by Justin Sloan
“You move too slowly, old man,” Alastar teased as he went in for another strike.
The king parried and landed a light slap on Alastar’s head. “Could an old man possibly do that?”
“Only if the younger one has become foolish and too cocky,” Alastar replied, chastising himself. “It won’t happen again.”
“It certainly won’t!” Rhona shouted, storming through the crowd. “We have a lot to do still, and you need sleep. Now go!”
The king frowned, clearly not used to being talked to like this, but he nodded and sheathed his sword.
“I see you’ve got your mother’s…strong will.”
Rhona frowned, hands on her hips.
“Sis, we were just—”
“Practicing with real blades when our swords are needed elsewhere?” She shook her head. “Did you stop to think about what would happen to either of you if you got hurt? Or worse, if he did?”
“We weren’t going to get hurt,” the king replied. “We’re both too good for that.”
She blinked, clearly unsure how to reply to his assertion, and then threw her hands up and walked off.
The others soon joined, dispersing to get their rest or further debrief the new arrival.
“Is she always like that?” the king asked when it was just him and Alastar again.
Alastar thought about this. He hadn’t known her to get angry often, but when he thought back to some key moments along the way he had to admit she had lost her temper from time to time.
“More father-son time after this little journey?” the king asked.
“Don’t say that.”
“What? Why?”
Alastar shook his head. “That’s the kind of thing you say before going on a journey and dying. Then I come along and find you bleeding to death, cry while I cradle you on my lap, and tell you how I always wanted a father like you. It’s all just so…blah, so don’t say something like that.”
“I’ll work on not saying things the sound like the last thing I would say to you before going off to die,” the king replied with a chuckle. “She was right, by the way. My guard probably would’ve killed you if you’d accidentally cut their king.”
“Threatening me?” He thought about it for a moment, then nodded. “Aye, that’s better. You definitely wouldn’t go off and die after saying something like that.”
The king laughed, shaking his head, and joined his guard to retreat to the manor and make preparations for the departure.
Alastar did the same, though he found himself unable to sleep for a couple hours. He just sat at the edge of his bed and stared at the wall. For all his efforts, he couldn’t manage to stop imagining the what-ifs. He knew his dad was right, but still…
A family with mother and father, two children dancing through the palace halls, one of them him. The life of a different him. The life that could be his own children’s if he finished this, stopped Lady Mowain and put the land at peace.
But…would that be a life he could be okay with? Now that he knew the injustice he himself had suffered, could he just sit in a palace, always wondering about other injustices in the world? Knowing he could have made a difference?
He wasn’t so sure.
“Dear, get some rest,” Estair said, rolling over and wrapping an arm around his waist.
He sighed, waited for her to give him room, and curled up next to her with an arm draped over her side so that his hand rested on her breast. The perfect way to take his mind off everything else.
His eyes slowly closed as the world drifted out of his consciousness.
CHAPTER FOUR
Lady Mowain stood at the entrance to the Fortress of Ewair, one of two that formed a gateway into the northern lands along the river. She was still furious about the failure of her followers down south, and had been torn apart by the loss of her daughter.
All she had wanted was to bring these people together. To form an empire, a land under one rule. Peace would follow, but people had to suffer in order to establish peace. Everyone knew this, so why wouldn’t they just let it happen?
Finally a face appeared at the top of the parapet. It was the scrunched face of Laird Fairon, a miserable wretch who had killed the old laird of these lands when he promised that he would serve Her and the new empire wholeheartedly.
And yet…here he was in his castle.
“My goddess,” he stammered, glancing around as if he would be able to spot some reason for her being here. “I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”
“Understand what, exactly?”
“What brings you here.” His face reddened and he stumbled over his words as he added, “It’s just that, well, I didn’t expect you so soon.”
“Could that be because you were supposed to be with my armies conquering the south, and yet I find you here?”
Laird Fairon’s face went pale. “But of course you wouldn’t need our help. With such a force as yours, such power—”
“You will see my power soon enough,” she stated, voice growing louder with each word. “Continue testing me, and you’ll find said power far less forgiving than I imagine you would like.”
“Yes, your…er…my goddess.” He turned and motioned to someone below, and a second later the gate started opening.
As soon as it was open she walked through. She didn’t even bother to kill the gate guard herself, but smiled at the sound of his throat being slit. The pain of others was more fun when it required as little energy expended by her as possible.
And blood spilt was always a bonus.
“My goddess!” Laird Fairon said in protest.
She held up a hand for silence and he stared in horror as her followers entered and slit the throats of four more of his men. As the fourth hit the ground, she cleared her throat and, staring at him down her nose, said, “I trust the message is clear?”
“Any way I can serve to make it up to you, I shall,” he replied. “But what has happened?”
She scoffed. “We suffered a minor setback. One that cost us many lives, including at least two I valued above all others, and many that I value above yours.”
After a glance down to see the man twitching at her feet, she looked up at the laird with disdain. “You are worthless.”
His eyes bulged and his mouth worked like a fish’s.
“Is that your best defense?” she asked. “I tell you that you’re worthless and your only defense is that ridiculous expression?”
“No, my goddess. I’ve held this castle for your return. If they strike, we’ll be ready. We can defend you, protect you until—”
She waved her hand through the air and shadow moved across him, slicing his belly open. As he collapsed to his knees in shock his guts spilled out before him.
“I do not need protection. I do not need excuses.” As she walked around him, she paused, leaning in to whisper, “What I need, you rat shite-eating maggot, is complete and infallible devotion. Loyalty. From you and yours, I see that is not possible.”
Putting a hand on his shoulder, she pushed him over into his own guts to die.
From the far wall a shriek sounded and a woman emerged, running at Lady Mowain with a knife held high. Lady Mowain signaled for the others to stay back and lifted her hand, which was emitting a slight golden glow. She caught the woman’s wrist and twisted it so that the blade fell into the dirt at her feet.
“You must be his wife?” she asked.
“Not his, but the laird before him,” the woman shouted, then spat.
“He doesn’t even get a champion in his last minutes? Out of all here, not one person tries to attack me except a woman who has already lost the one she loves and then, one enemy down, tries to take out the second?” Lady Mowain waited, but the rest had simply dropped to one knee, clearly too scared to act or say anything. “You know what kind of soldiers I can’t use in my army?”
No one answered, so she continued, “Cowardly ones, which you clearly all are.” Turning back to her followers, she said, “Ki
ll them,” and then walked back toward the gate. As screams and a few sword-clashes came from behind her, Lady Mowain exited.
As far as she was concerned, she was done with this place.
“My goddess, please!” a young man said. She wasn’t sure who he was, but he had the look of the laird. Maybe his son?
“Please?”
“Many of us had no idea you had given him an order to join in the war. I, and at least several others here, would gladly ride out in your vanguard. Slay your enemies. Whatever you’d have of us.”
Lady Mowain stepped closer to the man, looking him over. He had a short blond beard and a shaved head, and under the brown tunic, his taut muscles stood out. For a moment her eyes moved farther down, as she considered the men she had lost in this war already. Not that she had ever needed them, because she could have anyone she wanted…but this one was one of the most attractive she had seen.
“Very well.” She held up a hand and the rest of her troops turned to her, stopping what they were doing. “This man and five he selects will kill the rest. When they are done, they may join us.”
The man’s jaw clenched but he bowed his head, then drew a short blade from its scabbard and turned to see it done.
“Everyone else, join me in the laird’s chambers, where we will feast and remember our fallen comrades.”
They followed and some of her soldiers found casks of wine. With her fourth glass she stood, waving away a servant with her half-eaten plate of food, and addressed the room.
“You’re all that remain of my inner circle,” she said, glaring at them, “and yet I don’t remember half your names. The time has come to return to the island. For me, that is. The rest of you will continue what we have started here. All enemies to be slain, all allies who showed their cowardice by not joining us on the battlefield, slain.”
“And if we should come across the army that defeated… That defeated Master Irdin?” one of the sorcerers asked.
She glared at him, then shot out a finger as her eyes glazed over in black. A spear of darkness surged out from the corners of the room and consolidated as it pierced his heart, then disappeared just as fast. His corpse collapsed in the seat.
“If anyone here has any doubts, you’re welcome to join this man. Otherwise, pull yourself up by the balls or whatever you have down there and complete one simple task—kill them all. Am I clear?”
Everyone in the room nodded, no one daring to speak.
To their apparent relief, the moment was interrupted by a knock on the door.
“Enter,” she commanded. The door opened and in walked the young man, now with blood on his hands as well as sprayed across his now-exposed chest. His clothes had apparently been torn in a struggle.
“My goddess, it is complete.” He knelt.
“Very well,” she said, walking over to him. She stopped two paces away and ordered, “Rise.” When he had, she scrunched her nose at the blood, then looked at the other men he had brought with him. They would do. “Everyone else, leave.”
“What if they try anything?” one of her guards protested.
“That will just make it more fun,” she countered, then waved him off. “Go. There’s no reason to worry about me.”
As they did so the young man glanced around nervously, then turned his eyes back to her. “My goddess, may we join your army? Have we pleased you?”
“We’re about to find out if you’re capable of doing so,” she replied. As the door closed behind the last of the others, she slowly reached up and undid the clasp on her golden robes. They fell to the floor, leaving her fully exposed. “Now, satisfy me—if you’re able.”
The man gulped. He was clearly confused, but he knew his place. This was his new goddess, so without a second’s further thought he stood and removed his clothes as well. One of the men behind him began to wipe the blood from his hands, but Lady Mowain cleared her throat and shook her head.
“As you are will suffice.” And with that she made her way to the former laird’s bed, already feeling the warmth of excitement take her over.
CHAPTER FIVE
Setting off for war was never easy, but the king made it seem like the most exciting event of his life. It could have had something to do with the fact that it had been much too long since he had seen any real action, on the battlefield or off, and that Rose had insisted on riding in front with him behind her, his arms wrapped around her.
He wasn’t used to being told what to do, but her eyes had allowed no argument when she spoke, so he found himself doing exactly as she said.
And he loved it.
There had been some debate over him and his group going by ship or land, but when he found out Rose meant to take the unicorn by land he insisted on going with her. She liked the idea, and had been the one to offer to let him ride with her. Since he was the king he supposed he could at any moment order her to give up the unicorn, but he believed she would find a way to kill him in his sleep if he did. Not that he would do such a thing, but he had found his mind wandering to such insane ideas lately. Maybe it was old age, or maybe he had been cooped up in that castle too long.
But now he was out here on the open road, breathing fresh air.
Or it should have been fresh. He found the scent of burning wood heavy, and what he had taken for morning fog he now realized was smoke. Ash even started to fall in small, white pieces over them. It looked like snow, but could in no other way be mistaken for it.
His guard Rune ran up beside him. This man had earned his nickname by believing in magic that could be associated with inscriptions, though he had yet to prove the validity of such. He sniffed the air with a grunt.
“I’ll go ahead and look into it,” Rune said, “if it pleases you.”
The king gave him a nod, so Rune and two others jogged ahead.
“I don’t see any plumes of smoke in the hills,” Rose stated, though what they had mistaken for a very long-lasting sunrise to the east now appeared to be the effect of the fires.
“That means it’s far away,” the king replied. “They’ll be running for some time before they find out for sure what’s out there and what it means for our journey.”
She adjusted on the horse to be able to somewhat look back at him. “We can’t let the king of Gulanri get caught in a massive fire. It just wouldn’t do.”
He laughed. “You won’t see me arguing with that.”
They rode on, trying to ignore the nervous glances of the troops who marched behind and in front of them. While fires sometimes occurred in the Lost Isles, this—judging by the color of the sky and the amount of smoke—was the largest the king had ever heard of.
At one point he found himself leaning into Rose’s back to avoid the smoke, breathing her in.
“You let your men see you like that?” she asked.
“Like what?”
“All cuddled up to me, like a babe to his mommy.”
The king laughed and sat up straight again. “I rely on my men being impressed with my battle prowess…my ability to take my enemies’ heads without mercy. If they see me with a woman and lose some faith in me, they have messed-up ideas of what being a man is.”
“Fair enough.” She coughed. “Maybe we should switch so I can bury my nose in your cloak. It’s getting horrible out here.”
He leaned into her again, smiling at her sweet scent. “I see where you get your name, at least.”
“And maybe I’ll give you my real name if this all goes right.”
He pulled back. “Rose isn’t your real name?”
“Have you ever met anyone whose real name is Rose?” She laughed, though it was interrupted by a cough again. “I haven’t.”
They spent the next hour or so with him trying to guess her name or coax it out of her, but she wouldn’t cave. It was part of what he liked about the woman—her inability to be persuaded.
When he was about to move on and ask about her past and where she came from, he spotted Rune running back over a hill toward th
em. The other two appeared a moment later.
Rune was shouting something and waving his hands, and then an arrow hit one of the men behind him in the leg, causing him to stumble and fall.
The other yelled and Rune went back to help, and that was when the army of remnant came charging over the hill, crossbows and crude axes at the ready.
“Hot damn,” Rose said, then turned back to look at the king. “Charge?”
He gulped, the twin realizations hitting him: the action he so loved was here, and his men were in trouble.
With a nod, he threw himself from the horse to join his men and women, drew his sword, and shouted, “CHARGE!”
They all ran forward, Rose in the lead on her unicorn. She went for the fallen man and the king was glad to see her help him onto the horse, then slap the beast to get her on the way and carry the injured man out of the front lines.
Rose had turned, ready to return to the battle with the remaining two men of the royal guard, when the first wave of the king’s mages met the oncoming remnant. Light streamed across the soldiers and they roared their battle cries, plowing through their opponents with flashing steel.
Amid the chaos, Rose remained at the king’s side. He would do anything to see her through this safely, but as he fought, working those rusty joints of his with each swing of his sword, he saw that she hardly needed looking after.
It seemed that the legend of her courage—riding forth in the battle of the Ghostland Ruins, or what some had taken to calling the Battle of the Ghosts—was true. While she clearly hadn’t been trained to fight like a soldier, she had her own way, a way that must have been developed in the back alleys against larger numbers. Her moves were swift, precise, and at times crazed.
He cut down one remnant, blocking a strike from another as he saw her roll between two more, slicing their legs with her blades as she went. A growl sounded and he turned to see an incredibly large remnant, catching another glimpse of Rose as she slit a throat.
The remnant came at him with a double-edged battle ax, the swing too close for comfort. An arrow from one of the king’s men struck the remnant’s thigh, but it turned to attack again.
