The Unforgiven

by A. Katie Rose

  To this day, no one had ever asked me why I cut myself and bathed my new sword with my blood. Perhaps they thought I swore a personal blood oath of loyalty to King Roidan – such was common enough. Malik, near enough to witness everything, never spoke of it, despite our close friendship. Nor did I.

  Many years and a thousand experiences later, I abandoned the King’s gift. Minutes ahead of the blood-hungry mob wanting my head decorating a pike, horrified at what had just happened to my unit, I left my horse in the courtyard and ran into my chambers. My sword, far too noticeable for my health, I left lying on my bed. I changed quickly from my half-burnt uniform into nondescript clothing, grabbed a few essentials and vanished into the streets.

  I forced my attention off my blade and my past with an effort. My guilt, never assuaged, rolled about in my gut like a wayward boulder. The weight of Cian’s stare finally forced me to glance into his eyes. Ignoring Roidan and the possibility of his own execution, he watched me with an implacable patience. As though listening to the insignificant whine of a mosquito in his ear, Cian continued his stony regard, sending me his silent message: I missed killing you once. I won’t miss again.

  I rolled my eyes slightly. Bite me.

  His red smile widened a fraction and his eyed danced.

  Malik noticed finally that Cian ignored his King all this time and stomped forward, his hand up. As quick as he moved, Storm Cloud advanced first, his wings furled over his back and his lion tail up and lashing with suppressed rage. He swung his fist. But it was his bared talon that ripped Cian’s face from eye to chin.

  Cian stumbled back into the arms of his guards, crying out in agony and terror. Blood poured from his lacerated cheek, spilled onto his chest and shoulder, his uniform soaking up some of the mess. Red blots pattered to the pristine slate floor, droplets that smeared as Storm Cloud stepped on them as he lowered his huge and deadly beak to stare into Cian’s suddenly alert and panicked eyes.

  “His Majesty may not mind the obvious disrespect,” Storm Cloud rumbled, his neck feathers at stiff attention. “For he’s a rather forgiving fellow, and he tends to overlook faults.”

  Storm Cloud raised his bloody talon and slowly tapped Cian on the nose with it. “But I certainly do. You will face His Majesty, on your knees, with all the courtesy his royal person deserves. Now.”

  Storm Cloud’s right fist lowered across his body and slashed swiftly from left to right. He effectively struck Cian across his shins, effectively knocking his legs out from under him. Cian cried out as he crashed onto his knees, his ripped cheek waving like a red flag. A heavy Minotaur hand twisted Cian’s head on his neck until his faced his King properly.

  “Why, Commander Storm Cloud,” Roidan gushed, his tone light and teasing, “how kind of you.”

  Storm Cloud slowly straightened into tight military attention, his black-tipped tail coiling about his feet. Its furry tip swept languidly back and forth. He saluted, formally and ritually, his talon across his white chest and his beak bowed low. “Always, my King.”

  I glanced over my shoulder, eying Ilirri and Sky Dancer on the blue slate tiles. The latter lay limp and all but lifeless, as the former still held her talons to Sky Dancer’s brow, pouring her magic into her patient. If Sky Dancer had died, Ilirri would have stirred and said so. I’m sure of it. That Sky Dancer lived and Ilirri still healed was a good sign.

  A sensitive soul and quite prolific in reading vibes of all kinds, Ilirri felt my worry and lifted her beak. Like Minotaurs, Griffins can smile in a limited way, and Ilirri offered that and a swift wink. “No worries,” she said, her voice silent, echoing within my mind. “You did good, soldier. I’ll keep you posted.”

  I tried to reply with a nod, but she already turned away.

  Despite her offered comfort, I worried anyway. My guilty conscience reared its nasty beak and spit. Another someone I cared about got hurt because of me. Malik, you shouldn’t have brought me here. I bring pain and death wherever I go. Damn, but my throat and gut craved a good strong drink right now.

  “First Captain Vanyar.”

  The King’s voice jolted me from my thoughts. I straightened. ”Er, yes, sire?”

  I squared my shoulders, altered my face into a respectful, attentive mien and wished Cian’s fireball had done its work properly.

  Roidan leaned forward, his eyes intent, as though reading my thoughts. “Malik brought you here against my express command. However, I am not without a few intelligent moments. You are the only hope my daughter has. Will you bring her home?”

  I dropped to my knee and bowed my head over my clenched fist. “Or die trying, Your Majesty.”

  “Good.”

  Roidan eyed Cian with distaste. He waved his hand, dismissive. “Take this creature to the dungeons and imprison him there. He’ll have his trial, once my daughter is returned and peace is restored. He’s to remain in his manacles. I’ll not have him turn himself into the worm he is and escape through the cracks in the walls.”

  The Minotaurs bowed as best they could with Cian in their grip. Dragging his limp and bleeding body, they stomped toward the door. Malik’s door wardens opened them, their dark, bovine eyes hard and uncompromising. I couldn’t help but wonder: was their anger for the attack on me, or the injury done to Sky Dancer?

  Dragged out of the chamber, leaving a slimy blood trail, Cian stumbled repeatedly as the implacable Minotaurs politely escorted him out. The huge doors shut hard behind them, guards ramming home the bolts in case Cian had friends.

  While I wanted to glance again behind me, I dared not take my eyes from my King. Sky Dancer will live – won’t she? Ilirri wouldn’t wink if she thought she’d lose her patient. Of course she wouldn’t. Would she?

  Roidan’s snapping fingers brought me around. Daragh stepped forward to His Majesty’s side and picked him lightly up. As though he handled a priceless treasure, Daragh settled Roidan comfortably in his sedan chair and arranged a light blanket around his useless legs. As his golden Centaur bearers stepped into harness and lifted his sedan, Roidan beckoned Malik.

  “My friend,” Roidan murmured, smiling into Malik’s dark eyes. “You’ll fetch her back. Won’t you? My daughter? I know she’s a handful and, damn it, she can be a real bitch sometimes, but –”

  The King’s smile trembled a fraction as he gazed upward. “She’s my kid. And I love her. You know?”

  Malik’s heavy lips twitched. He, among us all, alone bore the right to touch our monarch with familiarity. He gripped Roidan’s arm almost tight enough to hurt. Roidan never flinched, but gazed into Malik’s face with affection and hope reflected in his eyes.

  “I’ll have her back and bitching in no time, my King.”

  “Now that’s what I wanted to hear.”

  Roidan settled back into his cushions as his Centaur and human guards formed about him in readiness to march. Daragh paced beside him as his golden bearers shouldered their royal burden and turned toward the guarded doorway.

  Malik stepped away, out from under, his salute unseen. Yet, Roidan’s face and shoulders appeared with the chair’s lace curtains spilling over his head and half-concealing his face. The Minotaurs swept wide the mahogany and teak doors, saluting.

  “Don’t forget,” he called as his escort bore him away. “I want Vanyar hale and healthy until I can dispose of him myself.”

  Dropping out of sight, his escort unwinding like a badly woven sweater, Roidan raised his hand in one final gesture before his guards carried him through the broad doors and out of sight.

  I am in sooo much trouble.

  CHAPTER 4

  Princess Yummy

  Under me, Bayonne galloped hard, leaping dead fall and rocks, dodging twisted trees, his heavy legs crashing through dense thickets. Up hills and down short valleys, we splashed across an untold number of streams, frightened herds of deer, elk, a few foxes and a bear as well as an untold number of wild birds. My company galloped behind, on my heels, following like a curse.

  Inside my head,
I sang the same damn refrain around and around: Why have those idiots stopped? Why did they hold up in a bloody cave to wait for me when they needed to ride hard toward the border? My father’s messenger, via a pigeon, informed me that the princess had fallen ill. The men were desperate for instructions. What do we do? We cannot move her.

  The hell they couldn’t. I needed no set of eyes in that cave to know she faked it. The longer she delayed them, us, the closer the Bryn’Cairdhans were to rescuing her. If the King’s Atans dropped around our necks – gods help us all. I cursed under my breath. Those stupid, stupid fools. We’re in enemy territory, dammit. Who knew what the hell watched us. Any wild creature might be a Shifter in disguise.

  I glanced up at the faint scream of a hunting eagle. I caught a brief glimpse before it vanished over the tree-lined mountain top. A dreaded Shifter? Or perhaps was it in truth a Griffin, that abominable lion-eagle creature set to spying on us? A shiver crept down my spine. We’d crossed the border three days past, riding around the eastern end of the deadly Shin’Eah Mountains and into the heart of Bryn’Cairdha. We rode deep into enemy territory with no protection and a zero back-up plan. In my curses, I didn’t fail to mention my father’s name rather frequently.

  Commander Blaez spurred his jet black stallion to gallop hard just behind and to the right of Bayonne’s silver shoulder, spur-blood flecking his flanks. As my father commanded me bring Blaez along, I’d no choice. I despised the man and rightfully so. Folk disliked me, but Blaez they hated and feared. He loved to kill and savored it. He adored pain and forced much of it on his victims. A fire-worshipper of the worst order, he created the many bombs my father’s fanatics took into Bryn’Cairdha. He’s blown up soldiers and commoners alike, his victims innocent and guilty (although I, forced to admit it, knew most were in the former class), and one day hoped to murder the Bryn’Cairdhan royal family in a riot of blood and fire. He sacrificed puppies and prayed to his demon gods that he, single-handed, might break the magical powers of Bryn’Cairdha.

  That we rode to take into custody one member of that self-same family, the one more powerful than all the others, never seemed to enter his ugly head. That my father, the King, commanded I marry this latest scion of the royal Bryn’Cairdhan family branch jolted him not one jot. That she was the only one who knew the location of the secret child, he cared less. If he could, he’d set her afire with one of his naphtha creations and, under her agonized and dying screams, roast weenies.

  Gods above, protect us all from that flaming idiot, I prayed.

  The gods never answered my prayers before. Why would they now?

  The hills rose and dropped as we thundered on into the late morning, leagues upon leagues from safety. The terrain slowly changed the further from home we rode. The thick forests of Raithin Mawr slowly changed to rolling green hills, tall grass, thickets of oak, juniper, pine, fir and evergreen dotting a landscape as open as a whore’s legs. Any fool might see us, riding hard, our dark cloaks flapping in our wake. High above, tall barren cliffs offered the unlimited sight of us as we galloped across highland tundra, dodging heavy boulders and light deer, exposed and vulnerable.

  So far, no army soldiers, Atan or otherwise, descended upon us with wild yells and waving swords. While that, in and of itself, was no comfort, I at least tried to remain hopeful. In a desperate attempt at optimism, I half convinced myself that we’d caught a lucky break. A gift from the gods. The Secret Police, the Weksan’Atan, had no idea where their High Priestess and princess was. If they didn’t know about her, they didn’t know about us.

  You’re not an idiot, the voice in my head said. It sounded eerily similar to my father’s bellow. Don’t believe that, not for a moment. As depressing as it was correct, I knew my hopes held no concrete value. They, those clever, magical beasties, knew very well we’d invaded their borders, and knew exactly where their royal heir lay, feigning a deep coma.

  I’d braced myself time and again for the Bryn’Cairdhan troops to fall. I almost hoped for a confrontation – an attack, any attack, that told me my enemies didn’t just watch from afar. A straight-forward fight reassured. This very weird silence crept under my skin like brazen fleas. Though not exactly cold, I shivered and tightened my cloak around my neck as I gazed up at the frowning cliffs.

  Though I heard no voice of complaint, no vocal worry, no muttered curse from the men riding hard behind me, I didn’t have to. Their silence spoke volumes. Like me, they feared this oppressive calm far more than any spooky Shape-Shifter, or man-horse. Though too well-paid to cut and run, I realized these mercenaries weighed their skins against my gold. Was it worth it?

  Our enemies watched us, and I knew they watched us. If that was an advantage, I doubted it’d help much. They bided their time, drawing the enemy in, cutting off our escape before pouncing. They but had to wait for me to make a mistake. If I didn’t make one –

  I knew the gods laughed their celestial asses off over that.

  “Gor, mate,” Blaez grumbled. “Where are they?”

  “Not a town, nor a village,” commented Blaez’s man, his favorite guard dog. I knew him as an out-of-favor knight named Sim, who long-since should’ve lost his title along with his lands for his heinous and bloody crimes. As Blaez’s best friend, my father overlooked the rapes, the murders, and the molestation of young peasant children. If Sim aided and abetted in the kidnap of the very powerful High Priestess, his sins were forgiven. “Not even a cotter’s patch. Where the devil are they?”

  “We’re inside their lines by a hundred leagues,” said a mercenary knight who went by the unlikely name of Buck-Eye. “They can’t just let us ride straight in and grab their heir? Right?”

  Blaez and Sim spent every waking moment together, fast friends and co-conspirators. Had my royal sire cared about the raped, murdered and plundered peasants unlucky enough to cross paths with this pair, he might have strung them up by their ankles over a mau’la’ti ant mound. One bite of the inch-long, carnivorous insect brought forth a nasty blister on a man’s skin. A hive? The longest any prisoner lasted was twelve agonizing hours. Perhaps he didn’t taste good.

  “Suck it up,” I snapped over my shoulder. “They watch us. Deal with it.”

  “Prince Pussy,” Blaez muttered at my back.

  We climbed higher yet through the late afternoon of our fourth day in Bryn’Cairdha, the lowering sun blinding our eyes. Our mounts’ hooves dug into broken rocks and dodged the occasional pale tree corpse and thickets of thorny, tough-looking green-grey bushes. Discovering a twisting game trail, I followed it up and up, my horse thrusting himself higher and higher. I leaned forward over the pommel, my left hand on his reins, my right tangled in his mane to prevent an embarrassing slide over his dappled rump.

  An elk trotted away from Bayonne’s sudden invasion of his territory, pausing just out of bowshot to stare at us over his shaggy grey shoulder. Flipping his tail over his butt, he ambled out of my sight, ducking under the scrawny, high-altitude trees. Was that a true elk or an Atani Shape-Shifter? Sweat tricked down my back.

  The sheer, steep angle of the trail slowed us to a careful walk, our mouths all but tasting our mounts’ manes. I spit out charcoal horse-hairs and glanced back, down. In single file, stepping exactly in Bayonne’s hoof-prints, they watched where their horse placed their feet and not at their surroundings. Bloody fools. Should an Atani patrol rip into their flanks, they’d sit their saddles and gape. I almost wished they would, just to witness the looks of surprise on their idiot faces.

  While, no obliging Atani force arrived to entertain me, a nasty looking storm rolled in from the west. Black and oily clouds loomed on the horizon, lightning flashing with their murky depths. The humidity level rose as electricity danced across my skin. Thunder growled in the distance, long after the lightning flashes ceased. An hour away, no more, I guessed, listening to the rising wind.

  Since birth, I’ve the knack of not just predicting storms, but also foreseeing its individual severity. I often informed th
ose listeners, who cared about such things, of its intensity and its power. My father not just heeded me, but often bragged about me to his friends about his talented and bright son. I suspected that was his only source of pride for me, his eldest born. In all else, I rated a close third, or perhaps fourth, in the race for his affections.

  I sniffed the chilly breeze as the temperature dropped several notches. At this high, alpine altitude, cold rain easily turned into sheets of slick ice. I cursed my lack, or my father’s, sense and foresight. For bad weather, only our thick wool cloaks offered scant protection. I knew this bloody tempest meant business, and we were ill-equipped to handle it. Could that evil Atani magic create early winter storms? One part of me doubted they were that powerful. The other part screamed in dire panic.

  My clothes and my hair clung to me in a sticky mess, and I sweated heavily. Bayonne gasped for every breath, white foam slicking his neck and chest. Behind me, my crew of Blaez and his three cronies, as well as the five soldiers loyal to me, cursed as their mounts slowed to traverse the treacherous terrain in relative safety. I heard mutters of ‘shelter’, ‘this is madness’, ‘think it’s got hail in?’ outside the clip-clop of Bayonne’s hooves and the rising wind.

  Twisting in my saddle, I waved my arm, impatient. “Idiots. Kick those beasts. Keep up.”

  The ominous storm and the terrain made them nervous. Did I know what I was doing? I didn’t need to hear their mutters to know they wondered if I wasn’t as mad as the Bryn’Cairdhans. Madder than the proverbial march hare I may be, but they still owed me their allegiance. I planned to make full use of that.

  “Damn your eyes,” I yelled. “Move your asses. We stop for nothing.”

  The storm rolled inexorably toward us as I urged Bayonne to a never asked for pace. His hooves tripped and slid over the sharp rocks as he took the steep climb at a lunging trot. We must reach the river before the King’s Atan, I thought, sweating. We must. Or we’ll never see home again.