huge wolf, crashing into the Mirnean soldier, pushing him from his horse. The beast was quickly upon him, growling and shaking its head from side to side as its jaws clamped around the man’s throat, tearing into vulnerable flesh.
Artas looked around and discovered a whole pack of wolves were engaged in battle with the Mirnean soldiers. Many of their enemy were already dead, and others desperately attempted to fend off their lupine opponents.
Qutaybah took advantage of the mayhem, riding up to Artas and Myriam.
“Ride. Quickly ride,” he urged them. “To the forest. We will be safe in there.”
All spurred forward, riding as fast as their battle hardened horses could take them. The forest was close, just a few more minutes and they would be in its protection.
As they rode Myriam noticed a dark shadow in the rain, just off from the track. Once they drew closer, she was horrified to see a small group of familiar witches. Sitting in a semi-circle, they were seemingly in some sort of trance. Myriam felt a chill down her back. The witches have returned, though they did not seem to control the soldiers as they had in the last battle. This w
as something different, something much more sinister. So what were the witches conjuring?
Without stopping, they were soon entering the edges of the forest, taking cover in the first line of trees. They continued to ride on through the dense woodland, with Qutaybah leading the way. Despite the darkness of the forest, and the large prickly shrubs which were everywhere, he seemed to know exactly where to go, and in no time they were deep inside.
“We can dismount and rest for a while,” Qutaybah panted, as they entered a clearing.
“Are you sure we’re safe here?” Artas queried, still concerned for the safety of his queen.
“This forest has protected Vandemland for thousands of years. Nothing passes through that it does not allow,” he explained. “We are safe here, even from witches and demons.”
They were all grateful to be off the broad backs of the horses, the Duchess needing help to dismount from hers. The horses were equally glad to be rid of the extra weight, snorting and nodding at the humans as they danced on their hooves.
Myriam noticed Artas’s wound for the first time, and quickly tended to him.
“There are herbs and roots in this forest that aid healing quickly,” Qutaybah informed them. “I will send my men to gather them. They know them well.”
“That was close,” Artas breathed heavily, while Myriam was cleaning his cut. “If it hadn’t been for the wolves…” He left the sentence unfinished, but all knew how close they had come to meeting their maker.
“Were they the wolf people?” the Duchess asked.
“Nay, they were just wolves,” Artas replied. “I wonder if Grecia has arrived. If she has, and she’s aware of what’s happening, she may have called upon them.”
“Did you see the witches?” Myriam queried, hoping it had just been a figment of her imagination, a thought soon quashed by Qutaybah’s response.
