Fate of the Fallen

by Kel Kade

  “Oh, pardon me, sir—the practice of the royal guard.”

  “Why would I do that?” said Aaslo.

  Brontus’s smile faded. Glancing at the sword Aaslo had tossed on the bed, he said, “Well, you are a swordsman, are you not? Would you not care to observe the kingdom’s finest?”

  “Not really.”

  “Oh,” Brontus said with surprise, followed by an uncomfortable pause. He ventured, “If I may, sir, it would be considered rude to refuse the offer. It might not be a good idea to offend the royal guard.”

  “You should refuse. The consequences will be highly entertaining. Besides, I’d love to see the looks on their faces when he tells them you said no.”

  “You won’t see anything,” Aaslo replied.

  “I am afraid I must,” Brontus said with a shaky grin. “I am to attend to you at all times during your stay.”

  “You’re keeping an eye on me—spying.”

  Brontus grinned again, as if he had just told a joke. Aaslo sighed. “I cannot go to the practice yard dressed in a robe. You took my clothes.”

  The manservant jumped into action, riffling through the large basket he had lugged into the room. “Of course not, Sir Forester. I have some things for you here—simple things. I thought you would be most comfortable in them until you are required to dress for dinner.”

  Aaslo looked at him sideways. “I appreciate that.”

  Brontus smiled up at him from where he knelt beside the basket. “I am not unaware of your circumstances, Sir Forester. I doubt you are accustomed to seeing many people out there in the forest, and now you are thrust into the Palace of Uyan itself. I cannot imagine your discomfort. Even our customs—those of your own kingdom—would seem foreign. That is why I was assigned to you. I usually serve visitors from afar, helping them and their retainers to understand our customs. Do not worry yourself too much, though. You will be granted much leniency for your ignorance.”

  “The fact that you’re still breathing is evidence of that.”

  Aaslo donned a white linen shirt that laced up the front and a comfortable pair of brown wool trousers. He opened his mouth to refuse the embroidered, hunter-green velvet vest that Brontus held before him.

  “He’s here to help you stay out of trouble. Wear the vest.”

  By the stubborn set of the man’s jaw, Aaslo knew Mathias was right. He sighed and slipped it over his arms. Brontus hooked the loops over the brass buttons and straightened Aaslo’s shirt accordingly.

  “I can dress myself,” Aaslo said.

  Brontus presented him with a pair of slightly worn boots. “Yes, I am sure you can, but then I would be out of a job.”

  “Let the man feed his family, Aaslo.”

  Aaslo grabbed the burlap sack and then turned toward the door. Brontus blocked his passage as he held up Mathias’s sword.

  “I am only going to watch,” said Aaslo. “I don’t need it.”

  “Best not to walk about the palace unarmed, sir.”

  Aaslo frowned at the man. “Am I in danger here?”

  Brontus smiled, but it lacked sincerity. “It is custom.”

  With his sword and the severed head strapped to his belt, Aaslo followed Brontus through several corridors. The keeper of the keys had not been lying when she said there were too many checkpoints. Since they were leaving the royal wing, though, they got no more attention than curious glances and whispers.

  The royal practice yard was located in the central bailey, and it was surrounded by platforms bearing benches for spectators. The benches were empty at that time, save for the guardsmen who occupied the first two rows, watching their comrades, making comments, and occasionally jeering. They turned as he entered, muttering to each other and drawing the attention of the others. Before he knew it, all practice had stopped, and everyone was staring at him.

  “You’ve done it now, Aaslo. Perhaps they want to see you dance before they arrest you.”

  One of the men who had been sparring in the practice ring strode toward him. He wore pants, but his chest was bare and slick with sweat. He grabbed a drying cloth from one of the empty benches and wiped his clean-shaven face as he approached. He gazed at Aaslo with dark brown eyes, then held his hand out in greeting.

  “I am Lopin, Captain of the Royal Guard.”

  Aaslo hesitantly shook the man’s hand. “Aaslo, Forester of Goldenwood.”

  The man’s smile exposed a full set of perfect, white teeth. “It’s true then? You are really a forester?”

  “A dancing monkey, more like.”

  “Yes, is that significant?”

  “Everyone seems to think so,” said Lopin. “I’m more interested in your skill with a sword, though.”

  “I’m not a soldier,” said Aaslo.

  “Perhaps not, but I hear you know Cromley, and the Marquess of Dovermyer seems to think you’re quite the swordsman.”

  Aaslo glanced at the curious faces of the kingdom’s best guardsmen. He said, “My friend trained with Cromley. I just helped with the practices. I prefer an axe and a spade.”

  “Can’t see how a spade would be useful in a battle,” said Lopin.

  “Precisely,” said Aaslo. “I help things grow. I don’t go about fighting people. I don’t even like people.”

  “Seems like a decent enough reason to fight them,” said Lopin, to the enjoyment of his peers. “Perhaps you’d care to join us for a training session.”

  “I’d rather not,” said Aaslo.

  “Careful. These are the men who are going to be arresting you later. No need to make it worse.”

  Lopin’s perpetual smile soured, and Aaslo glanced at Brontus, who shook his head in disapproval. Aaslo figured no swordsman in his right mind would refuse the honor. Then again, he was already in doubt over whether or not he was in his right mind. He surveyed the men, who were looking at him expectantly. “What is the point of this?”

  “Who said there needed to be a point?” said Lopin. “A swordsman must hone his skills, keep them sharp.”

  “I never wanted to be a swordsman. I only learned to help my friend.”

  Lopin lifted his chin toward the sack tied to Aaslo’s belt. “Is that the friend?” No one seemed surprised by the question, except Brontus, who eyed the sack warily. Lopin must have noticed Aaslo’s concern. He said, “Yes, we all know. What I don’t understand is why you continue to carry it.”

  Aaslo first thought to tell them that it was none of their business, but leaving the forest and losing Mathias had already cost too much. He would not turn his back on the ways of his people. So, he considered the question and the potential consequences of every conceivable answer before replying. “I will carry his burden so long as it is necessary.”

  Lopin nodded solemnly, then glanced at the others. He nodded once, and then the lot of them rushed him, knocking Brontus out of the way. Aaslo struggled against their grips as they hoisted him into the air with a multitude of hands securing his arms and legs. They dumped him in the dirt at the center of the practice yard. He kicked and shoved at them as they divested him of his vest and shirt. He was abruptly released when the men backed away, and he quickly scrambled to his feet.

  Before he had even steadied himself, Lopin took a swipe at his head with a blade. Aaslo stumbled backward, falling to his rear, and rolling out of the way as Lopin’s sword struck the ground where he had been lying. Aaslo glanced down as he reached for his hilt and realized the burlap sack was missing. He drew his sword just in time to deflect an overhead strike, then parried and dodged a few more aggressive swings. “Why are you doing this?” he asked as he backpedaled.

  Lopin grinned, and it was decidedly less pleasant than when they had first met. He said, “You disrespected the king, and in front of the court, no less. You have already begun to develop a reputation as a swordsman, yet we have seen nothing to prove you are deserving of it. I would see if you are capable of more than slinging good names around.”

  “I don’t want a reputation,” Aaslo said
as he continued backing away. “I don’t want to fight you. I don’t want to stay in the palace. I just want to be gone from here.” He turned to run, but stopped short when he realized three more royal guards, swords bared, were blocking his way. He spun back around just in time to dodge another attempt to take his head.

  “You did not strike me as a coward,” said Lopin. “Fight back, or don’t you want to see your friend again?” The guard standing behind Lopin jiggled the burlap sack in the air.

  As Aaslo stared at the bag, the scent of pines and fresh fallen leaves inundated his senses. Mathias was silent, and the forest called to him. A million scenarios shuffled through his consciousness, more than one containing Reyla and a decent life—for a time. He blinked to clear the visions, then looked back to Lopin. “What are the terms?”

  “First blood gets the bag.”

  Aaslo glanced to the sack again and then clenched his jaw with resolve. He nodded toward Lopin, who appeared genuinely pleased. They circled each other several times, and Lopin feinted, then feinted again. Just when the guard seemed to lose confidence that Aaslo would fight, Aaslo advanced. He slashed and jabbed as Lopin retreated. The tables abruptly turned when Lopin sidestepped as Aaslo thrust. He smashed Mathias’s blade toward the ground, then backhanded Aaslo in the face as Aaslo withdrew his blade. Lopin grinned as Aaslo reached up to wipe blood from his lip. Aaslo nodded with a pointed stare, and Lopin inspected himself to find a small cut across his abdomen. The man looked at him in surprise, then set his stance again as he said, “A tie. Looks like it’ll be second blood, then.”

  With a mental groan, Aaslo raised Mathias’s sword. Lopin was good—very good, but then he’d have to be to have earned his position. Aaslo was already fighting to the best of his abilities. He knew Mathias could have taken the man down with a smile on his face, but he was not sure he could land another strike before Lopin. He needed the sack, though. He couldn’t let them have Mathias.

  Lopin did not hold back. He came at Aaslo in a flurry, and it was all Aaslo could do to defend himself. Cromley had taught them that in a situation like this, he should wait—wait until the other man wore himself out but Lopin did not seem to be slowing. If anything, he was getting faster. Aaslo ducked another swipe at his head and knew Lopin wouldn’t have mourned his passing if it had landed. He began to wonder if the king had put the royal guards up to this. Was this their way of getting rid of him? It seemed a bit extravagant, but perhaps they needed the entertainment.

  Aaslo swiped at the captain’s legs, and Lopin jumped, bringing his sword down with a mighty force as he landed. Aaslo rolled out of the way, then slashed at the man’s exposed side. Lopin twisted, avoiding the attack. He was as agile as Mathias, and Aaslo remembered that Mathias had still beat him two out of three matches. He had often wondered if Mathias had let him win those but had dismissed the notion due to his friend’s competitive streak.

  Lopin knocked Aaslo away when he stepped into the man’s guard. As Aaslo fell, he caught a motion in the tower window. He had not expected the audience, and it was a momentary distraction that cost him. He pulled his head to the side just as Lopin’s blade struck the dirt. He grabbed the man’s arm and used his feet to hook Lopin’s legs, dragging him to the ground as well. Aaslo rolled atop the captain of the royal guard and punched him squarely in the face. Rough hands grabbed Aaslo from behind, and then he was struck hard in the head.

  He blinked up at the cloudless blue sky. His vision swam, and his stomach churned as it began to clear. Lopin crouched over him, his crooked nose dripping blood. He flicked Aaslo’s ear, which burned like fire.

  Lopin said, “I got you first,” then spat a glob of bloody phlegm to the side. “It was a good fight, though. Most of my men could not have lasted as long. You’ll have to settle for second best.”

  Aaslo shook his head and mumbled, “I’ll never settle for second.” He wasn’t even sure why he had said it.

  Lopin glanced up to the tower. He said, “Perhaps you wouldn’t have, if not for the distraction. I can’t say as I blame you.” As the captain stood, he dropped the burlap sack onto Aaslo’s abdomen, forcing the air from his lungs.

  Aaslo pulled himself to a seated position. His head spun as he squinted at the retreating figures. There were twice as many as he remembered. Then two Brontuses filled his view. He blinked and stared at the men until the two manservants became one. Brontus helped him to his feet, and Aaslo leaned heavily on the man until he could focus. Then the manservant helped him dress.

  “Did you know they were going to do that?” Aaslo said.

  “He probably thought they’d do you in.”

  “No, sir, not as much. The royal guard doesn’t tell their business to the likes of me. It was impressive, though. I think they approve.”

  “Approve? They tried to kill me.”

  “I’m no soldier, but I’d say they were testing you. You got your bag back, didn’t you?”

  Aaslo licked his split lip. “I guess so. How much of my ear did he get? I’m afraid to check.”

  “It’s nothing, Sir Forester. Just a clip, barely noticeable behind your hair. I’m afraid you’ll need another bath, though.” Aaslo sighed. Two baths in one night. How had his life come to this? “You got distracted for a moment,” said Brontus. “What was it?”

  “I’m not sure,” said Aaslo. “I saw someone in the tower watching.”

  “Many people were watching. I don’t see how that made a difference.”

  “It was the queen.”

  * * *

  Myropa was pleased. She had been concerned when the guards had tossed the forester onto the practice field. She could feel something pulling her there, so she knew someone was about to die. She had thought for certain it would be he, but then he walked away with a few minor cuts. The feeling was still strong, though, and it seemed to follow him, so she did as well.

  Aaslo, and then Myropa, rounded the bailey wall, and she shrieked. The vight jumped in startlement. It hissed at her as it quickly thrust its talons toward a man just as Aaslo was passing him. It was the captain of the royal guard, and he was alone at the moment. Myropa slapped her hands together and whipped them apart, releasing a streak of light. Her attack had been sloppy in her haste, but it succeeded in knocking the creature back a few paces before his strike could land. She advanced on the vight, shouting as she prepared another attack. “By the power of the Fates, I cast you into the Alterworld!”

  The vight dodged a ball of light and lunged, swiping at her. Its claws passed through her insubstantial form. It could not touch her here, for she was not truly in this world. She formed a glowing ball in her palms and then smashed it into his face. The tendrils of light wrapped around him; then he was sucked into another realm. Myropa would have been breathing heavily if she had needed breath. She hurried after the forester. She could guess at what would have happened if the vight had succeeded. Everyone would have thought Aaslo had killed the captain, and he would hang after an arduous torture. Had the forester garnered Axus’s attention, or had it been coincidence? How many vights had Axus planted in this world? It was not an easy task, and it took a great amount of power to fully transport beings across the realms, especially those who did not belong.

  She needed to report to Trostili. Glancing once more at the forester, she exhaled, releasing the breath of life that had been lent to her, and crossed over the veil. When she arrived in Celestria, she was not in the fifth palace. Her slippers brushed the manicured lawn as she followed the natural pull toward the god she served. She knew exactly where Trostili was, even though she had never been to this place. He was always there, wrapped around her soul until he finally released her.

  Myropa took a well-worn path that meandered in the shade of the tallest trees she had ever seen. Their trunks were rough with rusty bark that peeled away in furry tufts, and their dark green boughs were so high, a skilled climber might take a half day to reach them. Aaslo would love this forest, she thought to herself. She missed a step, nearly
tripping into a fern. As she recovered, she tried not to think about the forester or the reason for the errant thought. Her frozen nerves were a jitter as she realized that one part of her wanted to return to Aaslo immediately, while another wanted to never think of him again.

  The path ended at a shore dotted with grey cobbles surrounding a pond that appeared black in the shade. On the other side of the pond were steps carved from white rock that led into the water. At the top of the steps was a small wooden temple that looked to be as old as the trees between which it was nestled. Myropa skirted the pond to where it narrowed before spilling into a creek. It was dammed behind a structure that looked to have been made by an animal rather than a person. Across the top were larger stepping-stones that barely peeked above the waterline.

  As she stepped over the stones, set a bit too far apart for her comfort, she watched her feet carefully. When she was halfway across, she spied something out of the corner of her eye. She turned to look and nearly fell into the water. The face of a very large male was staring up at her from beneath the surface. He grinned, as if laughing at her, then slipped away in a giant watery streak. Myropa did not see the figure again as she approached the temple and ascended the stairs. Just as her foot touched the top step, a voice rumbled in her ear.

  “What brings you to my temple?”

  Myropa jumped and spun to face the god. Her heel struck the step, and she dropped onto her rear. Although he was standing several steps below her, she still had to crane her neck up to see his face. He stood there, towering over her. His taut muscles were slick with water, and a glorious grin graced a ruggedly handsome face as he reached for her. He pulled her from the ground and settled her on her feet as if she weighed no more than a feather. He said, “You’re a pretty little reaper. Does your god give you the attention you deserve?”

  His smile was inviting, and his tone suggestive. She was momentarily glad her body no longer held enough warmth to cause her cheeks to flush when she spied the evidence of his interest. She realized, though, that she felt none of his godly influence, and the glow of his power did not extend beyond the surface of his flesh. The fact that he was capable of keeping it so well in check meant that he was one very old god.