by Alex Aguilar
All of their eyes met at once.
John Huxley and Thomlin leapt to their feet almost immediately, both in shock, having been caught off guard by the presence of the graceful princess. Thomlin’s eyes had opened wide and his impulse to whisper his knowledge out loud got the best of him.
“That’s Princess Magdal-”
“I know who she is,” John shushed him.
As the princess approached the table, both John and Thomlin made a poor attempt at a bow.
“Pardon me, who are you? And what is your business here?” asked the princess.
“I-I’m John Huxley of Elbon, your majesty. This is my, um… nephew Thomlin,” the farmer lied, startled by the sudden interrogation.
The princess shot him a doubtful look as she compared the two of them.
“Your majesty asked what is your business here,” Brie, the handmaiden, spoke.
“Brie,” said the princess, giving her a look of displeasure. “I’d like a moment, please.”
Embarrassed, the girl removed herself and headed to the servants’ quarters, dragging along the red gown as if it were old laundry. The princess turned back to John and the boy, her eyes still waiting for a proper answer.
“I-I was invited here by Sir Viktor Crowley, your majesty,” John said with a hesitant stutter, soon after realizing the silence had dragged for too long. “As a reward for assisting in the capture of the wanted thief Hudson Blackwood.”
“He’s been caught?” asked princess Magdalena, intrigued by the idea of a farmer capturing a notorious thief.
“He has, your majesty,” John replied, his blue eyes meeting Magdalena’s. He had only ever seen the princess from a distance whenever he traveled to Val Havyn and the princess happened to be out in the city streets. He’d never before noticed the beauty of her eyes; they were nearly as green as the lush garden surrounding them.
“M-My apologies for intruding,” John said, realizing he had no more business in the king’s palace. “My nephew and I will be on our way.”
But before the young farmer could gather his belongings, a screaming guard barged suddenly out of the palace doors, grasping the attention of them all.
“Retreat!” the guard shouted. “Into the palace! NOW!”
“What is the meaning of this?” the princess asked.
“Quick, your majesty! You must take shelter before they find you!”
“Before who finds me?!”
“Hurry, now! They’re comi-”
The guard could not finish. An arrow pierced into the back of his neck and struck through the front. The princess couldn’t help but yelp in shock as the guard fell to his knees, blood gushing down his neck. John glanced in the direction the arrow had been shot from. Above the courtyard, there was a beautiful stone bridge that connected one side of the palace to the other, and standing over the edge of it was a man with a bow in his hands. He had dark brown skin, adorned dreaded locks of hair, and hunting armor made red leather. But the most frightening of his qualities was his odious smile.
Captain Malekai Pahrvus whistled loudly.
And before John had time to react, a horde of about 20 men entered the courtyard. About a dozen of the men were also dressed in red leather, the rest were in rags and furs, and all of them were armed.
The princess, the farmer, and the boy all glanced at one another with distress in their eyes.
And John, by impulse, unsheathed the rusty blade strapped to his belt.
“Behind me, your majesty!” he shouted, stepping in front of Magdalena and Thomlin.
The invaders were walking straight towards him, laughing and spitting, drawing their weapons and preparing for a fight. A rush of fear ran through the farmer’s body, but his determination exceeded it and he remained in place, scanning the yard for anything that might aid him in combat.
“There she is,” one of the men shouted, aiming his axe at the princess. “That’s the one we want!”
Magdalena stepped back against the statue of her father, her arms extended back so as to protect the peasant boy Thomlin. John Huxley shielded them both. He knew there was a very real chance that he would die in that courtyard. At that very moment, however, one of the palace doors swung open and slammed against the brick walls.
Sir Jossiah Biggs stormed out and shouted, “Onward!!”
Two more doors opened and about a dozen men marched into the courtyard, dressed in steel armor and wearing King Rowan’s sigil on their chests. They drew their blades and began fighting off the invaders. What had been a peaceful courtyard soon turned into a riotous battleground and at the center of it all was her majesty, princess Magdalena.
Unwilling to stand by, John threw himself into the fight, shielding the backs of the king’s guards. Swords and axes clashed all around, and though John was keeping himself alive, there was a feeling in the back of his neck that he hadn’t experienced during training.
It was a feeling of distress. An urge to survive.
He was afraid. But the thrill of it was keeping him intact.
One of the invaders caught sight of princess Magdalena and walked towards her. Thomlin tried stepping in front of her, but the princess locked her grip on the boy’s shoulder and kept him in place behind her. When the man reached them, he snatched Magdalena by the wrist and smiled. Only he didn’t attack; instead he began pulling her away.
John was fighting alongside the king’s soldiers when he saw what was happening.
Magdalena tried to resist, and though the man was not exactly large in size, his violent demeanor frightened her. Thomlin tried to help, pulling on the princess’s sleeve in the opposite direction.
John ran towards them, his nerves plucking at the back of his neck, consuming him, overcoming him. Before the red invader could drag them any further, John blocked his path and sunk his blade into the distracted man’s chest. The man turned to look the young farmer in the eyes. He was no one in particular, just another mercenary of the Rogue Brotherhood. To the rest of his comrades, the man was not particularly skilled or renowned, and his face was to be long forgotten within weeks.
To John Huxley, however, this was the face of the first man he would ever kill.
The farmer stood there, unable to speak or move, aside from the nervous shiver in his hands. The man slid away and fell dead on the ground, leaving red smears on the blade’s sharp edge. Magdalena and Thomlin both looked at John in shock, neither one of them having seen many men die at such close proximity in the past, and yet already having seen enough for a lifetime.
There was a sudden growl coming from above. One of the invaders jumped from the bridge and landed on the statue of King Rowan. John, the princess, and the boy backed away and witnessed the menacing figure above. Whoever it was, he looked more like a beast and less like a man.
Then he removed his helmet… and a few of the king’s guards were stunned at the sight.
It was an orc, green-skinned and yellow-eyed, growling as he sunk his axe into the statue’s head. Orcs hadn’t been seen in the city in centuries, and the shock of it all distracted some of the guards long enough to cost them their lives.
“This way!” the princess shouted, and led the farmer and the boy down one of the outdoor corridors. They darted out of the way as bodies fell and weapons clashed against each other. But before they could retreat into the safety of the palace, a dark figure stepped into the end of the corridor and blocked their path. It was a man, a frighteningly large one, with a mask over his disfigured jaw.
He began walking towards them. And John prepared himself for the fight of his life.
“Careful, John!” Thomlin said.
Princess Magdalena, unwilling to yield, picked up an axe from a dead man’s hands. It was heavier than she had expected, but the adrenaline allowed her to lift it. They stood next to each other, ready to face their incoming enemy; a drop of sweat ran down John’s face as the man became larger and larger with every step. He didn’t think twice about confronting the wanted thief Hudson Blackwo
od. The Butcher of Haelvaara, on the other hand, was sure to slay him with one strike.
The Butcher reached them. And when he did, he swung his battleaxe down.
John didn’t move a single muscle. He was suddenly petrified.
Instead, the princess blocked the strike. The axe fell from her hands and the Butcher landed a slap across her cheek. She fell. And the Butcher wasted not a single second before he swung at John again.
The axe, however, was suddenly blocked by a silver longsword.
A tall, blonde-haired knight in gold-lined armor stepped in front of them, his sword locked with the Butcher’s axe. Their weapons clashed, again and again, their skills matching each other’s. The Butcher had no choice but to step back as the valiant Sir Viktor Crowley moved forward, unwilling to yield.
John helped Magdalena to her feet.
“Go!” Sir Viktor shouted at them. “The three of you. Go. Now!”
The Butcher gave his axe a powerful swing that sent the knight stumbling backwards.
But Sir Viktor was never one to surrender. He found his footing, then lunged forward and attacked, again and again, until the Butcher was distracted enough that the princess slid away into the palace, dragging John and Thomlin along with her.
Furiously, the Butcher landed a heavy kick on Viktor’s chest, one that dropped the knight to the ground, and roared angrily; a nearby red mercenary whistled as if the roar had been an order. And then a black stallion galloped suddenly into the courtyard. Before Viktor Crowley had regained his stance, the Butcher mounted the stallion and trotted away, heading towards the guard barracks.
Viktor Crowley gritted his teeth.
“Follow that horse!” he shouted, but the Butcher was already out of sight.
John and Thomlin had no time to admire the beauty of the king’s palace. The elegant red and blue patterns that adorned the walls, ceiling, and tiled floors were blurred as they ran through an elegant hall, their focus set on finding a way out.
The princess, acquainted so well with the palace as she was with the palm of her hand, led the way to the guards’ barracks, which was a vast open field behind the palace surrounded by two-story lodgings made of wood where the royal guard was housed. There was no grass in the field, only dirt, which made it more efficient for training, and spread throughout the field there were racks of weaponry, targets, and training equipment.
It’s beautiful, John thought to himself. Perhaps more beautiful than the palace itself.
The ran across the field of dirt and out the black gates, which led them out to a grassy slope, and just ahead of them was a wide river flowing south through the green valley known as the Blue Hills. The view was like an image pulled right out of a dream.
“Is that Lotus Creek?” Thomlin asked through heavy breaths.
“If it is, it runs all the way down to Elbon,” John said.
“Can we get there by swimming?”
“Not unless you survive the falls,” the princess said.
“Falls?”
“Two of them. If the first one doesn’t kill you, the second one undoubtedly will.”
The sudden sound of a galloping horse startled them. The Butcher of Haelvaara had caught up, and he left a group of his men at the gates to block the path. Five more horses followed, the first one ridden by Captain Malekai Pahrvus of the Rogue Brotherhood. Three of the other riders were red mercenaries and the last one was a mysterious figure hidden under a dark hood.
They were trapped.
The Butcher was the first to dismount. But John’s attention was on the Brotherhood mercenaries. The Captain was armed with two blades and his eyes spoke of malice and mischief. He whistled and ordered his men to approach first.
“We should go, your majesty,” Thomlin suggested, tugging at the princess’s sleeve.
“No! We can’t just leave him!” Magdalena stood her ground, suddenly wishing she had kept the axe from the courtyard. John felt his chest pounding from the unease. As horrified as he was with the notion of death, John realized this was to be his ultimate test of survival. A test in which, if he failed, he would pay with his own head.
He thought of everything Mister Beckwit had taught him.
He thought of Sir Viktor Crowley, of the bravery that it must have taken to dedicate his life to moments like these.
He thought of the thief Hudson Blackwood; of what he would do.
He felt a shred of guilt, almost. He did not respect the man. But he respected his skill and determination, and even his wit. It was a bit of a shame a man like that should have to be imprisoned.
But as much as he respected each one of them differently, John Huxley was his own person.
He wasn’t wise like old man Beckwit. He wasn’t valorous and distinguished like Viktor Crowley, nor was he as daring as Hudson Blackwood.
He was John Huxley of Elbon, stubborn and foolish and with more spirit than any farmer ever to set foot in Val Havyn. And so he threw himself with every ounce of courage he had left. He fought harder and faster than he ever had with Larz and Henrik.
The Brotherhood crooks took turns attacking John, though it was more to tease the lad rather than out of respect for combat. But John didn’t step back. He blocked every attack he could and kept his stance, taking careful and balanced steps, glancing attentively in every direction. The Butcher and Malekai were watching as if they had staged the whole thing for their own amusements. Neither one of them moved until one of their men fell to the ground wounded and John moved to attack the next.
Princess Magdalena threw herself into the grass and snatched the injured man’s weapon, a thick curved blade that looked like it had been crafted somewhere overseas. Then, with a deep breath, she finished the deed.
Meanwhile, John glanced back and forth between the other two men, his blade held up in defense. They paid no mind to the princess, shrugging her off as delicate and defenseless, and so she used it to her advantage.
John stumbled, barely missing an incoming swing.
But, as one of the red invaders had his back to the princess, she swung the blade down at his neck. The man shrieked with pain and fell to the grass. And he princess yanked the weapon out and the man’s blood spattered all over her elegant shoes. She stepped forward for another strike, but then a large heavy hand grabbed ahold of her wrist.
She looked up at the Butcher’s pale grey eyes. And the monstrous man tightened his grip until her wrist cracked; she yelped in pain as the blade slid from her hand. The princess couldn’t see it, but the Butcher was smiling beneath his teeth-studded mask.
Thomlin, acting on impulse, scratched and pulled at the Butcher’s forearm, attempting to loosen his grip on the princess, but Captain Malekai Pahrvus landed a swift punch that knocked the boy unconscious. The Butcher then placed a hand on the princess’s face, his palm covering her entire jaw. She tried to escape his grasp, but it was useless. She felt her chest tighten as she wheezed for air, and so the Butcher squeezed unyieldingly, blocking her breathing entirely.
John screamed, as several flesh wounds on his arms and legs began to slow him down. There was only one man left, but he was unharmed and therefore faster than the farmer.
Malekai whistled again. And John became distracted enough that the red raider disarmed him and landed a heavy kick to the knee. John fell to the ground. He was so relentless he tried to stand immediately, and his wounds began to bleed even more. The red raider paced around him, landing kicks and punches every few seconds, and snickering while at it.
“All right, enough,” Malekai said. “Hold him up.”
The red raider obeyed, grabbing John by the hair and lifting him to a kneeling position.
“It’s over, peasant,” the captain said. “There’s no use fighting.” He then drew a dagger and used the tip to hold John’s chin up.
“Stop!” a loud, thundering voice spoke. Every pair of eyes moved towards it.
The dark hooded figure climbed off his steed and approached them. He walked towards the wounded
farmer, the studs on his boots clinking with every step. He was a tall man, a little over six feet in height, and was built well, though not as large as the Butcher. When he removed his hood, his black hair flowed down freely to his chest and back and he had hair on his face that was trimmed with great precision.
He knelt on one foot over the grass. And they took a moment to look at one another.
Lord Baronkroft into the farmer’s naïve blue eyes and John into the lord’s mystifying black ones. He noticed a strange shade of red where it should have been white, surrounding the lord’s pupils.
“Who are you, boy?” Baronkroft asked.
John panted heavily through the blood seeping through his teeth. From the corner of his eye, he could see the Butcher hoisting the unconscious princess onto his shoulders. And Captain Malekai did the same with Thomlin.
“Don’t hurt them,” John pleaded. He had two or three cuts on his legs and several across his arms and chest, and his eye was starting to swell from the beating. “Please… don’t hurt them…”
“Oh, I wouldn’t dream of it,” Baronkroft replied, gently yet disturbingly. “The princess must look as regal and presentable as she can… if she is to be of any use to me, that is.”
The words only made John’s chest thump faster and stronger. “What d’you mean?”
But Baronkroft said nothing, only kept his eerie smile. The Butcher threw the unconscious princess over the black stallion and then reached for the unconscious boy in Malekai’s arms.
“Hang on,” Malekai protested with a raised brow. “What about the Brotherhood’s payment?”
The Butcher shot Malekai a menacing glare.
“Patience, Captain,” Baronkroft interjected. “We’re not in Drahkmere just yet…”
“We never agreed to go to Drahkmere… We agreed to help capture the girl…”
“Then we can settle your payment when we meet at the camp, good sir.”
At that moment the Butcher dug into his horse’s saddle and pulled out a large brown coinpurse, and he tossed it at Malekai and grunted, “That should shut you up.”
