by J. M. Topp
Or my death.
‘We have Bendrick Greystonne, the Rovulgad Reaper. Let us through,’ said the man in the half-helm, stepping from his driver’s seat. ‘We found him in the Lyedran Valley.’
‘What side do you hail from?’ asked the guard, still pointing the crossbow at them. He wore the helm of a commander. Piss luck for the opportunist Weserithians that the commander of the guard making his rounds on the walls and had ended up at the front gates. They might have had more luck with a grunt. The man in the half-helm recognized him too. He made a quick motion for his dagger, a motion he quickly took back.
‘We followed the Aivaterran Army north. We hail from Yorveth.’
‘What do you think, Hedran?’ spoke the commander to the other guard who was leaning against the wall. ‘Do you believe them?’
‘Don’t think so,’ Hedran said, shaking his head and walking up to them with an evil grin. He touched a bronze ring on his left arm and rubbed it, concentrating on the mount before him. ‘They smell like Weserithians to me.’
‘’Ow da fack do you ‘now what a Weserithian smells like?’ asked the other scavenger, who from the looks of it, was still drunk. The man in the half-helm began to get nervous. Hedran smiled as he approached the cart and placed his hand on the horse. He petted it and looked into its eye, smiling all the while.
‘Well, you see, Weserithians smell like garlic. But allow me to elabourate,’ said the commander, smiling at the two deserters. ‘Weserithian diets consist of a lot of garlic, cabbage, and boiled broccoli. This gives them a particular and distinct odour. Aivaterrans eat a lot of poultry and drink a lot of wine.’
‘Yeah, and?’ asked the driver, raising his eyebrow. His hands began to shake as he held the reigns of the ox.
‘People from Yorveth are mainly fishermen and sailors and thus tend to eat a lot of fish. Thus, they smell like…?’ The commander rolled his hand before him as if expecting the driver to finish his sentence, but the driver only stared blankly.
‘Yorvethan women don’t wash ‘tween their legs neither. I could never tell the difference between their food and—,’ said Hedran, putting his two fingers to his lips and wagging his tongue in between them. A few of the guards chuckled along with him. The driver glanced at his partner, not knowing what to say.
‘We have with us a—’
‘I don’t give a damn who you say you have with you. As far as I am concerned, you are both Weserithian scum,’ interrupted the commander, making a signal to the other guards, who quickly surrounded the cart, pointing their crossbows at them. The drunken man’s eyes widened, and he eyed the crossbows with newborn horror. The man in the half-helm spat and jumped off the cart, breaking into a run. The commander shouted, and one of the guards let loose a bolt, which hit him square in the back. The man fell flat on the icy grounds. More bolts flew, and the drunk driver slumped over with a tiny squeak when four bolts pierced his chest. Bendrick ducked into the cart and held his breath. The guards approached the cart.
‘Look here, those fools.’ The commander laughed, taking the half-helm of the dead man off and pulling him by his hair. ‘Bastards thought they could pull a quick one on us. Rovulgad Reaper, my ass.’ The commander threw the dead man onto the ground.
‘Commander, look. There is someone in the cart!’ shouted Hedran. The guards snapped their crossbows back up at the cart. Bendrick looked up to see the commander’s angry scowl.
‘Who the devil do we have here?’ he said. ‘Are you Bendrick Greystonne?’ He broke into laughter.
‘I am.’
The guards laughed in unison. Hedran reached up and dragged Bendrick off the cart.
‘Sir!’ exclaimed Hedran as he took a good look at Bendrick.
‘What is it now?’ snapped the commander.
‘That is him. I remember him when he arrived at the Aivaterra city gates,’ he said, lifting Bendrick’s face to the firelight from his torch. ‘He was the one with that knight and pretty white-haired bitch. Audry housed them in her quarters.’
‘I do remember that, and we had to just let them go,’ grumbled the commander as the guard known as Hedran stepped back. The commander grabbed Bendrick and stood him up. ‘I think I know someone who will want to see you. Go on, get walking. Hedran, be sure he goes straight to the queen.’ The commander snickered and turned his back on Bendrick.
‘Yes, sir.’ Hedran saluted sharply and pushed Bendrick to the gate. ‘Go on.’
INSIDE THE GATES, Weserith was a lot worse than Bendrick had imagined. The battle had stemmed into a nightmarish execution. Bodies littered the ground—and not just the soldiers’. Women rummaged through the rubble. Children wandered about aimlessly through the ashes.
How could the Aivaterrans have breached the gates so fast?
There were no trebuchets or ladders outside of the city walls. There were no signs of siege weapons, yet judging by the destruction, it seemed that the Aivaterran Army had entered with very little resistance. Aivaterran soldiers marched through the streets in patrols, pulling men from their homes and shacks. Some of them they would kill on the spot. Others were dragged away. The metallic smell of blood lingered in the air, as well as the smell of burning wood. The Aivaterran conquest had been extremely thorough and well-planned.
Hedran pushed him again, urging him to hurry.
‘It would be easier if you untied me,’ snapped Bendrick as he stumbled through the streets.
‘You would like that, wouldn’t you?’ Hedran sneered as they approached the city prisons.
‘You were ordered to take me to the queen. This is not the way to the castle,’ Bendrick protested, turning to face the guard. Hedran punched him in his stomach, knocking the air out of Bendrick as he fell to the ground.
‘Oh, that looks like a nasty wound, old man. Best not struggle. Now move.’ Hedran pointed to the prison. Bendrick regained his breath slowly and walked to the prison. A guard stood there, keeping watch.
‘Put this man in the twenty-fourth cell. Queen Gwendylyyn will see him when she is ready, if I feel she ever is,’ Hedran sneered and walked away as the guard nodded, opening the prison door. The guard followed Bendrick through and walked down the steps into the prison hall. As he walked past the wooden cell doors, wailing began to emanate from them. Weserith soldiers within screamed for respite. Denouncing their king and cursing their homeland, all they wanted was water or food. A sense of despair shrouded Bendrick’s shoulders like a wet cloak.
The cells on the ground floor were wooden, but as they descended into the second level, the doors were decorated with iron. Weserith was known for having the most ruthless and inescapable prisons. Bendrick had never imagined he would be placed in these very same cells. The prisoners within the lower cells were silent, a stark contrast to the prisoners above. Bendrick sensed that the inhabitants were Weserithians more than likely. There was no hiding the inhumanity happening within them. Bendrick noticed that some were still in bloodied armour from the battle of the Lyedran Valley. He didn’t recognize anyone on the inside of the cells. The guard unlocked the door farthest from the entrance and cut his bonds. He then pushed Bendrick inside.
Bendrick fell hard onto the stone-cold floor. For a moment, Bendrick could only see stars. His vision blurred as the wound on his side broke some stitching. He touched it slowly, and sure enough, when he drew his hand to see, it was covered in blood.
‘Best lay down, old friend.’
A familiar voice arose from the dark corner of the cell. Bendrick couldn’t make out who it was. The only light coming into the cell was from a small, barred window. The moon had risen in the sky and with it, winters’ first snows had begun to fall.
‘Remy?’ Bendrick rose to his knees and placed himself on the opposite side of the cell. Out of breath, and still trying to regain his conscious, he put pressure on his side to stop the bleeding. Bendrick clenched his teeth but held his hand firm. He didn’t want to bleed out before seeing the queen.
‘Remy? No, but it seems he was rig
ht. Going to war was a fool’s errand,’ whispered King Ayland as he stood up and walked into the torchlight. Bendrick realized that he wasn’t walking so much as limping. What little he could see told him that his left leg was completely cut at the knee. He leaned on a makeshift crutch. A thin and torn brown cloak covered his shoulders. A bandage drenched in blood was wrapped around the stump that had once been his leg. His head also had a bandage that was equally soaked. The king slumped in his crutch and stared gloomily at Bendrick. Pride had been stripped from him, as it had been from the entire kingdom. ‘I should have fortified my walls and awaited her arrival as Remy said.’
‘Your Grace, I would bow, but—’
‘Don’t bother; there is no reason anymore, Bendrick.’ The defeated king’s words struck Bendrick with pain. Ayland had given up. There was no hope for him left. Even if Ayland did have hope, where would it take him? The best he could hope for was a quick execution on the morrow. A fast killing would no longer prolong his pain. But Bendrick knew the bitterness and anger Gwendylyyn held for him. It wouldn’t be so easy for King Ayland.
‘You know what they are calling the Battle of Lyedran Valley?’ Ayland smirked, taking his place in the dark corner of the cell. ‘The Hour War, a battle in which King Ayland, formerly known as the Cliobarhe, was soundly defeated at the hands of Queen Gwendylyyn. The first and only battle of the war between Eldervale and the Khahadran. Not only have they stripped me of my kingship, they’ve placed me in the annals of history as the Failed King.’
Bendrick didn’t know what to say to that. Ayland had been ruthless in his previous campaigns. He had blotted the names of two kings from the history books so that no one could remember them or even utter them. After the Hour War, those names would probably be added back, completely undermining the Ayland’s rule—a rule Bendrick had served under most of his life. Bendrick never defied him or second guessed him. As lieutenant, it never was his place. His position in the war council was typically one of courtesy, a reward for being with the Ayland since he was young. Until recently, his word had held no real weight. It wasn’t empathy Bendrick felt for Ayland in that moment; it was pity. The man before him had chosen a path to further his own prospects and lands regardless of what it did to others. His own queen was merely a property for him to parade through the streets in pride, only to beat her in his bedchambers. He wished now that he had said something, even if it would have meant punishment. If the queen had something in store for this beaten man, it would have been no less than he deserved. Yet Bendrick could harbor no rancor against Ayland. They had once been good friends since long before his coronation. Sometimes, Bendrick would see glimpses of that man, before he had been turned into the Cliobarhe.
‘All our time Gwen and I spent together wasn’t as tumultuous as most people believe,’ Ayland half-chuckled as he recalled memories he had shared with Gwendylyyn. He put his bloodied head against the wall of the cell. ‘You want to know something humorous, Bendrick? The first couple of years we were together were the best of my life. She would smile and twist her shoulders playfully, almost as if she were wanting me to pounce on her. When I did, she would fill the air surrounding us with such joyous laughter, it was impossible not to want to spend every waking moment with her. Something changed, however, in the both of us.’
Ayland slowly raised his hand to his mouth and covered it. His fingers were shaking uncontrollably. ‘Gwen would climb over the walls of the castle after every simple argument we had, simply to infuriate me. She knew how much I worried for her safety, and she used my concerns against me. How could I protect her when she left my side so constantly?’
Bendrick stared on at Ayland, not knowing what to say.
‘One time, I let her get away. I wanted to show her that she could not control me with her fits of fancy. If she chose to leave my castle, who was I to deny her? I had no idea of her whereabouts. When my servants finally found her, she had been sleeping in an alleyway near the sewers for three days, stubbornly laying in muck and breathing in noxious fumes. She was terribly ill, and my healers spent weeks restoring her health to her. Once her father, the King Elmeric of Aivaterra, found out, he threatened a war for mistreatment of her daughter.’ Ayland closed his eyes. ‘So I confined her to the royal keep under constant watch of guard, never to leave my side again. For twenty years, she seemed happy, but when we were together and alone, that’s when things went ugly. She taught me that even dogs behave before their masters.’
Ayland turned his head to look at Bendrick. ‘I saw her after the battle. I was on my knees, in mud up to my waist, as she stood over me.’ Ayland stopped as tears began to stream from his eyes. He whimpered and sniffled, but Bendrick could only stare at him. ‘She didn’t say a word and then walked away from me, as if everything we had been through was for nothing.’ Ayland squeezed his hands and kicked a loose stone with his good leg. He let the wooden crutch fall to his side.
Bendrick took a deep breath.
‘My lord, there is something I must tell you.’
‘Her child?’ Ayland coughed with a chuckle.
Bendrick’s breath caught in his mouth in surprise.
‘I saw her belly, Bendrick. But even if I hadn’t, it was known to me,’ said Ayland.
‘You knew she was…?’
‘Of course I did.’ Ayland let his head hang down to his chest. ‘I never was able to find out with whom, but even if I did, I don’t know that I would have stopped her. The wounds she continuously inflicted on me began to lose their sting.’
Bendrick stared at Ayland, speechless.
‘Oh, another humorous story. Gwen came to me one morning. I was still reeling from heavy drinking the night before, and I could barely stand up straight. She stood before me and said she was leaving to Aivaterra. Gwen told me she would escape in the night from this very cell,’ said Ayland with a laugh. ‘I drunkenly mocked her so goddamn hard. Then I slapped her, sending her to the ground. For a moment, I blacked out. When I came to, a healer stood over me. My hands were covered in blood. I had fallen, and beside me lay Gwen, bruised and unmoving. Abandoned gods above, I thought I had killed her. The healers said I nearly did.’ Ayland lowered his head and began to sob once more. ‘Funny, isn’t it?’
‘You knew all along about the escape?’ asked Bendrick.
‘I did.’
‘Why didn’t you tell the council? Why didn’t you tell Rebecca? She would have helped you find her,’ Bendrick said, eyes wide open. He stood up and walked before Ayland. ‘You wasted precious time in sending the envoy. You knew it would never work!’
‘What kind of limp prick would everyone think me if I could not even control my own wife?’ said Ayland, holding his shoulders.
‘Any more of a limp prick everyone thinks you now? Hundreds of your people are dead because of your false pride.’ Bendrick bared his teeth in anger. Ayland glanced at him in shame.
‘You’re right. I was worried about what others thought of me, more than caring for Gwen, more than caring for my people. When I was sober, she commanded me. Ask anyone you like. I even tried to get her to like me—even after I learned she was sleeping with someone else. I would send her flowers and even keep my fucking eyes to myself around women, for a time. It was my passion for her that turned me into a monster. The drink was my only consolation, and my downfall.’ Ayland suddenly broke into a storm of coughs.
‘Don’t blame the drink, Ayland,’ said Bendrick, sitting down once more. ‘You are a far cry from the boy who joined up with me in the Academy all those years ago. You had a spark for knowledge, justice, and wisdom. Now all you yearn for is blood.’
Ayland grabbed his crutch and smashed it against the wall behind him. He glared at Bendrick. ‘I have a taste for blood, yes, but at least it was from men who were armed. Where were you? Murdering women and children? Rovulgad Reaper!’ Ayland spit the words out.
Bendrick’s eyes widened. ‘You son of a bitch.’
‘Where were you, Bendrick?’ Ayland looked down at his ha
nds. A thin, sharp splinter was stuck in his hand. Ayland pulled it from his hand and turned the splinter over, watching his own blood glisten in the torchlight. ‘You abandoned me and buried yourself in the Athenaeum to forget the wars we fought in. You failed to realize that I needed you the most by my side.’
‘You were the king, Ayland. You could have asked for help.’
‘Aye, I could have. One more for the mountain of regrets that lies over me.’ Ayland gathered his cloak from his shoulders and pulled it over his chest. He turned away from Bendrick and remained silent, with his face in the corner of the cell. Bendrick retreated as well into his own mind as he sat in the dark, cold prison.
Bendrick remembered Rebecca’s words in that sparring room. He couldn’t shake the thought of that book. It seemed longer than a month since those words were uttered, but he could still hear her voice.
‘His point was that any evil act made by monsters and daemons of old could be done and outdone by man.’
Bendrick thought of Sieglinde. He had hit her hard in that tent before the battle. Could she forgive him for the evil he had done?
Is she even alive?
Tears began to well in his eyes, but he made sure not to let Ayland see. Even if Ayland had lost all hope, he would not go down that path.
Sieglinde was still alive, Bendrick could feel it.
Suddenly, he heard a scream. Only, it was in his mind. It sounded like…
TIME WITHIN THE dark cells blurred in Bendrick’s mind. Night turned to day, and day turned to night again. Sometimes the screams from the battle would keep him up, echoing around his mind. He had to squeeze his eyes and clench his teeth to keep the sounds out, but sometimes he wasn’t successful. He could ignore them sometimes, but only if they weren’t so loud. Sometimes he couldn’t hear himself think.
