The Twin Princes

by J. M. Topp

  ‘Why are you telling me this?’

  ‘Who else would listen? There need be no rhyme or reason, should there be?’ asked Guiomar, putting his pipe in his belt. ‘I wish I’d had the will to keep my word.’

  Guiomar put the back of his head on the cell door, and before Elymiah knew it, she could hear a soft snore echo through the dungeon.

  ‘Some watchdog he is,’ she said. Then her eyes caught movement in the shadows of the hall.

  Theodric stood with hands folded over his chest, a white bandage on his nose. Elymiah didn't know how long he had been standing there.

  ‘You broke my nose.’

  ‘You punched me,’ she snapped.

  Theodric laughed. ‘I think I like you.’

  ‘Charming. Is this the way you have a go at women?’

  ‘I don’t like you like that, trust me.’ Theodric sniffed. ‘You really should reconsider training with the castellan. He may be tough, but he is the best instructor ever to be named Castellan of Karagh Muín.’

  Elymiah bit her lip and shifted to better look at Theodric. ‘You don’t understand. None of you do.’

  ‘Then help us, Elymiah. I heard of what happened to you. I can see it even now. You have very little will left. That’s what saddens me. Look, I know you probably don’t trust me, and the likelihood of being on more friendly terms has long passed, but if I were to offer any advice to you, it would be that anything has to be better than rotting in this place.’

  ‘If I accept, I will be let out of this place?’

  ‘You need only say the word.’

  Elymiah thought for a moment. The longer she stayed in the darkness of that cell, the more chance she had of losing all remaining sanity. The echoes and whispers of dark and poisonous memories would soon claim her.

  She finally nodded.

  ‘I am relieved,' said Theodric as he pulled a key from Guiomar’s belt and unlocked the cell. The jailer snored even louder, not even noticing the creaking of the rusty metal.

  ‘Come, before we disturb Guiomar from his sleep.’

  CASTELLAN ZIGNUMERAND KAATHE stared blankly at Elymiah. She had been standing before him in silence for an hour, garbed in the school’s combat gear and dark green colours. The clothes that Theodric had brought her were tight fitting but still comfortable to wear. The steel pauldrons, bracers, and chestplate were comfortably woven into the double-studded leather. The master-crafted armour impressed Elymiah.

  The training grounds were devoid of all other acolytes and masters. A few acolytes were sitting at the edge of the grounds, but they only stared at Elymiah. Only Zignumerand and Elymiah stood in the large courtyard. Lanterns and glowing reeds in the corners and walls of the long room provided illumination. Elymiah hadn’t noticed before, but she couldn’t see the ceiling of the Initiate Grounds as clouds of mist lingered in the air above her head. Water trickled down sporadically over the grounds and occasionally landed on her clothes. She ignored the mist and stared right back at Zignumerand. She wouldn’t show she was the least bit annoyed in front of him.

  ‘Miss Farnesse, welcome to your first day of training,’ he said finally, almost startling her. Elymiah nodded but stood silent and still. Her eyes caught movement behind the castellan. She noticed Theodric at one end of the grounds, leaning beside a tree and staring at them. He flashed a smile and tossed some seeds into his mouth, chewing slowly. Elymiah turned back to the castellan.

  ‘What are your proficiencies?’ he asked, rubbing his eyebrows together.

  ‘I am an expert in the use of a halberd and spear primarily, then sword and shield.’

  ‘What about the bow and arrow?’

  Elymiah raised an eyebrow. ‘I am not very well trained in archery, castellan. My specialities were—’

  ‘Yes, you’ve already listed them.’ Zignumerand waved his hand in the air. He rolled his eyes and put his hands behind his back, puffing out his chest. ‘The Veledred are more akin to assassins than knights, Miss Farnesse. We plan, plot, and lastly, kill, but only after the death of our target is certain. We do not charge, scream, or blindly hack at our enemy like brutes. If you are to stay here, you will learn our ways. Your father has been very vocal about some of your accomplishments. I want to see them for myself.’

  Elymiah nodded silently.

  ‘You will acknowledge what I say.’

  Elymiah bit her lip but finally nodded. ‘Yes, Castellan.’

  ‘Good,’ said Zignumerand. He untied his long red robe and produced two steel swords from his hips. He tossed one to Elymiah.

  She caught the sword in the air and inspected the blade. It was sharp. Her eyes darted to Zignumerand. ‘Do you intend to kill me, Castellan?’

  ‘I intend to test your skills to the utmost capacity.’ He lunged at her. Elymiah blocked the strike downward and took a step back. His final lunge caught her off guard, but she shook the surprise from her shoulder to avoid losing a limb. She gritted her teeth and took a defensive stance, placing her left foot behind her right. She put her index finger in the middle bevel of the blade and traced her hand down to the hilt.

  ‘Ah, the sparring techniques of the Aivaterrans. So refined, yet so…rudimentary.’ Zignumerand laughed. ‘I do pray your time spent in the dungeon didn’t rust your sword arm.’

  Elymiah snorted. Ever since Zignumerand had confined her to the dungeons, she’d had very little sleep. She had only been allowed four hours of sleep before she was summoned to the Training Grounds. It would be the first time she had been allowed to grip a sword since receiving the beautiful weapon from Artus. Elymiah assumed that Zignumerand had taken it for himself, but she dared not forego her pride to ask.

  She twirled the sword in her hand and half-crouched, keeping her centre of balance close to the ground. Zignumerand studied the stance and began to circle her. Elymiah turned the sword in her hand and swung it over her head in a glistening arc at Zignumerand. The castellan blocked the weapon, but she had been counting on that. Using the momentum from the impact of the block, Elymiah measured and swung her sword to strike down at his legs. He leapt with incredible agility and kicked the blade out of her hands and into the air. The sword dropped into the grass of the training grounds.

  Zignumerand put the tip of his blade to her neck. Elymiah struck the flat of the blade with her elbow and rolled to her sword, grabbing it by the hilt. She heard the swoosh of a blade cutting air and instinctively brought her sword over her head. Sparks shot from the impact of steel against steel. The blow could have cut deep into her flesh. Elymiah bit her lip and tossed the blade away from her. She stood up.

  Without a word, she lunged at Zignumerand, striking at his legs once more. He blocked, but she’d known he would. She swung at his head. He blocked, pivoting to her left. In response, she twirled and lunged at his torso. He blocked, but again, she had known he would. Elymiah took a step back. Zignumerand took advantage of the withdrawal and lunged at her head, sword levelled.

  But she’d known he would. Elymiah ducked and then, with the back of her hand, smacked Zignumerand’s sword above his head. She twirled and stopped her blade mere inches from his neck. It happened in an instant. She didn’t know how she had accomplished that move, as she had never practised it. It had come naturally.

  Elymiah breathed hard. She had beat him. She looked into his eyes, but she wasn't looking at Zignumerand anymore. Hard black eyes stared back at her. She dropped her sword in shock.

  ‘Artus?’

  Artus, dressed as the castellan, smiled. ‘That was a neat trick, Elymiah. I can’t say that is a move known by many knight-captains.’

  Elymiah tripped on her feet and fell onto her back. As if someone had doused a pile of salt with water, Zignumerand’s face changed again. He was back to his usual and ugly self.

  ‘You are a Nyguín. A changeling from the old legends,’ whispered Elymiah.

  Zignumerand’s eyes sparkled as he looked down over her.

  ‘You are sharp, but you could be sharper. Devote yourself to
me and see what I can turn you into,’ he said, holding his hand out to her.

  ‘What about the whole penance thing?’ asked Elymiah.

  ‘Perhaps I misjudged you. Artus told me what happened at the Kingsoul. You were branded. It takes a certain quality to be exiled and still have the strength to hold a sword, let alone wield one,’ said Zignumerand, keeping his hand in front of her.

  Elymiah looked at the gloved hand. She took it, and Zignumerand helped her up.

  ‘This doesn’t mean we are friends, and it doesn’t mean I like you,’ said Zignumerand with a curt frown. ‘You will dine with the initiates in the Hall of Uldvarog, and you will follow my instruction. You will pay dearly if I ever find you drunk on any alcohol again, and that includes Havari. For today, that will be all. Tomorrow will bring its challenges. I expect you to meet them all if you are to remain with us, even if it is for a short time.’

  Elymiah chewed on her lip but didn’t respond with anything other than short nod. Zignumerand gathered his robe and left the Initiate Grounds without another word.

  ELYMIAH SAT ALONE at the end of a long table in the Hall of Uldvarog. Forty or fifty daemon hunters sat at tables interspersed in the long hall. They spoke in hushed tones and rubbed shoulders in their dark green armour. Every once in a while they would glance at Elymiah. She looked down at her plate. A thick soup of oats with pieces of meat floating in it was a stark contrast to the meal she’d had a few days ago with Artus. She wouldn’t complain, however. She knew precisely what Zignumerand wanted. She wasn’t about to give him the satisfaction of a complaint.

  ‘I saw what happened in the training grounds. Excellent footwork.’

  Elymiah looked up at a thin woman with dark red hair. She sported leather armour just like Elymiah did. The woman smiled wide and sat down in front of Elymiah.

  ‘My name is Amelinne. Is it true you are a knight-captain from Aivaterra?’

  ‘Yes, I am…was,’ said Elymiah, forcing a smile onto her face.

  ‘Woah,’ Amelinne cooed, staring at her. A rather fat man sat beside Amelinne and gave just as pleasant of a smile as she did. His armour fit oddly, and it seemed to have been made for a man three times smaller than he. It wouldn’t protect much in a scuffle. Elymiah frowned at him.

  ‘Tsoryg is my name,’ he said, shoving his large hand in Elymiah’s face. Amelinne quickly grabbed Tsoryg’s hand and pulled it away from Elymiah.

  ‘You can’t just offer your hand. You do realise who you are talking to, don't you?’ snapped Amelinne, brushing a loose strand of red hair from her face. ‘This is Elymiah Artus Farnesse. Not only the commandant’s daughter, but she also can use magic. Rumours of when Artus found you have been circulating the mountain. We all heard of how you killed that fel-wraith.’

  Tsoryg’s eyes widened, and he turned red. Elymiah shook her head as her face reddened even more than Tsoryg’s.

  ‘It’s not like that,’ said Elymiah. ‘I don’t know how I did it. I can’t even come up with an explanation.’

  ‘If you join our ranks, imagine what the Veledred would become,’ said Tsoryg in a deep voice, smiling at Elymiah.

  ‘I…I don’t think that’s going to happen. Once my father returns from Saltkire Hold, I—’

  ‘You cannot leave; you just got here,’ protested Tsoryg. Amelinne laughed nervously and covered his face with her hand.

  ‘Shut up, dear. You’re embarrassing us,’ she said with a smile as wide as Tsoryg’s. Amelinne cleared her throat. ‘What he means is, we could learn a lot from you. The trials Aivaterran knight-captains go through are legendary.’

  Elymiah stared at the plate of oats before her. She didn’t know how to answer those questions. Amelinne cleared her throat again and put her hand on Elymiah’s.

  ‘You are a friend to us, Elymiah. And despite the welcome you were given, we all look up to you.’ Elymiah turned her head to see that the other Veledred in the hall were staring at her.

  ‘With your help, we can build the Veledred up again,’ said Amelinne.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘What?’ Amelinne paused, raising an eyebrow at her.

  Elymiah shrugged and looked down at the plate of food before her. ‘What point is there? You haven’t seen it as I have. Daemons. The Fog. There is no way any of us will survive.’

  ‘You did.’

  ‘Not only that,’ said Tsoryg, ‘but each man who takes the oath as a Veledred is worth ten men.’

  ‘Each Veledred woman, twenty,’ said Amelinne with a short chuckle.

  A shadow grew over Elymiah, and Amelinne and Tsoryg both cowered. Elymiah looked up at Theodric, who was holding a plate of gruel. Amelinne stood up and helped Tsoryg stand. They walked back to their seats beside the other Veledred.

  ‘An odd sight. A sparrow among wolves.’ Theodric snickered. ‘May I sit?’

  ‘No,’ Elymiah said.

  Theodric sat down anyway and set his plate before him. He dipped his spoon into it and put it into his mouth. ‘Mmmm. Such a tasty meal,’ he said with his mouth full. ‘Fit for a king!’

  Theodric swallowed and eyed Elymiah.

  She looked down at her gruel.

  ‘I feel like I must warn you, sparrow. Tomorrow, Zignumerand will take you and a few of the Veledred to the beaches of the Isle.’ He swallowed hard. ‘A kraken has been spotted that is terrorising merchants that come through the straits. It needs to die.’

  ‘So he is trying to kill me.’

  ‘I wouldn’t card him off so easily,’ said Theodric, shaking his head. ‘He is a smart man. Smartest man I know. But I don’t see how giving you this task could hurt, too much.’

  He pulled a small kunai blade from his belt. ‘The bloodrune carved into this knife will make the blade speed through even the strongest material for a short time,’ said Theodric.

  ‘How does it work?’ asked Elymiah.

  ‘It’s a bloodrune,’ said Theodric. ‘Use your imagination.’ He downed the contents of his plate and stood up, wiping sludge from his lower lip. ‘You will know when the time comes. You have a knack for using runes from what I hear. And if not, you will meet your death, just like countless acolytes before you.’

  Theodric walked away with a chuckle.

  The Kouffyngtooth

  EYMEG PUT HIS nose in the air and sniffed deeply. His nose caught no smell, except the scent of the Greenwood River to the east. Something foul was in the air, making the wind dry and noxious, causing his throat to wheeze. The moon rose slowly in the sky, casting a blue light across the Eldervale fields and forests. He sniffed the air again and snorted. He leaned back on his saddle and gazed at the moon and stars blinking in the sky. They sparkled, reminding him of the nights he’d spent on the road without fear or worry, only tonight there was plenty to fear.

  Tiebalt rode on his painted thoroughbred behind Eymeg, carefully eyeing the road behind him. Without any nostrils, Tiebalt had to rely mainly on his other senses—senses that were honed far above that of any human. Even in pitch black, Eymeg could always count on Tiebalt’s eyes and ears.

  Eymeg glanced at his hand to see that it was shaking uncontrollably. He slapped his other hand on it and squeezed hard.

  ‘It’s getting worse.’ Tiebalt turned to him with a blank stare.

  ‘I know,’ snapped Eymeg, clenching his teeth. ‘Sometimes, I just want to cut this damn thing off.’

  ‘It wouldn’t solve anything—’

  ‘Dammit, Tiebalt, I know.’

  Have you ever fallen in love with a dream?

  Father Sabathiel’s words rushed back into his mind. A wintry wind blew in from the north, biting at his back. Eymeg couldn’t easily shake Father Sabathiel’s dying words from his memory, just like he couldn’t easily stop the shaking in his arm. Before long, the shaking began to subside slowly. Eymeg relaxed. He didn’t know when exactly it had begun. Perhaps it was during the hunt of the Troseaway Bandits. Maybe it had been when the Fog army attacked the Blade Fortress and he’d faced full-grown daemons in their curs
ed splendour—the kind of creatures you never forgot sharing the same air as you. The shakes came and went without warning. Eymeg stared at his fingers as the shaking reduced itself to mere tremors. It was a rare disease, Guiomar, the jailer from Karagh Muín, who had some some experience as a healer, had said. Zignumerand had deduced it to be a condition in the brain. Whatever it was, it wasn’t going away anytime soon. Eymeg tried to push that thought and Father Sabathiel’s words from his mind, but they would not be shaken.

  They rounded a bend in the road that led into vast flat farmlands as far as the eye could see. The Greenwater River rushed quietly beside the road. Eymeg stopped his mount and inspected the field beside him. Rows of uneven, unkempt tall bushes lined the sides of the road that cut into the field. He pulled the reins of his horse, leading it off the narrow path, and Tiebalt followed close behind.

  They made camp by the road—close enough to watch any passersby, but far enough to be easily avoided. Tiebalt unlaced a roll of thick blankets from his horse and spread them out on the grass. Without a word, he lay on it, with his arm under his head, and fell asleep instantly. Sleep was sometimes an impossible commodity for the Veledred. They had learned to treasure the hours of sleep whenever available, but as of late, Eymeg had been struggling to get any rest.

  Crickets and small bugs chirped in the surrounding forest and bushes. Instead of spreading out his blankets on the cold ground, Eymeg simply dropped the wrapped sheets onto the ground and lay down on it. Stars winked at him in the bright sky, beside the moon that seemed too small and far away. Eymeg blinked back at them. They began to change and turn. He held his breath as the stars formed the outline of a woman staring back at him.

  ‘Sahyra?’ he whispered. The sound of his voice startled the stars, and they flashed back to where they had been moments before. Perhaps he was tired.