by J M Sanford
The golems, dutifully investigating the crates, quickly lost interest once they’d opened them. “There is nothing of value here, Commander Breaker. Only gold trinkets of low quality. Shoddy jewellery and what we believe are called ‘trade beads’.”
“Gold? All right then, have a look around the area and see if you can find out which way they went. Report back to me within the hour.”
The two golems left, and the Commander went to investigate the crates himself.
In the stairway leading up from the soulchamber, Harold returned with the crown’s golden casket tucked under his arm. He joined Amelia looking out from the crack of the trapdoor, from where they could see the Commander rummaging through Captain Dunnager’s cargo. “Dirty thievin’ corpsebird,” Harold muttered. “Would he pick over a shipwreck with such a smile on his face?”
“This is a shipwreck,” Amelia whispered.
“Proves my point, don’t it? Think I’ll go and teach him a lesson.” He turned to Amelia. “Follow me, but don’t be seen, all right? And don’t forget your bag,” he whispered, handing it to her. Then, before she could ask what he was doing, he squeezed past her and stepped up into daylight, his armour gleaming bright. She followed him, concentrating hard on being invisible, feeling like a watching ghost. What was Harold playing at? They couldn’t afford to let the other Side get hold of the crown.
The Commander was busy filling his pockets with gold jewellery, but he soon heard Harold’s clumsy efforts at sneaking past. “You there! Stop!”
Harold complied at once, turning so that the lamb on his breastplate, the insignia of his Queen, flashed brilliant white in the first light of day. He glanced guiltily at the ostentatious golden casket he carried. The Commander recognised the triple-headed dragon on the casket at once, and lunged for it, too fast for Harold to draw his sword. Harold barely even had time to move away on the awkward slope, and nowhere near fast enough. The two men wrestled a moment, and either Harold had missed his calling as an actor, or he really didn’t mean to give away the box at all. When the Commander looked to be going for his sword, Amelia threw caution to the wind and kicked him as hard as she could, but Harold had already let go the contested box and pulled away.
“That belongs to my lady the White Queen!” Harold protested. “That crown in there belongs to her by all rights, and if you was a gentleman you’d give it back right now.”
“Crown, is it?” The Commander grinned, showing off his horrible sharp teeth. He still had his sword in his free hand. He took a few steps back up the slope, surprisingly steady on his feet. Must be a skysailor, Amelia thought. “Well, I’m gentleman enough to spare your life, maybe…” His jealous green eyes, sharp and curious, flashed to the box under his arm.
“The White Queen entrusted me to look after that crown. It’s worth more than anything I ever seen in my life.” Harold drew his sword as if he had only just remembered he had it strapped at his hip. “It’s worth more than my life.” He looked very grand and noble in that moment, every inch the white knight, with his shining armour and earnest face, his sword flashing in the morning sun. But still he hesitated.
The Commander’s green eyes flashed again from Harold to the box.
Harold murmured under his breath, barely audible, “Amelia, is that you behind me?”
“Yes,” she whispered back.
“Come visible again in just a moment. And be ready to run.”
Without letting go his sword, the Commander unhooked the latch of the golden casket. The lid flew open, turquoise fire bursting out with an ear-piercing ‘phweeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!’ Startled, the Commander stumbled back, as the fire sprite shot straight up into the sky.
Just as well Harold wanted Amelia visible, because the surprise made her drop her concentration anyway.
The Commander swiped once at the fire sprite buzzing excitedly around him in dizzy spirals, and glared at Harold, sharp teeth bared.
“Amelia! Follow me!” Harold half-ran, half-tumbled down the steep slope of the deck, vaulting over the edge. Amelia didn’t need telling twice: she grabbed her skirts as she leapt over the railings, the impact on bare rock smacking her feet sharply even through the thick soles of her boots. She stumbled, but recovered herself well and ran after Harold. The landscape which had looked so flat from above was not such smooth going on foot, and at every moment Amelia feared she’d trip and break her legs on scrub or broken rocks, leaving her at the mercy of the now-furious Commander.
“Head for cover,” Harold panted, pointing to a cleft in the rock up ahead. “Is he following?”
Amelia didn’t dare pause long enough to find out, and hardly needed to. “Didn’t you see the look on his face?” She expected a knife in her back at any instant. Hers or Harold’s, anyway.
They came to the cleft and vanished down into the cool dampness of the shadows. Amelia looked back very briefly. Though she couldn’t see the guardsman, she could hear the fizz and crackle and squeal of the fire sprite somewhere behind them.
“What was all that about?” she asked, as they picked their way carefully along the narrow crack in the rock. If they’d wanted to use Stupid to ambush the Commander, surely there had been less risky ways to go about it.
“Make him angry. So he’d chase us and forget about the ‘ship.”
“I mean with the box. I didn’t know what you were trying to do back there.”
“Had to put up a proper fight, din’t I?” Harold panted, sounding cross. “He’s stronger than he looks.”
“And what did you do with the crown, if it’s not in the box?” Never mind the Commander, Meg would skin the two of them if they’d come all this way only to lose the crown.
“In your bag. What are we going to do about them golem things?”
Amelia shook her head. “I’ve been racking my brains for a spell that might help, but I just can’t think of one.” The strange gentlemen’s ability to recover instantly from their injuries made a fair fight impossible. One of them had regrown an entire arm in a matter of moments – how many times could they wipe their slate clean, coming back whole and perfect from dreadful mutilation? She should have asked Meg to tell her more about golems when she’d had the chance. Maybe the strange gentlemen could even resurrect themselves like that indefinitely. Immortal, impervious men of stone, with only one thought between the two of them: to kill the White Queen. Whatever she and Harold could throw at them would only slow them down, and not very much, at that. At least they didn’t still have the lightning gun. They must have left their weapons behind in the tower.
Harold stopped and looked up. They could still hear Stupid’s excitable whining, and smoke rose in columns all around, ever changing colour, from pink to green to blue. He’d been trapped in that cage for a good long time, just storing up trouble. Amelia wondered if she’d ever get him back in the cage again… She heard the Commander shout to his two golem companions – they must be close by somewhere too.
“Right, then,” said Harold, “If we climb up that slope there, they’ll see us for sure. Can you let ‘em get a good look and then disappear us again? Quick like? Just so’s they don’t go off the trail and go back to the ‘ship?”
Amelia took a deep breath, and nodded. “I think so.”
28: WITCH AND WHITE QUEEN
With Amelia’s invisibility spell, they led the dragon prince’s men on a hectic dance away from the Storm Chaser, threading through the cracks and crevices of a landscape that had grown suddenly hellish with its eerily smoking rock and sudden bangs and whistles. Stunted trees burst into flame on a whim, purple and green.
Amelia’s feet ached and her limbs had grown almost too heavy to bear as she and Harold stumbled down a wide shallow gulley filled with scree.
Harold laughed, although his face was red and sweaty, and he too must be exhausted by the chase. “Oh, he’s giving ‘em a real hard time, your little pet is. Come on, down this channel here and –”
A dark figure appeared at the far end of the channel. Haro
ld puffed up his chest as he put himself between Amelia and the golem. The second golem appeared behind the first. The two strange gentlemen might not have their lightning weapons, but they’d acquired swords from somewhere, and carried them with more confidence than the butcher’s boy.
“Excuse me, my good lady,” said the first golem. “Are you the White Queen?”
“Amelia, do your spell,” Harold hissed.
Amelia tried her hardest, but nothing happened. “I don’t think I can!” Meg had never warned her this might happen – yes, she’d tired during long magic lessons before, but surely when her life depended on it she could wring the energy from somewhere… “I can’t do it anymore!”
“Of course she’s the White Queen,” said the second golem. “And this young man is the White Paladin. He told us so himself. See, they bear the White Queen’s insignia.” And without further ado, he lunged at Harold.
Harold blocked the golem’s first strike easily, but a loose rock underfoot caught him off balance and the second blow struck his breastplate. “Amelia, get away from here!” he shouted, and she’d already had that idea for herself, but the other golem pursued and Harold couldn’t fight them both. She tripped on the treacherous slippery rocks, and fell. In the slow motion of oncoming disaster as the golem raised his sword to strike her down, Amelia saw that Harold was too far away for him to help her, embattled as he was with his own murderous enemy. She saw him deal a killing blow, hard and fast; she saw the freezing gleam of metal overcome the golem he fought, and her attacker froze too. Amelia rolled away, clung to Harold’s arms as he helped her to her feet. A moment later, the blade came crashing down into the space Amelia had just abandoned.
“Did you see that?” she panted as they ran.
“Stop one, and you stop ‘em both,” said Harold. He ducked as Stupid whizzed over his head, perilously close. A scream sounded behind them. The fire sprite must have struck head on with some force: the golem lay on the ground engulfed in raging violet flames, the gleam of metal visible. His twin stood nearby, a perfect statue of a swordsman, the look of determination still on his frozen face.
“Oh, you clever thing!” Amelia grinned. She knew, though, that Stupid couldn’t sustain such a blaze for long. Sooner or later, he’d exhaust himself just as she had. He’d have to retreat, and then the burning golem would merely get up again – unharmed, pristine, and rather annoyed. Nevertheless, it gave her an idea.
“Can you call the wyvern?” She put her hands over her ears in readiness, but Harold’s piercing whistle still hurt her ears. An answering shriek echoed through the rocky landscape. Soon, the shadow flickered huge and close across the floor of the gulley.
“Get up on higher ground,” said Harold, climbing up. “He can tell friend from foe if we’re out in the open.”
The two of them sprinted across the open plain of bare rock and twisted scrubby bushes, the two golems not far behind them.
“Wait, wait,” Amelia panted, staggering to a stop and holding her aching side. “If I can just manage a little magic…” The easiest spell she knew; the very first thing she’d learned from Meg. Surely, if she could do nothing else, she could do this. Drawing on her last reserves, she flicked her fingers, and a tiny pathetic fireball whizzed through the air. The spell might be weak, but Amelia’s aim had improved considerably since that first lesson – the dry leaves and twigs of a nearby bush went up quickly, consumed in green fire. Her fingers spat out a series of sparks, still feeble compared to what she knew she could do, but enough to make the golems think twice, enough to hold them at bay at least for a minute or two. She could see the guardsman now too, watching her for the slightest mistake, the first opportunity, but nonetheless he kept a warier distance than the two golems. The thought struck her that he must not be as fireproof as his men. She didn’t say as much to Harold, though. The golems might be constructed things, mere living statues, and she took solace in that thought as they burned, but she didn’t know what this other man was. What had the Black Paladin said about using magic against magically unarmed opponents? She couldn’t in good conscience direct the wyverns to harm him, nor did she want human blood on Harold’s hands, if she could avoid it.
“Amelia?” Harold tugged at her sleeve, warily. The light suddenly dimmed, as if a storm cloud passed over the sun, but the sky was cloudless blue.
“Amelia!” came Percival’s voice from above. “Harold!”
Amelia looked up to see the underside of the Storm Chaser passing overhead, low enough that she feared it might accidentally crush them. Last she’d seen him, Captain Dunnager hadn’t been in a fit state to fly the Storm Chaser another fifty yards, but there she was, and the rope ladder already down for them to climb up. No sense in sneering at providence; no grace in asking how a miracle works…
When she reached the top, Amelia was startled to find Captain Dunnager waiting there to help her over the railings. She stared at him a moment, her mouth hanging open. His amber eyes looked hollow and bruised, but he still had the strength to haul her onto the deck, and he grinned that gold-toothed grin at her in spite of everything.
“Everybody hold on tight, now,” the Captain warned.
The Storm Chaser soared upwards, the wind seizing Amelia’s hair and yanking it back. “How did you know where to find us?” she asked.
Captain Dunnager laughed. “Seen a brush fire or two in my time, but never one like that.”
Amelia looked down. The bushes had gone up in a rainbow of flames, a ridiculously cheery wall of fiery death, but she didn’t care: it kept Commander Breaker and his strange gentlemen at bay. They’d have a hard time pursuing the Storm Chaser on foot, at least.
When Amelia looked up again, she noticed Percival at the wheel. “But, but,” she stammered, “if you’re not…”
“It was about time I took my share of flying this thing,” Meg’s voice resonated from all around them, strong and bright, resonating melodious from every timber of the Storm Chaser. “Don’t worry, dear,” she teased, all too light-hearted for the situation in hand, “My body’s safe and cosy in the cabin for the time being, and I won’t exhaust myself. We won the crown, didn’t we? Just like I said we would.”
Amelia sank onto the deck, clutching her bag. She pulled out the glittering tiara, turning it this way and that in the light. “We did, didn’t we?” She’d beaten the Black Queen to the finish by mere minutes, and she’d escaped with not only her own life and those of her friends, but with the crown. “Is that it? Is it all over now?” The moment of triumph, now that it had come, felt oddly hollow. “Can I go back home now?” Back to Springhaven, where she would… what? Hang her sword and her crown over the mantelpiece and go back to her knitting?
“Oh, no,” said Meg, gravely. “You’re the White Queen now, my girl.”
Amelia stared at the crown in her hands, the physical embodiment of her title. She thought of putting it on, but felt too ridiculous to do so. Meg had been calling her the White Queen from the first days of their journey, long before she’d ever shown the merest hint of queenly qualities. “And what does that mean, exactly?”
“That all this has only been the first step in your journey. From here, we’ll have to go on and find the White King.”
Amelia could scarcely believe her own ears. Could this really be Meg, suggesting that a Queen is nothing without her King? “But… but… all that about the seal maiden and everything. And now I’m to marry some king I’ve never even seen before and –”
“I said you’re to find the White King,” Meg interrupted sharply. “As to what you must do when you find him… Well, I’ll leave that to your judgement.”
The story continues in
Lamb & Castle
Volume II:
The Assassin Princess
J.M. SANFORD
1: THE BLACK QUEEN’S NEXT MOVE
Losing a battle may not equate to losing the war, but with the White Queen already crowned, Bessie Castle had all but lost the Queens’ contest. What co
uld the would-be Black Queen do – steal the crown back from the girl who was its rightful owner? Adventure over, Master Greyfell had returned Bessie safely to her home City of Iletia, where he kept a close eye on her to make sure she resumed her studies at the Antwin Academy. No point in talent going to waste, so he’d said. Bessie had other ideas.
She crouched on the window ledge of the fourth floor dormitory, pausing a moment to scan the sharp angles of the roofscape around her. The moon shone bright and crisp in the chilly autumn night, illuminating the jumbled rooftops of the City in shades of grey, the shadows black as the void. She didn’t know the way well: during her first year at the Academy she’d had little patience for the kind of tomfoolery some of the more boisterous girls engaged in, and then she’d gone off chasing after the White Queen. With a deep breath as if preparing to dive into icy water, she slipped out of the window, just like so many girls before her, and dropped to the roof below. She kept her footing easily despite the loose tiles, and moved quickly to the shadows. She smirked: keeping teenaged spies-and assassins-in-training in check must be like spinning silk from clouds. Climbing out of windows and stalking cat-like across the City’s rooftops by moonlight practically counted as extra lessons for a girl like Bessie Castle, who’d been forced to master her natural fear of heights at the age of eleven, in her first year’s climbing lessons. The skirt of her simple but elegant grey uniform had been designed with the need to run or climb walls in mind.
Her heart thudded now as she made her way from shadow to shadow. Getting caught out of bed would lead to some awful punishment from the Headmistress, but the real shame and scandal of it would come from the fact that she hadn’t been sly enough to get away with it. She slowed, treading even more carefully. A little planning earlier in the day had shown that her path would take her directly under Master Greyfell’s window. Bad enough to be caught out after curfew by any of the Masters at the Academy, but Master Greyfell… He’d know what she was up to. There’d be no excusing it as youthful japes or even a tryst with a young gentleman. She wished she still had Greyfell at her side as Black Paladin, but he refused on the grounds that the White Queen had won by the rules of the contest. Bessie had pored over the rules again in her free time and found nothing expressly forbidding her from taking the crown from the White Queen, if she could, and as long as she could do it before the White Queen discovered her White King. Greyfell stubbornly insisted that trying to steal the crown from its rightful winner at this stage in the contest would be unsportsmanlike, at best. Bessie had rehearsed excuses in her head, and rejected each one as implausible, so that she breathed a sigh of relief when she dropped down off the roof and into the narrow passageway behind the girls’ lavatories. There in the outer wall was a hole just big enough for a small and determined girl to climb out through, and a smart grey cloak where she’d hidden it the night before. With some difficulty, she squeezed through the hole. It didn’t make for a glamorous story, but every once in a while one of the students found the hidden exit useful. She stood, brushed off her dress, and covered up her uniform with the cloak before walking out into the street.
