Her King's Command

by Breanna Hayse

  Dom interrupted. "No, you may not say something, Captain. She is behaving like a spoiled child again, and I have little patience for it. Take a handful of men with you to hunt. Have them keep a watch on her as well."

  "Yes, Your Grace," the large man bowed. "We will protect her."

  The sky rumbled overhead as the six men traipsed after the lithe wood spirit. The feelings Dom was experiencing were new to him. Loneliness, fear, uncertainty… these were all things that had awoken within his heart the moment he had met the banshee. His inability to persuade her with his gift was disconcerting as well. Perhaps it was for the better, he sighed, as he stacked wood for the fire. Better she come to me and obey me out of love and respect, than by magic.

  Several hours passed, and the sky grew darker with the fall of evening and the summer storm. A bolt of lightning cracked loudly, sizzling through the air, and fat drops began to fall to the forest floor as the men hurriedly pitched the tents and blocked the fire from the wind and rain. Dom looked into the forest, riddled with anxiety. Shannon was a banshee—nature would not harm her. Except for snow and ice, he reminded himself. Where was she?

  "Stay here and guard the camp. I am going out to find Shannon."

  "Sire, she is with the Captain. Do you have need to worry?" a young guardsman asked with concern.

  "These roads are thick with thieves and passing soldiers. If she is taken…"

  "Then she will keen. Allow me to go with you," the man said, buckling his sword to his waist.

  "No. I need you to stay here in case they return, or if there is trouble," Dom said, looping his sword belt behind his shoulders and jogging in the direction that the group had traveled.

  Despite the pattering sounds of rain drops and the rumbling of thunder, the forest was thick with an eerie silence—as though it was holding its breath in anticipation of something. Dom's heart started to pound as he followed the signs of travel; broken twigs, trampled grass, an overturned rock. The trail grew more difficult to find as the rain pelted down on him, soaking his clothes and boots.

  The trail ended at the base of a short cliff. Dom looked around in confusion. Where had they gone?

  "Looking for someone, Your Majesty?"

  Dom spun around to face the torn visage of a middle-aged man, backed by several dozen armed men. The leader's face and crippled left hand were mangled with scars, and his right leg was twisted at a grotesque angle. He wore mismatched armor with an unidentifiable coat of arms on his bent body.

  Before Dom could speak, he was stripped of his weapons and forced to the ground, with his arms bent painfully backwards. One of his captors grabbed a fistful of his hair, and made him watch as a man pushed through the crowd with Shannon, bound and gagged, stumbling by his side. He shoved her roughly to her knees and grabbed her braid to tilt her head back. The edge of his broadsword glistened in the rain as it touched her throat.

  "What is this insult?" Dom demanded, as one by one, his guards were shoved to the ground behind her.

  "Insult, my liege?" the maimed man repeated, his eyes never leaving Dom's face as he ran his filthy hand through Shannon's loosening braid. "Truly, I am the one insulted. Do you not recognize me?"

  "Release her. She cannot breathe," Dom demanded, watching the terror registered in Shannon's eyes.

  "My friends here do not care to hear her scream up close. I am told that she does that quite often, doesn't she? I would not have imagined you to be a man tolerant of adolescent temperaments."

  "Ours is an arranged coupling. By my father." Dom squinted. He lowered his voice and tried to focus his mind, without success. He was too agitated. "She is just a child and needs to learn self-control and grace. Please remove her gag."

  "No. I already suffer from head pain, and need not expose my men to that discomfort." The man lifted his mailed hood to display several large indentations in his skull. "We have been following you for some time now, d'Gavril. It was difficult to identify your route, you know. You are very good at staying hidden in plain sight, but we do not get paid until we bring you—or your corpse—back home."

  "Why are you following me? What offense have I caused you, that you use my house name?" Dom asked, subtly eyeing Shannon as she worked the cloth from between her teeth.

  "What offense, he asks?" the man said to the large band, while continuing to glare at Dom with absolute hatred. "He does not know to whom he speaks! Do you, boy?"

  Dom bristled at the disrespect. He made another attempt to focus his anger and redirect it to the rogue sell-swords, and failed. The tip of the sword against his eye, and the edge of the sword pressed to Shannon's neck, were too distracting. "I do not," he muttered, through clenched teeth.

  "Look at me when you are speaking to me, boy!" Dom's head was yanked back again by the man behind him. "Do you recall a certain situation, in which an army of nearly five thousand men went dancing off the side of a cliff? Do you remember that?"

  "I do. The Ottoman army that tried to seize my castle and my lands. They were destroyed."

  "Not all died on that tragic day, Lord d'Gavril."

  "My title is—"

  "Yes, yes, the little boy who plays a grown up king! Wouldn't you like to know how it is that some of us are still standing here today? We fell upon the bodies of those who went before us. Some fell on the rocks below, and others landed on mounds of broken flesh. The cushioning did not spare us from injury, but it was enough to keep us alive." He paused to walk in front of Dom's kneeling body, and stared into his face. "I want to know what spell you cast upon us."

  "I cast no spell."

  "The horses were spared. Every single one came to a halt at the cliff's edge, and then ran away after their rider stepped over the side. How is that not a spell?" The man grew angry, and pointed at Shannon. "Is this the witch you used to destroy my army?"

  "Mistress McCleary is no witch, nor did I know of her when you attacked my lands," Dom said through his teeth.

  "How did you do it?"

  "I did nothing. It was your own conscience that sent you over the side," Dom said. He doubled over as a metal-booted foot kicked his ribs. The men holding him jerked him upright once more, and grabbed hold of his hair anew. His interrogator punched him in the jaw with his good hand, splitting Dom's lip.

  "I intend to kill each of your men, one by one, before your very eyes. Their deaths will be slow, and quite brutal." The Ottoman snapped his fingers, and was handed a leather skin roll. He opened it to reveal a collection of knives, scrapers, forceps and long pins. "When I am finished flaying each of them, I will start on your pretty little consort. I do think we should all enjoy her treats first, don't you? I wonder how long she will survive after entertaining thirty men." He looked up into the sky as the thunder rolled angrily overhead. "Let us seek shelter before we entertain ourselves. Bring them to camp," he ordered his men.

  Dom's anger and fear intensified, and his eyes darkened. The rain turned into hail, and the sky to a vivid charcoal gray. Shannon looked at him, her eyes filled with unspoken terror and surprise as the wind picked up and began to whip wildly, threatening to uproot trees. He stared back, and released his gift. To her. For her.

  ***

  Shannon felt her fear and doubt melt away as she gazed at Dom for strength. How was it that she could feel the sweet, alluring, and very pleasurable taste of his persuasion? It was wonderful! Why had she resisted it in the past? She felt filled with peace, and began to hum softly.

  "Is she singing?" the leader barked.

  "She is a little touched in the head," Dom stated. "That is why she screams so often."

  "You should put this mongrel out of her misery. Move it, girl," the man said, kicking her in the rear.

  Shannon began to laugh into her gag. Dom's gift left her feeling as though she had consumed an entire bottle of good wine. Irritated with her joviality, the man slapped her harshly across the face, and sent her flying to the wet ground. The impact of his hand was just enough to dislodge her gag.

  Shanno
n smiled up at him and put her bound hands upon the dirt, bracing herself as she unhinged her jaw. Guided by Dom's gift, she released her cry upon the band of men. One by one, they erupted in flames, screaming in agony as the fire slowly consumed each of them, unquenched by the powerful fall of rain. Her guardsmen rolled away from the roaring human bonfires, seeking the safety of distance as they struggled to cut their bonds with fallen swords.

  The Ottoman leader laughed at the sight, seemingly unfazed by the bitter stench of burning human flesh. He turned his knife to her cheek and clamped her jaw shut, tightening his hand around her throat. Dom panicked. Why was he not affected by Shannon's keen? He cut his hands free using the fallen sword of one of his charred captors, then steadied it upon the man.

  "Your fight is with me. Be a man and turn your sword upon the one you hate."

  "I hate anything that is not of God," the man chuckled, putting the edge of the blade to Shannon's left ear. "Especially witches."

  Dom's scream echoed through the woods as the blade sliced across the breadth of Shannon's throat. She stared down at the blood dripping down her body, looked at Dom in confusion, and then fell over in a lifeless heap.

  "By the gods, no!"

  CHAPTER 12

  The Ottoman was not left standing for long, as Dom plunged the fury of his sword through his heart. He pulled out the blade in a twisting motion and swept it across his enemy's neck to sever the head clean from his shoulders. The surprise upon the face of his enemy was quickly buried in the mud as the head rolled down a hill and lodged in a trench.

  The rain continued to pour, and rivulets of water mixed with blood trickled through the cool, leaf-littered ground. Dom fell to his knees, gathering Shannon's quivering body in his arms, and began to sob. His let his tears fall upon her to mingle with her blood.

  "Sire?" Jorje touched his shoulder. "Please…"

  "She is gone," Dom wept. "I could not save her."

  "Your Grace, please listen to me. Your gift. Use it. Heal her."

  "I cannot heal more than a tiny scratch, let alone death."

  "Domitri, "Jorje squatted down beside his king, "her heart still beats. Allow me... allow us, to tap into your gift and be your strength. We can add strength to you through our bond and our faith in you."

  "It will not work."

  "Your Grace, it is time you cease trying to do all on your own. Our bloodlines hold the key to her life, but you are the door. Try, before the window of time is lost."

  Dom studied his captain with eyes filled with hopelessness. Shannon lay limp in his arms, her pulse thready, and her life's blood slowly draining from her body in tiny spurts. He nodded, took in a breath, and closed his eyes.

  "I'm coming for you, Shannon," he whispered. "Do not let go. Your king comes, my love. Don't run from me. I need you."

  He released his emotion, his fear, his pride, and his love into her. Hands touched his shoulders and back as his loyal and dedicated men lent their own prayers and support to his effort. He could sense the ancient connection, that tiny remnant of magic carried by his knights that kept them bonded to him, as it trickled through his soul. Deeper and deeper he sank into her spirit, instinctively following what he could only have described as a twisting path to her dimming light. It was much like the image he had seen in the water when he'd first divined her—distorted, unrecognizable, terror-stricken. It writhed and screamed, filled with pain and loneliness.

  He did not withdraw from the pillar of fading light. It was Shannon's essence. It was comprised of her life's energy—and that energy was rapidly waning. Legend had it that to touch Banshee was to come face to face with Death Himself. Dom was not afraid of Death. No, what he feared was life—a life without her by his side. He stepped forward, wrapped his arms around the flickering, twisting column, and surrendered to Death. Pain, her pain, tore through him, and he raised his voice to summon his Maker.

  "Take me if you must!" he shouted. "You will not take her! I give her all of who I am. My gifts, my love, and my life!"

  The pillar shook and bent grotesquely around his body as his powers left him. He could hear the keening as it vibrated through his flesh, and grit his teeth as he felt his blood begin to boil within its mortal shell.

  "Take all from me so that she might live," he growled, clinging more tightly to the column as it began to take solid form. "I do not fear you, Death. You are not my enemy."

  Voices of the ancients rose around him as his power was drained from his spirit. Devoid of strength, he slipped to the ground. Feebly, he reached out his hand to the white image of Shannon's spirit, standing next to a woman who matched the one in the painting he had seen in the carriage. The woman smiled and offered her hand to another—his father.

  "No! You can't take her from me. Please!"

  The apparitions smiled wordlessly and stepped back, fading from view. Dom called out a final time, his pleas desperate as he crawled towards them with the last of his strength. His sobs filled the air as the woman and his father disappeared from sight, taking with them the only thing that had ever given him joy. Shannon.

  "Forgive me, my love," he wept, with tears that came from a broken, powerless and very mortal man. His curse had reached fruition. He truly was Moarte, Death incarnate, doomed to live life without joy or love. Despair wrapped her suffocating arms around him and, like a succubus, drained what little life remained within him. It mattered not, for without Shannon, he had no desire to live.

  "Sire," a man's voice whispered. "Come back to us. Your people need you. King Domitri, come. Please, return to this world."

  Dom shook his head and surrendered his final breath. If he could not be with his love in life, he would be with her in death. They would be together, forever, and nothing more could pull them apart…

  The End…

  … Or is it?

  Epilogue

  A soft mist drifted around the clearing, and the sound of birds seeking flight twittered from the trees as the storm slowly drifted away. Sir Jorje, captain of the king's guard, stood still at his king's side, joined by his men. One by one, they placed their surcotes bearing the d'Gavril Coat of Arms, a White Stork, over their king and his consort.

  "Leave them in peace," Jorje said, stepping away from the two entwined bodies, which were covered with wet leaves from the forest floor.

  "No," Dom said hoarsely, rolling to his back. "Do not leave me. I'm too weak right now."

  Sir Jorje squatted down by his king's side. "Then we will stay, Sire. Allow me to send a messenger to the camp so that we can bring you food and wine."

  "That would be good. Thank you," the king said, laying his head back on the soft ground and pulling Shannon's warm body closer to his chest. She murmured something.

  "I love you, too," Dom whispered into her ear. "Don't talk. It will take time for your throat to fully heal. I was only able to pull you back, not heal you. I'm sorry."

  Shannon nodded, weakly lifting her hand to her blood-covered neck.

  "And no quarreling with me for a while."

  Shannon shook her head.

  "And no horse. You are staying in the carriage until we get home. I will get you a horse once you are strong again. Understand?"

  Shannon rolled her eyes, sighed and nodded.

  Dom kissed her forehead after wiping the mud and blood from her skin. "I might grow accustomed to not being argued with. Look what it took for me to finally get the last word. Ow! Did you just pinch me?"

  Shannon offered him a weak, cheesy smile and stuck out the tip of her tongue.

  "I'm going to make you pay for that, you little brat," Dom laughed, snuggling her into him again. "As soon as you are well enough to scream at me, your bottom is mine."

  "My heart is yours," Shannon whispered hoarsely, clutching her painful throat. "Is that not enough?"

  "Shh, no talking until you are whole again."

  They remained at the camp for several days, giving Dom time to regain his strength. He climbed into the carriage next to her, prom
ising an eventless journey. She pouted when he proclaimed that she would not be going through any more towns, and would stay with him at camp when the men left to retrieve supplies. Her pouts quickly turned to smiles, and she clapped like a happy child, when the men produced little trinkets they had purchased for her as gifts.

  Bemused, he watched her direct his knights with the ease of a gentle breeze. They were forever at her command, bringing her wildflowers, herbs, carvings and pretty rocks they found on the trail. They were smitten by their future queen. Very smitten.

  Dom sat up suddenly as he realized what had happened. The men had touched him with their bond at the same moment that he had given Shannon all of himself on that fateful night. The bond, and his gifts, must have transferred to her!

  "Sir Jorje! A moment, please."

  "Sire?" Jorje rushed to him and knelt.

  "Please, sit. I must ask you something. Can you feel my presence?"

  "Your Grace?" Jorje looked confused.

  "The bond. Are you and the men still able to feel my presence?"

  Jorje sat in silence for a moment. "No, Sire. We cannot. The bond has been severed."

  "Not severed, transferred. She has the gift of persuasion now, and she does not even know it. It was your devotion to me that gave me the strength to pull her back to the world of the living. Without you, she would be no more. Thank you."

  Jorje beckoned to his men to join them. "Your Grace, do you remember telling us that to protect her was to protect you? We could feel your connection with her when we bonded to you. That love became ours as well. While we cannot feel you directly, we can sense you now through her love."

  Another guardsman spoke. "The gift she carries is not the same as yours was, Your Highness. She is not persuading us to treat her in this manner, and our need to protect her is strongly familial. We were struck with guilt when she was injured, and many of us are spoiling her to make amends for how we failed her, and you."