The Unforgiven

by A. Katie Rose

  “You can get up now, Your Highness,” Bayonne said, taking his hoof from my chest. “Try anything stupid and I’ll knock your head off.”

  “I won’t,” I said, staggering to my feet. I cast a quick glance up, under my brows. “I promise.”

  My ribs still ached and my head swam, but I could stand. Courteously, Bayonne offered his shoulder for support, and feeling oddly grateful, I accepted it. “Who are you?” I asked, but my horse didn’t answer immediately. I followed his high head and bright piercing glance.

  In an amazing feat of horsemanship, Princess Iyumi trotted the blue roan out from under the trees and into the milling midst of shouting Centaurs, flying Griffins and bellowing Minotaurs. Still gagged, her hands belted behind her back, she urged the reluctant horse forward. While the roan tried to shy from the massive, unfamiliar and dangerous beasts, her knees guided him expertly and firmly.

  “She may be a royal bitch,” Bayonne said, his tone admiring. “But she sure can ride a horse.”

  “I reckon so,” I said, awed.

  No doubt the roan bolted with her still aboard, yet she not only kept her seat, but turned the horse around to return to the frightening place amid her rescuers. Never in a million, ten million years, could I have accomplished the same. The black Centaur took her down from the sweating roan, and, with gentle fingers, removed the gag. She raised her lovely face to speak to him, yet I heard not what she said.

  His already gloomy face darkened further as he examined the swelling and cut left by my fist. My guilt returned. I hit a helpless woman. Why in the hell did I hit her? So she spat, so what? Our countries are enemies after all, and I was there to kidnap her, for gods’ sake. I lost my temper – the long and short of it. I deserved whatever punishment they gave me.

  As I watched the huge Minotaur wearing the purple cloak untie her hands, the huge Griffin with the black mane landed to all four feet beside Bayonne. His heavy collar amid his neck feathers gleamed under the sullen, shadowy sunlight. I jolted and swung around, fearing an attack.

  I reckoned seeing my entrails hanging from his talon wasn’t his first priority. He merely eyed me up and down, his expression cold. I never thought an eagle’s face could offer such a wide variety of facial emotions. In less than two minutes, I’d seen more Griffins smile, scowl, grimace, laugh, frown, light with enthusiasm or hope than a barroom of tavern crawlers.

  Raised on tales of the monsters who lived south of our beloved Raithin Mawr, I couldn’t help but feel death’s cold finger on my neck. Evil magic that slew in the night; the mix-breed horrors who flew across the dark skies – winged lions who murdered in cold blood all who crossed their paths. Minotaurs fed their greedy, thirsty calves on the corpses of small human children. According to our righteous and fanatical priests, the worst of them all were the Centaurs: the accursed blend of man and horse. The devil’s spawn I was taught – neither horse nor man. All Raithin Mawrn knew they sucked their victims dry and nursed demons on their breast milk.

  What I witnessed for myself, first-hand, dropped my jaw.

  Unprepared for the raw, elegant beauty of the beasts, I caught my breath as they flew, wingtip to wingtip, over the tops of the low forest branches. None on the ground seemed interested in eating my men; in fact, two Griffins spoke firmly yet kindly to Boden and Torass, politely asking for their surrender and arms. My lads obeyed them, smiling hesitantly up into the savage beaks that pointed downward. A Minotaur with the same muscles as an aged bull lifted Torass’s face with his finger under his jaw and smeared a cut on his cheek with a salve.

  I returned my focus on the huge tawny and black Griffin in front of me. He furled his wings and raised his talons to push at my shoulder. I gave ground, realizing those razor-tipped talons might gut me in a blink. A contemptuous snort erupted from his nostrils and his black-tipped tail lashed.

  “You got him under control, Van?” the Griffin asked, eying me up and down.

  “No worries, Windy,” my horse said, turning his great head to eye sidelong the savage Griffin who stood more than thrice his size and outweighed him by tons.

  Instantly, Bayonne vanished. I gaped, my mouth working soundlessly, as a young man with coal-black hair and striking green eyes stood in his place. He stood as tall as I, and bore the slender, athletic body of a dancer. Two slender scars crossed each high cheekbone – from a ceremony, I suspected, rather than a fight. I guessed him about my own age, our only similarity. His expression was open and his mouth smiled, an endearing boyish grin that I’d never replicate in a hundred years. I seldom smiled and he owned a face that couldn’t help but. People despised me at first look. This young man was both charismatic and confident, and I liked him on sight. No doubt all who met him did.

  He wore a simple tunic of grey with black leather trousers, a wide belt that held his sword and dagger around his hips. A cloak of deep blue, clasped at his throat with the pewter emblem of a lightning strike surrounded by glittering stars, lay back from his shoulders. He raised his hand and rested it on the Griffin’s shoulder. “Wind Warrior,” he said, his voice as deep as the river behind him. “Meet His Royal Highness, Prince Flynn of Raithin Mawr. Say hello, Windy.”

  Wind Warrior snorted, his tone contemptuous. “He’s a snake, Van. You should tie him up before he escapes.”

  Van chuckled. “Oh, I think he’s a model prisoner. Don’t you?”

  “You should at least disarm him.”

  Van merely laughed. “Your Highness,” he said. “Forgive my friend. He’s a boor, and very suspicious. And my apologies for not introducing myself properly.”

  He rested his fingers on his chest and bowed slightly, his even white teeth gleaming amid the scruffy half-beard on his cheeks and jaws. “I’m First Captain Vanyar of His Majesty’s Royal Atani Forces. This is Lieutenant Wind Warrior. He doesn’t look it when he’s being so stiff and unfriendly, but he’s a good fellow, truly, and a fine comrade to drink with.”

  “Don’t lie to the boy,” Wind Warrior hissed, glaring. “We haven’t drank together.”

  “We haven’t? Gotta fix that, Windy.”

  “Uh,” I began, sizing Wind Warrior up and trying to imagine him drinking in a tavern. “Drink with?”

  “Sure,” Van replied easily, his white grin flashing. “He does like his white wine.”

  “Shut up, Van,” Wind Warrior grumbled. “And how the hell do you know I like wine? Here now, if you don’t disarm him and tie his hands, the Captain will have you scrubbing floors. Again.”

  “Wouldn’t want that,” First Captain Vanyar replied cheerfully, holding out his hand. “Makes my knees ache something chronic. Sorry, Your Highness. Your sword, please.”

  Under the tense scrutiny of Wind Warrior, his talon raised to strike, Captain Vanyar’s pleasant but firm resolve, and the three huge Minotaurs with heavy blades drawn and ready crowding my back, I half-shrugged. Only surrender might keep me alive.

  “I’m for Braigh’Mhar, I expect,” I said, trying for lightness as I unbuckled my swordbelt. “Or the executioner’s block. Either way, I’m dead.”

  “Above my pay grade,” Vanyar said, accepting my sheathed sword. “Turn around, Your Highness. If you don’t mind.”

  I obeyed, facing the bristling Minotaurs who stood high over my head, staring down at me with hard bovine eyes. They fingered their weapons as though wishing to try them against my neck. I put my hands behind my back as Vanyar bound them together with fire-hardened leather thongs. I noticed he didn’t bind them too tightly, whereby my hands might die via a strong circulation lack, nor did he tie them so loose I might escape them. Comfortable enough as a prisoner, I met the calm gazes of these creatures I’d been taught to fear since childhood.

  Nursery tales spoke of the blood-thirsty Minotaurs who slaughtered children in their beds and ate them raw. As I gazed up into their savage, shaggy bull faces, human hands clasping bared steel, I found a small shred of courage. “What do you gentlemen prefer for supper?”

  The huge creature on my r
ight blinked in surprise. “A good, steamed cabbage with carrots and onions,” he replied, his deep voice mellow with an odd quirky lilt. “Lettuce and alfalfa work just well, though I do love cabbage.”

  “Cabbage!” the huge bull to his left grumbled, nudging his mate with a sour expression. “Give me lentils, peas, turnips and lots and lots of green beans. Though I must agree on the alfalfa part. Mwwaa!” The Minotaur kissed his fingers. “Gotta love sweet alfalfa.”

  “Don’t forget the turnip tops. Mixed with timothy, clover, and sweet, sweet bean sprouts,” the third massive bull-soldier commented. “And mushrooms. And buttermilk. Mustn’t forget hot, fresh bread covered in honey.”

  As the other two condemned their mate for his love of mushrooms, Vanyar’s breath tickled my ear. “Minotaurs are vegetarians,” he murmured. “Forget the buttermilk part, though. Not a one of them would refuse a tall mug of warm ale. All that wheat and barley, you know.”

  “You knew what I was thinking?”

  “I guessed. Raised on nursery tales, were we?”

  “Er, yes, rather.”

  Vanyar turned me around to face him, his once smiling face now earnest and sincere. “Listen, Flynn,” he said, his voice pitched low. Although I knew Wind Warrior and the Minotaurs heard our conversation clearly, ‘twas as though only he and existed. Alone, the two of us. The chaotic, dust-raising Atani capture of us and the rescue of their princess might never have happened. We might be friends sharing a laugh and stories over ale in a rustic tavern.

  “My time as your horse,” Van began, his hand on my shoulder, those piercing green eyes intent, “told me much about you. You’re not a bad fellow, really. Let go your hate. Find your own soul, not your father’s. Be your own person.”

  I choked, never imagining I’d hear such from another human being. Floundering in unchartered waters, I grasped at the only question that made sense. “How long?”

  Van grinned. “Since your mid-morning break. You saddled and bridled me, not him.”

  “Where’s Bayonne?”

  “On his way home. He’s safe, no worries.”

  I nodded, more afraid than when the Van bucked me off and the Griffins screamed in. I feared more for the safety of my soul than my own life.

  “Listen, Flynn,” Vanyar said, glancing toward the group of Blaez, Buck-Eye, Rade and the others stood amid their Griffins and Minotaur captors, hands tied behind their backs and their weapons seized. “They planned to kill you.”

  He smiled as he caught my eye. “Men speak freely in front of their horses,” he said. “Blaez and Sim. They plotted your death on this enterprise.”

  My breath caught in my throat. My blood chilled in my veins. “What?”

  “Your own men wouldn’t avenge you, had they seen you with your throat open. They’d cut and run, the bloody cowards.”

  “My father –”

  “Sanctioned it. I’m sorry.”

  My fear dropped and my guilt fell away. My father connived with Blaez to kill me. That nasty, scheming bastard paid Blaez to assassinate me. Murder his own son and heir. Cold leeched into my bones. Why?

  As though reading my thoughts, Van murmured. “You’re a threat to him. Why, I don’t know and neither did they. They spoke of hints and vague rumors, no absolute truths.”

  I met Van’s sincere emerald gaze with my own. “Thank you.”

  “Had you not killed Sim when you had,” Vanyar said softly. “You’d be dead now.”

  “It doesn’t absolve me,” I murmured, shrugging my shoulders, trying to make sense of it. “I murdered him.”

  Vanyar ducked his head. “So you did. You’ll have to live with that.”

  “Smarten up,” Wind Warrior hissed. “The Lord Captain comes. And is he looks righteously pissed off.”

  Van straightened and retrieved his hand. His shoulders squared in tight military discipline, yet he shot a swift glance and a quick word my way. “Courage.”

  The massive black Centaur with the star on his brow-band stalked toward me, Princess Iyumi straddling his massive equine back. Her silver-gilt hair streamed down her body to the Captain’s sleek, equine shoulder, her porcelain cheeks bloodless and pale. Her incredible blue eyes hardened when they latched upon me, and a dirk appeared in her right hand without her drawing one.

  Flanking the black commander were no less than five Minotaurs, the one with the rayed star on his mantle marching at his right hand. Another Centaur stalked at his left, long black hair streaming over his bare shoulders. Three Griffins circled low overhead as two Griffin pairs, wings furled over their lion backs, flanked the group and towered heads tall over their brothers.

  I’m in serious trouble now, I thought.

  The black Centaur, obviously the Lord Captain of which Wind Warrior spoke, halted before me, his stern visage a mask of restrained rage. The slender princess on his back rested her free hand on his massive left bicep. The colorful bruise I gave her, plus the nasty cut, showed clear on her pale cheekbone. Dried blood oozed dark down to her chin, as she never wiped it off.

  “You craven coward,” the black said, yanking his dagger from his belt. “You gutless wonder. You hit her.”

  “Malik, don’t,” Vanyar began, stepping between us.

  The huge Centaur jerked his head, once. Instantly, two Minotaurs pounced on Vanyar and dragged him back, out of the way. He yelled and cursed, but the bulls paid his much heed as they might a yowling cat. Wind Warrior stood behind me, stiff and unrelenting, and prevented me from backing away from that bared steel and those hate-filled dark eyes.

  Have mercy, I thought. Kill me quickly.

  CHAPTER 5

  She Who Hears

  The sun glinted off Malik’s steel.

  His strike didn’t sever Prince Flynn’s throat as I expected. Instead, his blade’s edge slashed Flynn’s cheek from his left eye to his mouth. Bright blood poured from the wound as the prince staggered, helpless, against Windy. Shock and terror convulsed his face as he opened his mouth is a silent scream of agony.

  Chief Ba’al’amawer and his aide-de-camp, Muljier, seized his arms and pulled him upright. Under their superior strength, Flynn sagged, limp, his tanned skin paling to ash as his eyes rolled back in his head. He came near to passing out, blood soaking his sky-blue tunic and the royal emblem: the eagle and crossed swords.

  As I cursed, fighting the hands that held me, in vain, Princess Iyumi leaned forward over Malik’s black withers. “Commander, cease. This instant.”

  “I’m just getting warmed up,” Malik snapped, raising his knife again.

  “Commander, I forbid you. Cease and desist.”

  “Malik!”

  Coming to himself, shaking off both the obvious shock and the tearing pain, Prince Flynn shrugged off his burly guards. They relaxed, leaving him to stand alone, his hands bound behind him. Flynn raise his gory, ripped face, his dark blue eyes clear. On his own two booted feet, Flynn bent his head to swipe tickling blood from his chin and smeared his once pristine sky-blue mantle. He faced Malik squarely, a faint smile coaxing his red-stained lips. His blonde mane wet with rain and oily sweat plastered to his brow and cheeks.

  “Please,” he said, his voice hoarse, yet with no overt or subvert irony. “Put me out of my misery. I’ll be ever so grateful.”

  “Meet your maker, boy.”

  Malik raised his hand, lifting it across his left shoulder. I knew his next cut would sever Prince Flynn’s carotid. I squirmed from the Minotaur’s custody and ran forward. At the same moment, Princess Iyumi slid from Malik’s sleek back and lunged to place her small body between Malik’s knife and Prince Flynn’s vulnerable neck. Her shoulder struck my ribcage. I glanced down at the same instant she tilted her face upward toward mine.

  I winked. I wasn’t quite certain of what I wanted to communicate in that swift gesture. Perhaps a ‘you and me against the world’ camaraderie. Or a ‘together we can win this’ bonding moment. Mostly, I think, it was a moment in which I looked on a pretty girl and liked what I sa
w.

  Whatever my motives for winking, Iyumi hesitated, her eyes widening a fraction. Her lips parted as though to speak. Instead, she ducked her head and rounded on Malik with fury.

  “Commander Malik,” Iyumi barked. “I forbid you to kill him.”

  Malik hesitated, lowering his hand slightly. His narrowed eyes widened, lessened in their murderous intent. His tight jaw loosened a fraction, yet anguished fury hoarsened his voice. “He dared lay his filthy hands –”

  “I’ll seek my own vengeance, Commander,” Iyumi declared, her hands on her hips and flaunting both her femininity and her royal authority. “In my own time and in my own fashion.”

  “But –”

  Malik stared down at her, baffled, confused, his righteous anger warring with his need to obey a royal command. He dared not refuse her, yet how could he not avenge her? “Your Highness, no –”

  “Step aside, please.”

  “Do it, Malik,” I advised. “She’s the boss.”

  “And you’re my bitch, Vanyar. Shut thy trap.”

  Flynn waited through this drama, towering two heads over Iyumi. Bleeding, his face in shreds, in no doubt screaming agony, yet his calm eyes watched her with respect, and, is it possible – wry humor? His glance caught mine as I backed off, and he winked. He shot a lightning fast quirk from his uninjured cheek, a quick gesture of light and laughter.

  I stifled a chuckle, wishing this Raithin Mawrn prince wasn’t the despised enemy. Deep down, I knew his royal sire created the beast he was, without his consent. Without that in the equation, I could even think of him as a friend.

  She may see clearly from one eye while the other remained at half mast, but they screamed the alpha role. Backed by not just her purple blood but a huge amount of natural courage, she squarely faced a pissed-off Centaur Commander easily capable of breaking her spine with one hand. Never blinking, Iyumi stared at Malik until he glanced aside, dipped his brow, and obeyed her. “Your will, Highness,” he murmured, his voice tense.