by A. J. Ponder
A young voice cried out, “Where are Francis and Dirk?”
“Find them, too!” the commander brayed. The link was all too obvious.
A hazy fear spread, cutting into the search like acid. Dozens of bows and hundreds of arrows were confiscated, and still, no suspects were found.
Some whispered that Francis had all the motive in the world to kill the king. Others argued that Dirk could easily have slain both men and slipped away. Anyone who’d seen Dirk fight asked why Dirk would bother being so secretive.
And, all the while, each man looked askance, worried that a murderer might not stop at regicide. And worried at where the blame would land. Sure as eggs come from chickens, someone would pay for this.
At last, knowing they were unlikely to find the actual killers, the grey-bearded commander ordered a retreat without levelling an accusation at anyone in the party, deciding it would be safer to wait and see what the political landscape was before making any rash decisions. Instead, he ordered a stretcher be made.
Two stout poles and some hide cut from the Royal tent, were fashioned into a stretcher, and covered with a roof of Avondale blue-and-purple bunting.
The hunting party began their solemn walk home with the worst question a Kingdom can face dragging in their wake. “Who shall rule now the King is dead?” Sylvalla, Francis, or Tishke?
And what about little Tomas?
Not every Hero is a Knight in Shining Armour
The mad are cheerful
Francis hobbled his horse, and patted its nose a fond farewell. “By the Seven Gods, Dirk, I’d thought about busting out of this castle, but I never worried about getting back in.”
Dirk grunted softly. Amateur. Francis would be more of a hindrance than a help. He was—almost—sure of it. As sure as he’d been about the number of guards earlier. And now guards were everywhere. Too many for them to try scaling the castle.
He hated having to change his plans, especially now that he’d bought the rope, but in Dirk’s experience, while the saying battle plans never survive contact with the enemy was a hundred percent true, it was also true that winging a battle without a plan was suicidal stupidity.
Twisting his face into a scowl, Dirk thought for a moment longer. “Right, Francis, it works like this. We find a couple of soldiers, take their uniforms—and then take their places. It’s a time-honoured technique. Very Felrich Quilline[50]. Famous, absolutely famous,” he babbled in an effort to convince himself, as much as Francis.
Francis nodded, apparently accepting every word.
Stupid boy. Dirk thought. You shouldn’t believe everything anyone tells you. But maybe it was for the best. “Then, once we’ve infiltrated the opposition—”
“Um,” Francis interrupted. “I thought we were going to climb the wall?”
Dirk smiled. Francis is thinking, after all. “We were,” he answered, “but not now with all those guards.” And certainly not with Francis who’d likely never scaled a wall before, let alone in deadly secrecy.
“First things first.” Dirk said. “This is no time to swan around in pretty costumery.”
While Francis removed his outer layers and stood shivering in the cold night air, Dirk dug a shallow trench in the soft flowerbed.
He placed Francis’ posh clothes in it. “Don’t want these turning up now, do we?” he said cheerily.
“Come on.” Dirk pulled Francis’ arm. “Don’t forget the rope. We can’t stand around here all night.”
“But...we can’t just walk in. We’ll be massacred,” Francis said, following Dirk as he ducked behind a hedge. “Look at all the guards.”
Dirk grinned. “Idiot, my plan relies on lots of guards.” In fact, the more he thought about it, the more he appreciated that walking in the front door disguised as guards was the best plan he’d ever had. If only Sylvalla were here, she’d understand. She had that desperation to stamp her footprint upon the world that was the hallmark of a hero. He almost felt guilty for the lie he’d told her during her Quest about heroes being brave and doing things for other people.
By extension, great heroes are those who survive that initial desperation. If Sylvalla was to become great—if anyone here was—they needed to survive the night.
Thinking about Sylvalla was a mistake.
Worry cut at Dirk, little knives of apprehension slicing down his back—an unnecessary distraction.
I am a man of the sword, not some lovesick puppy—that’s Francis’ job. Besides, such concern was not appropriate, not for Sylvalla. She had the heart of a warrior, and while he might rescue her, as was only correct and proper (it was part of his job description), she could just as easily rescue herself.
“Er,” said Francis.
Dirk sighed. Before he could do anything, he had to educate Sylvalla’s husband-to-be. After all, the boy might not have somebody to hold his hand the next time he had to infiltrate an enemy castle.
“We have to establish the routine,” Dirk whispered, his words hardly audible above the wind. “Soldiers love routine. It stops them falling asleep.”
Five minutes later, two guards walked past.
Ten minutes later, two guards walked past.
Fifteen minutes later, two guards walked past.
Twenty minutes later two guards were dead, and Dirk and Francis were donning newly-acquired uniforms that, thanks to Dirk’s skill, were mostly free of blood. Francis fussed over the neat, under-arm tear on his.
“Stop fussing, Francis. We need to check in soon, or there’ll be a search.”
Francis tried not to think of the privet hedge containing feet that were cooling even faster than his.
“Right. Let’s go,” Dirk said.
With the last tie laced, and button buttoned, they set off in a military double time Francis couldn’t quite pull off.
Francis almost jumped when two guards saluted in front of them. Had he and Dirk taken too long and drawn suspicion? Not immediately, it seemed. And that was all that mattered, because, after an inefficient salute, Dirk drew his sword and expertly slaughtered both of them—just as the senior guard opened his mouth to say something edifying like, “Hey! You two guys aren’t Jimmy and Pete!”
Two more soldiers came waltzing in, having heard, “... a bit of noise.” “Sorry,” Dirk said, before swiping his sword through their chests.
“That’s our lot,” Dirk said with a calmness Francis’ stomach couldn’t quite handle.
Ignoring Francis’ vomiting, Dirk whipped out one of the bottles of alcohol from—nowhere? Maybe one of the guards? And sprinkled the contents liberally, before throwing it down on the ground nearby, to be discovered with the bodies.
Speaking as casually as if he wanted tea and biscuits, Dirk said, “Come on, Francis, help me blood these swords will you?”
In reply, Francis further emptied his guts. It was unpleasant, but he did feel better after.
Dirk shrugged, pulled one of the soldier’s swords out of its owner’s lifeless hands, and then plunged it into the, very lifeless, body.
Francis still couldn’t force himself to help, (despite the tiny rational part of him that recognised Dirk’s work as pure genius, and a forensic[51] nightmare in a time where forensics consisted of little more than grabbing the nearest man with blood on his sword).
Dirk continued goring each of the men’s blades, before wiping the blood off his own with an air of quiet thoughtfulness. “Priority one is getting well away from here.”
Francis looked about. “Which way?”
“Like you said, we walk up to the castle.”
“What? We just stroll inside? You must be out of your skull. How are we going to do that?”
“We’ll improvise,” Dirk answered, waving his sword.
“Improvise?” Francis asked, wondering how anybody accomplished such a feat with a sword. In his experience, swords were more suited to killing than theatrics or subtlety.
Dirk looked at Francis, and with complete sincerity said, “On the other hand, I
’ve always found telling the truth to be helpful.”
“Yeah?” Francis said, shaking his head. “We’ll just go up to the front door and say, ‘Excuse me, big burly guard, sir, but we just walked into the castle grounds and slaughtered eight of your friends. Can we come inside now? No fuss, mind. And where, by the way, is Sylvalla, so we can rescue her?’”
“Francis!” Dirk snapped in a dangerous whisper. “Get yourself together, boy, and for the sake of the gods, leave the talking to me.”
Setting off purposefully, as if to dare Francis to follow—or dare him not to—Dirk marched up to the castle’s portcullis.
Francis managed a thin smile through gritted teeth. The man is demented. Likely we’ll die, here, tonight. So why is he smiling? With the sensation of ice settling in his stomach, Francis remembered an old poem.
Cheerful,
The mad are cheerful,
When death, oh lovely Death
Takes the final breath.
Sweet sigh,
And shiver.
Still, Francis scrambled after him until they reached a couple of soldiers.
Just managing to check his forward momentum to some resemblance of military double-time, Francis raised a hand and saluted back, a little late.
“Think military,” Dirk hissed. “Eyes forward, crisp steps. And don’t slouch.”
Francis tried again.
Left, right, left, right. Until they made the steps. Then there was more saluting and left, right, left, right up they went.
Every step was a nightmare. Francis could almost feel imaginary arrows hitting him. They reached the top and, again, he followed Dirk’s lead, snapping his hand to his forehead and trying not to look at the iron spikes looming above their heads as the guards glared at Francis and Dirk.
“What in all hades is happening here?” An officer demanded, sword drawn and glaring at the pair as if they were dirt.
Dragonballs sleeping, what’s his problem? He’s seen the blood, hasn’t he, Francis thought. It can’t get worse.
Only he knew it could. Dirk had said he was going to tell these soldiers the truth.
False Gods
’Tis the Fate of Mortal Man to Curse the Gods
And Seek Illusion
Phetero hated this pathetic room with its blue-draped four-poster bed and the golden Avondale Sun in Splendour at the head. It was too spartan for his taste. The matching fauteuil armchairs, and even the sumptuous rug he knelt upon, barely helped. The room lacked purple and red. Worst of all, there was a complete absence of velvet—of any colour.
He draped black silk along with the altar the soldiers had dragged in from the garden. It was adequate, but it wasn’t velvet. Then he placed seven purple candles in his now favourite alignment of geometrically sculpted earth, but only lit two—the forgotten two. The god of all-knowing, and the god of all-seeing, or more appropriately, The Nameless One and He Who Should Never Be Named[52].
He lit only the two, heart fluttering, as his gaze shifted from purple flame to purple flame. “The smoke is only an illusion. The candle is only an illusion.”
Fat sizzled from the improperly-rendered tallow, and acrid smoke burnt his eyes—before sinking back over the rippled black silk like low cloud.
Phetero tensed in expectation. His trance hovered so close. It held the promise of so much. Power. Omnipotence. Tishke dead at his feet. Deeper he went, until the flickers of light faded. For a moment, he believed he could see—everything. Know—everything. Grasp—
The door banged.
Phetero came back to his senses, his eyes still focussed on the candles.
“This had better be good,” he said.
The captain nodded. “I came to inform you, the girl is safe.”
“If she is here, she is not safe,” Phetero replied, casual laughter escaping his lips at his own joke. And this once, he did not cringe.
The two candles flickered as if they, too, were laughing.
Phetero didn’t notice that the captain of his guards did not smile, or how his face crumpled into disgust when Phetero demanded, “And the boy?”
Shifting, almost imperceptibly from foot to foot, the captain mumbled that he’d yet to find the boy. “But, my King, we are working hard—we’ll find him soon.”
“Go, fool!” Phetero shouted. “What are you waiting for?”
The captain winced and exited quickly. Although not so quickly that he failed to close the door quietly so as not to further disturb the madness that lay so close to the surface of this once reasonable man, his king.
§
Chin in hand, Phetero tried to regain the vision, but it was as far away as dew on a summer afternoon. Still, the daydream of Queen Tishke dying at his feet remained. And maybe that was all he needed to know. That to remove the one last tiny obstacle to his plans—the boy—it was imperative Tishke was questioned properly.
Face close to the candles, Phetero felt no warmth as he blew out their purple flames, leaving their smoky trail to dance across the silk.
Shadows Dancing
When shadows play
The dance is not for the faint-hearted
With a final creak of protest, Tishke’s door crashed open.
Ten soldiers burst in.
Tishke, open mouthed, flinched out of their way as they slashed at the gold-leafed wood panelling in a frenzy that bordered on hysteria.
They didn’t bother to speak to her, such was their hurry. They were looking for something. Someone. Their search revealed nothing except grey stone.
“Bastards! Phetero’s bastards!” she hissed, having recognised their red jackets with the golden eagle on the shoulder. It was a small triumph in the scheme of things. And it didn’t take a bard to know exactly what, or more precisely who, they were looking for. Sooner or later they would ask. Until then, she would wait. It was part of the dance. She was in no hurry.
She retreated to sit on her bed, pulling her cream dressing gown tightly around her shivering body. She tried to ignore the carnage as her once beautifully arranged room was smashed and littered with clothes, broken crystal, and the remains of jewellery too large to pocket.
“Found it!” a man cried out, breaking the tip of his sword on the trim around the fireplace. He jimmied open the secret door. “Quick now,” he barked, hurrying soldiers through the tiny door, leaving two men to guard Tishke—and two more to board up the once-secret exit, as if it were an enormous rat-hole.
§
Hours later, the cold morning was beginning to bite as Tishke coaxed the last bit of heat from the dying embers of her fire. It was to little effect—except now her cream dressing gown was smudged with soot.
She shuddered, not so much from the cold, but with cold rage at the po-faced soldiers with their callous eyes—steely and colourless in this semi-lit gloom. It was all very well pretending they didn’t exist. They were here—in her room—and try as she might, Tishke could not think of them as maids (pretty but charmingly-useful furniture). No, these were soldiers—useless brutes with long shadows. And, like all men, nothing more than impediments and obstructions[53].
She shook her tiny fist at them. “By the Seven Realms, what frigging right does that dragon-blighted imbecile Phetero think he’s doing? Someone should pluck out his eyeballs and feed them to the Great Mother Hen! No! Godsdammit! If I ever have that two-footed son-of-a-goat at my mercy, by the Seven, I’ll string him up by his toes over a roaring fire—until hellfire and damnation will seem like a pleasant change of weather!”
It wasn’t particularly coherent. Tishke hadn’t felt coherency was necessary. Not until her door burst open.
Clad in an excess of velvet, Phetero strode through the door, purple cloak swirling behind him. He cocked his eyebrow at the empty fireplace. “Did you say something about a fire?”
Tishke scowled. She didn’t say anything. She didn’t need to. Her eyes appraised Phetero’s generous figure, his soft hands and face, his horrendous velvetiness. His question was nothing more
than a pre-amble.
Can he dance the dance of politics? Or is he just an arrogant fool?
Phetero pulled up short at Tishke’s gaze.
Their eyes locked in a struggle of wills.
Surprisingly, Tishke found herself turning away first, recognising the spark of madness in his eyes.
“My men are tired of your games. Where is the boy?”
“I have no boy,” Tishke replied.
“So I have heard.” He licked his lips, and softened his tone. “But, even so, it grieves me to see you separated from your lawful son. Especially when you need only tell me where he is, and I will fetch him for you.”
Tishke pulled the duvet more tightly around herself. “No doubt you are a gentleman of overwhelming sensibilities,” and a liar of enormous proportions, “but as I have told your men, there is no boy. There must be some mistake.”
Phetero’s face came so close to hers she could smell his breakfast on his breath. By the stench, it must have been dung. An appropriate meal.
Tishke turned her face to the wall, but he grabbed her chin in his chubby hand, forcing her face even closer to his. His breath hissed through clenched teeth. “We will find him, you know.”
Fool. He had not the patience to dance the dance. Still, this game could end in only two ways—he’d get what he wanted—or somehow, somebody would thwart him. Tishke might for a time. But not forever. Only a fool could maintain that hope without sufficient ammunition to back it up. All Tishke had was her lace.
Reviewing her options, Tishke decided truth was the best camouflage for her all-too-present sanity. “Long time since I had a baby,” she muttered.
“Yes, the baby?” Phetero grasped her chin harder, eyes drilling into hers.
“Terrible nuisance, baths and nurses...best not to get in the way.”
“You would be wise to give me what I want,” Phetero said, letting go of her face gently, as if he regretted his little tantrum. And perhaps he did. It had certainly been a tactical mistake.
