Stolen Crown

by Shawn Wickersheim

  Denton and Mingo hesitated.

  Josephine turned to Philson. “Do you know this tune?” She hummed a few notes.

  Philson’s oval face lit up. “My father . . . uh, uh . . . used to play that a long time ago.” He pulled out his pipes. “He called it . . . uh, uh . . . ‘Enchanting Nights’.”

  The charging Knights were only yards away. In unison, they raised their swords.

  Denton scowled. “We don’t have time for a concert.”

  Philson ignored the hard-nosed guard and began playing the song Josephine requested. Never had he seen such a beautiful woman and in his younger days he had played in some of the grander courts featuring some of the finest-looking ladies. The dulcet melody flowed out of his pipes and rippled through the air. He may have trouble speaking around Josephine, but his piping was flawless.

  The Knights froze.

  Josephine closed her eyes. The droning inside her head lessened to a steady buzz and in its place, she heard a slightly different tune. A harmony for the song Philson was playing. She cleared her throat and when the bartender finished she softly began humming the new tune. Philson listened to the changes and after a moment, he nodded and began again.

  The Knights sheathed their swords, formed two lines and stood very still.

  “What just happened?” Edgar asked her.

  Josephine shook her head. “I’m not sure. I think . . .” Her brow furrowed. “The magic controlling their functions seemed very familiar to me.”

  “That’s all very interesting,” Denton interrupted, “But we don’t know how long they’ll stay like this, do we?”

  Without waiting for an answer, he and Mingo raced up the hill toward the Central Tower. The rest chased after them with Edgar jogging along beside Josephine.

  “Whose magic is it?” Edgar whispered.

  Josephine glanced warily at the suits of armor. While Philson played, they remained still, but beneath his song, she heard their song playing still. Just two low vibrating notes. Back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth. They were waiting.

  “Jo?” Edgar tugged on her sleeve. “What is it?”

  Before she could answer him, Denton and Mingo reached the Tower door. The fine hairs on her arms rose and she shivered. She’d felt this vibration before.

  “Wait!”

  Mingo turned at her shout, but Denton grabbed the door handle and pulled. A high-pitched whine made them all cringe and grab for their ears. A bright white light flashed inside the Tower, but the door swung open silently on its hinges. Denton wasn’t hurled backwards.

  Nothing more happened.

  Except the Knights were moving. Philson muttered a curse and started playing his pipes again. This time, the tune didn’t stop them. “What . . . uh, uh . . . what should we do now, Josephine?”

  Josephine tried to answer but there were too many conflicting tunes playing inside her head. Something more than the advancing Knights was at work here, but she couldn’t separate out the spells.

  “We gotta find Ragget,” Mingo said. “Once he’s dead, all this nonsense will be over.”

  He stepped inside the Tower.

  A massive stone block crushed him flat and completely sealed the open doorway.

  Chapter 51

  “Hold still, you little bastard!” Straegar shouted.

  He shot another arrow. This one, like the dozen before it, streaked toward Tyran but at the last second, the young boy threw himself to one side and the arrow whizzed past.

  “Sir.” One of his men had returned; the one with the bad breath and the unfortunate name of Suearl. Everyone just called him Sewer. It was easier and for the most part appropriate. “Perhaps if you had a few bowmen all shoot at him at the same time-”

  “Don’t you think I know that, Sewer?” Straegar growled. “I’m having a bit of fun.”

  “Of course, sir. Thank you for pointing that out to me, sir.”

  Straegar took aim and loosed another arrow. This one forced Tyran away from the safety of the wall and before he could return to it, Straegar quickly shot another one. Tyran ducked the second, wobbled, and threw his arms out to try and find his balance.

  “Fall you bastard!” Straegar quick shot at him again.

  The arrow struck the wooden plank beneath Tyran’s feet. The young boy pitched forward and wrapped his arms around the board.

  “You’re afraid of heights, aren’t you boy?”

  Tyran didn’t answer him. His face had gone white.

  Straegar laughed and reached for another arrow. It was his last. Should he go for the kill now or . . . his eyes traveled over the series of ladders and platforms still in place next to the unfinished building . . . or should he climb up there and kill him up close. Watch the life fade from his eyes.

  “How goes the search, Sewer?”

  “It’s early, sir, but so far, we’re finding little resistance, sir.”

  “Talentless Gyunwarians . . .”

  “True sir, but according to a couple of the Yordician students we talked to, it seems as if most of the young foreigners left earlier this morning, sir.”

  Straegar scowled. He took aim on Tyran. “I should have known. They’re nothing but cowards.”

  “Yes, of course, sir. You’re absolutely right, sir.”

  Straegar wondered if Sewer’s bad breath had anything to do with his never-ending ass-kissing.

  “Still, I want all the buildings searched, top to bottom. Every attic and basement too. Tell Bandarue I expect nothing less than his best effort.”

  “Yes, of course, sir.”

  “Actually, on second thought Sewer, I’ll deliver that last message myself.”

  Straegar took aim on the frightened bastard still clinging to the narrow board and loosed his last arrow.

  chapter 52

  The cacophony of melodies inside Josephine’s skull ended as soon as the stone block crushed Mingo. Only one song remained and after a few seconds she hummed the notes and Philson began playing his pipes. The Knights froze in mid-stride.

  “How are you doing that?” Denton asked.

  Josephine shook her head.

  “Come on now, girl . . . Lady Weatherall,” Denton grumbled. “Out with it.”

  “Leave her alone.” Edgar stepped between her and the guard. “She doesn’t answer to you.”

  Denton looked him over. “Three of my men are dead and-”

  “Maybe if your men quit blundering along they’d still be alive,” Edgar said. “Check, then go. Ever hear of it?”

  “You’re going to hear the sound of your face breaking if you don’t get out of my way.”

  “This bickering isn’t getting us anywhere, my friends.” Kylpin craned his neck and stared up at the tower. “With the door blocked, how are we getting up there?”

  Josephine dropped to her knees and rummaged through her pack. She pulled out her climbing gloves and the length of silken rope her father had given her. The gloves hadn’t worked well at the Walpole and in the light of day she saw why. Their magic had faded. Before, the material on the palms had glistened as if wet. Now, they looked like any other old pair of leather gloves. She pulled them on and a faint tune sounded in her head, a scale, eight notes spanning a complete octave. She pursed her lips and whistled. Once she reached the eighth note, she felt a prickling sensation in her hands and the palms of the gloves glistened darkly. A sense of pride surged through her. She’d managed a small bit of magic all on her own.

  She slung the coil of rope over her shoulder and walked around the tower until she reached a point directly beneath the lowest window. It was a good thirty feet above her head.

  “What’cha doing, Jo?” Edgar said, coming up behind her.

  “What does it look like?” She leapt up and slapped a hand against the Tower’s stone wall. The glove held.

  Edgar stared up at her. A sly smile stretched across his face. “C’mon now Jo, do I really have to tell you what it looks like from down here?”

  Josephine rolled her e
yes and shook her head.

  “To say it’s beautiful ain’t enough anymore . . .”

  He rambled on a bit more, but Josephine was concentrating on the smooth-faced stones. Without the gloves, the climb would have been near impossible. It was as if the tower had been built to discourage scaling. With the gloves, she reached the open window with relative ease. She climbed inside and found herself standing on a wide landing with carpeted stairs leading both up and down. A section of the lower stairs had broken loose and had been part of the stone barrier which had crushed Mingo.

  The steady droning inside her head suddenly started pulsing like a giant heartbeat. What did it mean? Had Ragget already opened the gate to hell? Were they too late?

  She hastily tied the rope to the stone banister and threw the other end out to the men waiting below. Edgar came up first, followed by Garett, Denton and Kylpin. Only Philson remained. He continued to play his pipes as he walked over to the rope. He looked up, raised his eyebrows and shook his head.

  “He can’t play and climb at the same time,” Garett said.

  “I just don’t think he can climb a rope,” Kylpin said.

  “He is . . . thinner . . . now,” Garett said.

  The fire mage was right. The once fat bartender was quite slender now. His jowls were gone, and he only had one chin.

  Josephine leaned out the window. “Grab the rope and hang on. We’ll pull you up.”

  Philson eyed the frozen Knights warily. He played a few more notes and then shoved the pipes in his pocket. The Knights jerked to life and marched toward the Tower. Philson grabbed a hold of the rope.

  “Pull!” Josephine urged.

  She and the men heaved on the rope and Philson shot off the ground. Armored fingers grazed his boots. Higher and higher he came. Beneath him, the suits of armor pressed against each other, clambering to reach their target. Some fell, others climbed on top. More fell, more climbed on top. Higher and higher the layers formed as the Knights chased Philson up the side of the Tower.

  “Faster, please!” Philson called out.

  By the time, he reached the window ledge the Knights were only a few feet below him. Kylpin and Denton pulled him inside and seconds later, armored fingers pawed at the sill.

  “Let’s go!” Josephine cried. The drumming heartbeat inside her head beat faster and faster and with each step she took, the pace quickened further. It felt like her skull would eventually split in two.

  The company of six raced up the stairs with Josephine in the lead. Behind them was the familiar crashing noise of metal feet giving chase. Ahead were Lord Ragget and perhaps an open gate to hell. She had no idea how long such a spell would take to cast, but she had a bad feeling they had taken too long getting to this point. There had been too many obstacles for them to overcome, hindrances created, she was afraid, by her father.

  How else could she explain the music in her head? Her father’s magic had always sounded that way to her. She only wished he’d trained her properly before he died. Before he’d had a change of heart.

  Before she’d put a bolt in his chest . . .

  Josephine resolutely shoved her fears, regrets and grief aside. Now was not the time for any of that!

  Lord Ragget’s powerful voice echoed down from above. Josephine couldn’t make out what he was saying, but the authority of his words stirred the drumming inside her head. A sudden shrieking noise like hundreds of screaming violins erupted inside her skull and the strength of it made her lose her step. She stumbled. Edgar was immediately beside her, catching her arm and keeping her from falling. She shot him a grim smile. He only nodded.

  Faster they climbed, racing toward the top. The pressure built inside her skull. Josephine wanted to sing, to scream, to do . . . something . . . anything to make it stop.

  She dashed up the last of the carpeted stairs and raced across the floor toward the open double doors. Remembering Mingo’s folly, she stopped short. Edgar’s advice from long ago returned. Check, then go.

  Beyond lay the throne room, and in part of her mind, she recognized the tremendous beauty of it, its marble floors and gorgeous murals and its panoramic views, but her focus was strictly on Lord Ragget. He stood barefoot in the center of a grassy platform surrounded by cascading bars of water and beneath a tremendous chandelier of fire. A breeze swept in through the open windows behind her, carrying with it the scent of smoke and death.

  During the quiet moments since learning that Lord Ragget was behind all her troubles, she had thought about what she might say should she eventually face him. Blame it on her time spent working in the theater. In all the various scripts she’d read and plenty of the shows she’d seen or been a part of, there was always that climatic scene near the end where the hero faced down the villain and their duel to the death began with the hero making a pithy remark or perhaps issuing a bold warning; basically, it was the point of no return.

  Except Josephine knew that scene to be a false premise now. The point of no return for her was not here, not at the throne room entryway. It wasn’t even when she’d pulled the trigger and ended her father’s life. No, the point of no return had happened back when she’d first decided to investigate the suspicious thumping noise in her father’s keep. She could have ignored it completely and continued reading her book, trusting in her father’s ability to resolve the matter, but instead, she had decided to get involved and she’d been unable to return to normalcy ever since.

  It was also at this point usually when the hero of the stories gave the villains one last chance to see the error of their ways and to allow them a chance to surrender peacefully. The villains never took the heroes up on that chance and instead, the element of surprise was lost to the heroes.

  Josephine had asked Neko Blood about that once.

  “That’s just the way the stories go, Josephine,” Neko had explained. “The hero always has to allow the villain to make the first move. It’s the noble thing to do.”

  Skull thumping music rattled her brain. Adrenaline coursed through her veins. Josephine drew her crossbow, charged into the throne room and drilled Lord Ragget right in the back with a silver stream of bolts. She was an actress, not a writer or some mythic hero and she couldn’t imagine Lord Ragget suddenly seeing the error of his ways!

  He pitched forward, slammed against the podium and nearly lost his balance.

  Nearly.

  Even as more bolts poured into his body, Lord Ragget straightened, laughed and thrust his fists toward the sky.

  Josephine kept firing as she dashed deeper into the room. The air rippled and a strange vibrating hum shook the tower.

  “You’re too late!” Ragget declared.

  Josephine slammed her crossbow home and drew her twin knives. The edges of both already dripped red with blood.

  “Jo don’t!” Edgar warned.

  But she was past listening to warnings. Past worrying about life and death. And long past the point of no return. She’d realized over the last few days there was no return. There was now, and with any luck there was a later, but to get to the later, she had to end things now. There was no need for words. No offers for second chances. Last chances. Lord Ragget had done wrong and she had come not to put things right again, but simply to stop him from putting more things wrong.

  She leapt over the trench of water, interrupting a couple of the thin bars of water. She ignored the cold spray, her eyes locked only on her target. He was only a few feet away.

  She shivered.

  He was only a few feet away.

  An icy chill spread from where the water had touched her.

  He was only a few . . . feet . . . away . . .

  The numbing sensation wormed down into her arms and legs. She was cold, and it was painful but at the same time, she felt utterly drained. She wanted to lie down and sleep, but she couldn’t move. Ragget turned around and for the first time she saw him up close. He was a handsome man with beautiful violet eyes, but his eyes burned with triumph and she wanted to put them o
ut. Again. He stepped closer, his rugged face creasing into a vicious smile. Josephine tried to stab him, wanted to stab him, but she no longer felt her arms, her hands, her fingers, her knives. He pressed his lips against her ear.

  “Welcome to Hell.”

  chapter 53

  Tyran was in hell. He lay face down on the wooden beam, his arms thrown around its thin width, his heart pounding so hard, he could feel it banging through the wood. Sweat soaked his clothes and dripped from the tip of his nose. It pooled beneath his face. He wanted to vomit. His stomach was empty. He hadn’t eaten a thing since yesterday.

  Since his father had been led away.

  The hard memory slammed in front of his eyes. His face reddened. His jaw clenched. He should have done something to stop the guards. To stop all the lies.

  To stop the liars!

  Blood was in his mouth. He was chewing on his bottom lip. With a disgusted snarl, he stopped. That was something his mother . . . NO! His face went hot. That was something the lying Princess did!

  Not him. Not him!

  A sharp stabbing pain tore through his left arm and immediately brought him to the here and now. He tried to jerk his arm away, but it wouldn’t move, and the trying only made the pain worse. A cry escaped his bloody lips.

  Far below, Straegar cursed and tossed his bow aside. “I guess I’m climbing up after you!”

  The way he was hugging the board, Tyran knew he’d never crane his neck far enough to one side to see beneath him without accidentally looking down again. Besides, he had a good idea what had happened and the thought of it made him shiver and the world tilt. He clung to the board and squeezed his eyes closed and tried to slow his rapid breathing. When he felt ready, he slid his right hand over to his left, and starting at his wrist he inched his fingers up his forearm. Halfway to his elbow, he brushed against the arrow shaft sticking out of him. He inhaled sharply and fought to retain control of himself. Just that little nudge had sent a new wave of nauseating pain coursing through him.