"But the wall's just imaginary," said Cynthia. The pony-tailed girl was smacking loudly on some gum as she talked. "What's to keep us from sneaking stuff over anyway?"
Uncle shrugged. "Basically, just the promise that you won't. Princess's honor."
Now he had four deadpan stares ringing the table. "No offense," Shelby said after a moment, "but that just sounds stupid."
"Welcome to adulthood, ladies. Now, moving on..." He had out a laminated map of what was currently being called the moorlands and was placing rocks and things on its grid of spaces. "Helen, Shelby, Cynthia, roll to see how well you can track our runaways."
Ruby, emerald, and goldenrod dice clattered across the table, coming up 13, 16, and 10, respectively. Uncle nodded as he mentally factored in the appropriate bonuses. With a dry erase marker he traced a section of a path. "Well, you know they went that-a-way," he said. "The game is a-foot!"
Gwen and Selvi's horses tore up the heather as they ran. Just ahead of them, Flora and Bianca flew on the magic broomstick. A tiny string of fairy lights dangled from the stick, providing enough light to see a ways ahead. The ranger and the khan's daughter could see in the dark, but that did not mean the rest of them could -- and that included the horses.
The first sign of trouble was when the lights snuffed out. The four of them came to a halt as Bianca finagled the spell back into power, but nothing seemed to work. The witch was about to give up when the area filled with ethereal silver light.
"Ha!" she cried. "I told you I could... huh?" It dawned on her that the lights were not coming from where she'd been calling them. Instead, the princesses were in the center of a wide circle, ringed all around by tiny, wafting spheres of silvery flame. Just outside the circle, dark and broken shapes pulled themselves up out of the ground to form a second, more gruesome barrier.
"Oh, crap." Selvi and Gwen were already reaching for their swords.
"Stay your hands." The voice was echoing and cold. It was also right behind them.
"Wah!" Bianca almost fell off the broom just then, and Jinkies hissed in shock. A figure in twisted, broken armor stood on the moor like it had risen straight up from the ground. Perhaps it had. Its metal was battered and rusted except for the blazon of a rose upon its chest, and its face was completely enclosed in a masked helmet.
"Hear my challenge, mortals," intoned the figure. "And know that I am rather testy tonight. None shall pass here unchallenged, and no shenanigans this time. There's been enough of that already."
"Already?" Gwen's ears perked at that. "Has someone else been through here? Perhaps two young women on horseback?"
"That is not of importance now, though if you should best me, then perhaps I shall say something."
Selvi Khan's-daughter rolled her shoulders and grinned a tusky grin. "Best you, eh? So it's a fight you want."
"A challenge. A duel, fairly fought and witnessed, such as I never had in my life before," said the armor. "One of you shall suffice for all, but be warned; my cohort will deal with those who would interfere." Behind the circle of ghostly fire, the shapes solidified into skeletal soldiers, armed and armored.
"We can think our way out of this," Gwen whispered, but Selvi shook her head.
"This is a challenge, and a point of honor. Hai-ya!" she cried. "I am Selvi Khan's-daughter, of the Clan Dungivadim! I accept your challenge under the Rules of the Khans and the honor of my ancestors! May I have your name?"
"In time," came the answer. "If you have earned it."
"Well then," Selvi said as she drew her scimitar from its bindings. "Shall we get this show started?"
"Yes..." The armor reached down and pulled from the ground a pole with a ragged banner dangling from the end. "This is the standard of my troop. I bore it proudly, even to the day I died." Planting the banner firmly in the ground, the figure reached down again and drew a long blade, a knightly sword whose silvery perfection was completely at odds with the rusty metal gauntlets which now bore it. "And this is the blade Starsinger," the armor announced. "Forged for the dwarves of the far north for my ancestors centuries ago. Does your blade have a name?"
"...Wityula," Selvi said. "It means 'Whistler'. No one's ever asked before."
"Then let the singer salute the whistler, and the whistler return in kind, so that this duel may commence!"
Near the edge of the ghost-fire, Flora sat on the sidelines with the others, staring wide-eyed at the combatants as they circled. Duels were rare in her homeland of Silvalachia, and while her own father had turned out many a sword from his forge, they'd all been utilitarian things, good for the common soldier. These blades were different. They sang and shone in ways that could not be completely explained by the mundanities of wind and light. Though different in shape, both were slashing blades, and the two duelists were quick to step in and out of range to take advantage of an opening. There were no great clashes of blade on blade, and the strange, predatory dance looked nothing like any fight she'd ever seen in a stage play.
A dance... Her fingers itched, and of their own accord began strumming a tune to accompany the action. It was a wild thing, like nothing she'd ever played, and it swirled around the two like a mist. The strings screeched as Selvi slipped and took a hit to a padded shoulder, and sang loudly as the khan's daughter rallied with a terrible blow of her own. With fingers glued to the strings and eyes glued to the fight, she played notes to witness each swing and dodge, each hit and each miss. She hoped she remembered it all afterwards.
Selvi heard the music, though she hardly acknowledged it. Whoever her opponent was, he was a strong fighter and well trained. It had been ages since she'd last had a sparring partner of such caliber, and despite the circumstances, despite the pressure of time upon the moment, she was enjoying herself. The armored figure did not pull any blows, and her shoulder ached furiously from beneath its padding, but neither did she hold back.
The music surrounded her, speeding up as she rushed in, slowing as she pulled back, as much directing her movements as it reacted to them. Selvi could almost feel the fight's conclusion before it even came to be, before her opponent overextended on a swing and she ducked in to strike. A single, forceful blow to the sternum, and the suit of armor lay prone on the ground with its sword a yard distant.
She place her scimitar upon that armored neck. "Do you yield?"
"I wish," came the hollow rattle from deep with the metal. "But I cannot, for that is my curse. Honorable combat, but not honorable retreat. You shall have to slay me now, for I will not cease my attacks otherwise."
"No."
"What?" The question was echoed around the field of honor, from the living and the dead alike.
"You heard me. No, I will not kill you. Not like this, with your weapon gone and you lyin' there helpless," Selvi stated. "That ain't part of the Code or the Rules. If we'd entered this fight as sworn enemies, it'd be different, but this is a formal challenge, and killin' you this way ain't honorable." The khan's daughter withdrew her blade and stepped back. "So get up, and let's finish this the right way."
"Selvi, are you crazy?" Gwen called. "We don't have time!"
"Always time for honor, pointy-ears." Selvi nodded as the armored figure stood. "Whenever you're ready."
"In a moment..." The figure waved a gauntleted hand, and the skeletal warriors surrounding the field faded away into the shadows. "Whatever the outcome, I would act honorably by you, as you would by me. The young ladies you seek fled in that direction," it said, pointing. "Less than an hour ago, perhaps. They cannot have gone too far hence, even if they can avoid the other haunts which plague this bloodied battleground. You shall find them soon enough."
"Ah, thank you," said Gwen.
"It is the least I can do," said the figure. "And now, I should introduce myself properly..." Two heavy gauntlets took hold of the helmet, breaking through the layers of rusty metal with a dull crunch and pulling it away. A spectral head appeared, almost solid except for when it moved, and then the barest hint of a skull cou
ld be seen. At rest, the face was milky pale, with a dark spattering of freckles, a snubbed nose curving up to shining green eyes, and close-cropped hair the color of a bonfire.
"My name," said the specter as she picked up her sword, "which I now freely give to you all, is Rosina Garlinda Tatannus, third daughter of the Rose Throne of Baragoccia and unfortunate casualty of its final war."
"Any relation to Rosalind?" Bianca asked before anyone could think to put a hand over her mouth.
"Perhaps? I had an Aunt Rosalind, and a great-grandmother, and perhaps a niece or two by that name as well. Royal tradition," Rosina explained. Without the helmet, her voice sounded far closer to normal, though it still had a wavering echo to it. "Most women in my family had names that were a variation on rose. Why do you ask?"
"No reason!" Flora and Gwen shouted in unison, their fingers firmly engaged around the little witch's face.
Selvi rolled her shoulder some more to get the kinks out. There was certainly a masterful bruise already formed under the padding, and it was going to ache something awful in the morning. For the khan's daughter, that just meant she would have to get back to the action right now. "So, we gonna get started on round two?" she called to her opponent.
"Verily," replied Rosina as she brought her sword up for a salute. The scimitar sometimes known as Whistler rose up to return the gesture. Dark orcish eyes met ethereal green, and with a shared look the duel began anew.
Whistler had some advantages over Starsinger, Selvi knew. Just by looking at Rosina's sword, she could see that its longer range also meant that it had an area closer in, a strike zone where it couldn't possibly hit as hard. Selvi's scimitar, curved and angled the way it was, fared far better at that distance. It was simply a matter of getting in.
Rosina slashed wide and high, with enough power to take a head off if a princess were too careless. Selvi wasn't, and ducked in to exploit the opening. Her eyes were up front, however, and not on top of her head, else she'd have seen the blade arc up and around, only to return straight down and pommel first. The rounded end of the hilt was not sharpened or pointed at all, but it hit between the shoulder blades with enough force to send her to the ground.
A pair of dice should not have been able to hold the attention the way these did, but every eye around the table was locked upon them. The ghostly knight Rosina's clear twenty-sider had just rolled a 20, and by now everyone had enough game experience to know that big things happened with a natural 20. All that was left was for Uncle to confirm the critical hit and describe what happened to Selvi. At this point in the fight, it was likely to be painful, if not fatal.
Shelby wasn't about to let that happen to her princess. "Hold it!" she said, pulling out one of her laminated Hero Cards. She slapped it down on the table with the pizza-and-swords emblem face up. "Not sure what all I can do with this, but I bet it's worth a try."
"Gonna force a re-roll, huh?" Uncle nodded. "Good timing. Okay, we're going to see how this goes. Whatever comes up, we have to stick with, understood?" At the girl's nod, he picked up the clean die and sent it flying across the blue-checked table once more. It rolled and rattled and finally, with much bated breath from the girls around the table, settled on 10. "Alright," said Uncle as he checked the sticky note for the current tally of bonuses and penalties in play. "While a ten is usually considered just good enough, it's not enough to hit Selvi. However, since Rosina's committed to the attack, she's left herself open again. Shelby, roll to see what your princess makes of this opportunity."
Shelby grabbed her ruby twenty-sider and steeled herself, with her tongue stuck out the side of her mouth like a pitcher winding up for a knuckleball. The die flew from her fingertips, careening across the field map like a baleful comet. It smashed through defenses and toppled more than one game piece, finally ricocheting off a notebook and coming to a full stop against the unmovable objectivity of Uncle's game-master screen. The topmost face showed two small digits: 20.
"Yes!" The dark-haired girl punched the air triumphantly as the others cheered her on.
"A truly heroic upset, yes," Uncle agreed. "So here's how it plays out..."
Selvi rolled to the side instantly, more through luck and intuition than any plan, so the Starsinger missed her as it came down once again, this time pointy end first. There was a space on the blade, she could see in that moment, where the edges were not sharpened, and instead could be used as a second handhold. Rosina was doing just that, using the extra grip to drive the sword down ever harder.
The longsword's blade sank into the ground almost to the haft, so forceful was the thrust, and for a bare second Rosina could not pull it back out. Her spectral face flushed with effort more imagined than realistic, for there was no blood left in her head. When Selvi's whispering blade snaked out, hooking under the rose princess's head and removing it from her shoulders, there wasn't the slightest drop spilt.
Rosina's head flew up high into the air, only to land with a light thump a short ways away. Phantasmal tears streaked down the image of her face, and her mouth formed the words "Thank you" as her body faded into mist. A moment later, there was only an aged, broken skull lying on the field next to a rusted heap of metal that might once have been armor.
The sword Starsinger was still stuck in the ground. Selvi carefully pulled it free, inch by steely inch. With a blade in each hand, she stood over Rosina's armor and gave a roaring bellow, shouting out to the night that a proud warrior had passed on in the proper fashion -- with honor in combat. Against her chest, her dragonbone talisman glowed briefly, its runes spelling out new combinations as each glimmered in turn.
Selvi was used to it acting up by now; she paid it hardly any mind. She retrieved Rosina's banner, turned to her friends, sitting where the ghost-fire had been, and nodded. It was time to get their little moon-bunny back.
Uncle nodded as he looked around the reassembled group of girls before him. The red-checked table felt a bit crowded at the moment, if only because of the egos, emotions, and dagger-like glares flying all about. For her part, Natalie was an immovable mass of self-confidence and blissful ignorance towards all the grumbling she'd caused. He'd made extra sure that she and Shelby remained as far apart across the table as possible, and even so he was concerned.
"Everyone full up on pizza and soda?" he asked.
"A to the OK there!" Natalie yelled happily. A short burp followed. Her three large cups were conspicuously empty, and the girl had a jittery smile plastered on her face.
"Let's just get this mess finished," grumbled Shelby.
"How're we gonna play this?" asked Cynthia. "Jump to the conclusion or somethin'?
"Or something," Uncle said. He pulled a stack of small index cards from his bag and laid them out in a long row. On the first card, he placed a black chess knight, and on the third he added a white knight. "Isabel and Cassandrella start a bit ahead of you. If they reach the end of this row, then they've made it to their safe zone. Some cards have an obstacle or lucky event written on the underside. We'll ignore the ones you're on now, and continue from there. Natalie, you're up first. Roll a d6, please."
"A what?"
He sighed. "A six-sided die," he reminded her.
"Oh yeah!" A little grey cube rattled around, finishing with six dots on top. "Awright!" she said as she moved the white knight forward. She flipped the card over and read: "Caught in nasty brambles. Skip a turn. Aw, nuts."
"You're still way ahead," Uncle said. "Team 2?"
Shelby scowled as she rolled, but her mood lightened a bit when her die also came up with six dots. The card's underside was blank, so she rolled again. Only one dot showed that time, and the scowl was back full-force.
"Another blank," Uncle confirmed as she turned over the card. "Okay, Natalie, you're up again."
This time, the paladin's team rolled a four, and their card was even better. "Woohoo!" Natalie crowed at the sight of the word 'shortcut' and moved her piece another space to a blank card.
The pursuers rolled
a three, then groaned in unison as their next card was revealed: the picture of a group of armed skeletons, waving their swords in the air.
"Sorry, ladies," said Uncle. "Better finish them off fast. For every two full rounds this battle takes, that's another roll Natalie gets."
There was a dark and mean flame burning in Shelby's eyes. "Don't worry," she said. "This ain't gonna take long."
Gwen was hardly surprised at all when a squad of skeletal soldiers materialized along their path. The way the night had been going so far, it could almost have been expected. Her sword was out and ready but, as it turned out, unnecessary. Selvi roared through the mob, spurring on her horse as she held the Whistler in one hand and the Starsinger in the other. Not a single skull remained connected to its neck in the wake of her passage.
"You realize that was your last Hero Card for a while, right?" Uncle asked.
The curly-haired girl shrugged. "Things were meant to be used, right? And that was so worth it!"
"It was awesome!" shouted Helen. Around the table, everyone nodded in agreement, even Natalie.
"Well, as it turns out, you've only been delayed by one round. Natalie? Claire? You've got only seven spaces to go. Ready?"
"Yeah!" said Natalie. Claire just nodded hesitantly, and cringed a bit from the looks which the others sent her way. The metallic grey die rolled, coming up with a single dot on top. "Phooey!" Natalie concluded.
The obstacle card was flipped over, and everyone stared at it for a moment. The words BIG BATTLE! appeared in multiple colors of neon ink with gold highlights, surrounded by jagged lines, starbursts, and crossed swords. The combination hurt the eyes just to look at it.
"Um, a friend drew these up for a game a few years ago." Uncle found himself apologizing in spite of himself. "Her sense of style back then left something to be desired."
Princesses Don't Play Nice Page 4
