Of Gods and Dragons
Page 12
“You want answers to your questions? Then perhaps you could enlighten me with answers as well: What’s that stone you wear about your neck? What magic does it do? What does it stand for?”
What sort of question was that? Why would she care about his stone? He recalled something Zander had told him and the owners of the brothers of his stone, but he did not know why it came to him just then: But do not take these off if you can help it. Falling into the wrong hands could get us all killed. A warning bell seemed to go off in his mind. He sensed that this beautiful woman was very, very dangerous, and he wanted to be away from her.
“Silly questions from a silly girl. Be gone with you! Go find another husband—there would be men dying for a chance alone with you. I’ve got to find my queen.” He kicked his heels into his horse’s sides and sprang forward to regain his search. But he could still hear Natosha’s last words.
“I will find out, King Keelan. I do not give up anything so easily as you might think.”
Chapter Nine: The Dead Queen Falls
Sir Grant rode back into battle, heading for the first creature he saw. He beheaded one and stuck a dagger in the forehead of another.
“Fight! Fight for your Queen!” he cried. “Rid yourselves of these beasts! There are more of you by far!” Another of the hideous beings went down by way of a savage kick from his boot. “Do not flee! Remember your training! Fight for your Queen!”
Others began to chant, “Fight for our Queen!” and everyone who was physically able began to stand their ground and fight harder. He saw a boy no older than sixteen turn about and gouge the eyes out of one of the beasts before sticking a knife in its gut. In the distance he saw men on magnificent horses riding into battle and he wondered if he might be seeing things.
The men and women fought bravely, and soon the beasts’ numbers were down to mere dozens that were quickly being hunted down. It was time to start moving people to the Healing Spring of Aldoa. He gathered two dozen and sent them up the mountain pass, giving them directions to the Healing Spring. He bade them to carry those who were badly injured and said that even if they were not hurt to get into the water anyway. Many were already breaking out in horrible boils and such or were walking about aimlessly with a faraway look in their eyes. How many would die of this sickness before they could get to the Healing Spring?
Sir Grant had dismounted to wipe his sword blade on the grass, and then he pointed it at a creature who had stumbled nearby. The creature charged but before he could attack a great horse rode between them and the rider slashed his sword across the beast’s chest and stomach. When the rider turned to face him Grant’s jaw dropped. He gave a quick bow and said, “Your Majesty, your presence is most welcome. What brings you here?”
Keelan smiled grimly. “I thought you may need some help.”
“Aye, that we do,” Sir Grant admitted.
“Have you seen my queen? I have searched for her but to no avail. Where is she?”
The older man’s face turned solemn. “She rode with Prince Dalton to rescue your brother, my Lord.”
“Quentin?” The King became alarmed. “Who took him? Which way did they go?”
“Up the mountain pass, Your Highness. She bid me to stay here and help your people to the Healing Spring of Aldoa.”
“The prince had better hope nothing happens to my wife, or he shall not live to be King of Wexford,” Keelan muttered, and dug his heels into his horse.
They could see a small encampment of no more than a dozen men and her wagon was sitting to one side. A tall woman who wore her hair in a bun was emerging from the wagon, which was only feet away from the hidden rescuers.
“Wait here,” Prince Dalton whispered. As soon as the tall woman turned her head he snuck off through the trees, silent as a mouse. Minutes later she could just barely see him on the other side of the camp, sneaking through the forest. He grabbed a lone man from behind, breaking his neck with a simple twist of his hands and catching him before he fell. He dragged the body quietly away. Twice more he did this, unseen and unheard. Silvia noticed the woman, dressed in dull gray, begin looking around suspiciously. Then she turned about and darted back through the cloth at the back of the wagon. The surviving soldiers belonging to the mystery woman had started to bring limbs and brush from the surrounding area and piling it near the wagon.
The Queen of Lystia frowned and muttered, “I tire of waiting.” She slipped out the dagger from her belt, the one Keelan had given to her, and went towards the wagon. She was careful to wait until the soldiers had wandered out of sight before she moved. She got to the wagon, looked about quickly, and lifted the cloth to slide inside.
But when she saw the tall woman with Quentin she froze. The woman was looking directly at her while holding a wicked blade to his throat. Silvia looked at him almost in wonder, but mostly with sadness, for his eyes showed no trace of fear or apprehension. She wondered if he even knew what was happening.
“Who are you?” the woman said calmly.
Silvia composed herself, standing straight and proud. “Who do you think I am?” she replied tartly.
The lady peered at her as if trying to figure this out. Then her eyes widened in sudden realization, though her knife never left Quentin’s neck. “You? You are the so-called Dead Queen? Why, you’re nothing more than a child!” She laughed, then turned head and spat on the floor as if something had soured her mouth. “Go home, little imp, and let yourself be conquered. I have no time for childish games from a fool girl.”
“Oh, I believe that is a wonderful idea,” Silvia said in the sweetest, most innocent voice she could muster. “I would love to go home and I will…as soon as all the witches of Rohedon are dead.”
“You will find that no small feat,” the woman hissed. “Three more of my husband’s wives await you, little girl. What under the Dark Moon makes you think you even have a chance at winning?”
Silvia noted how the last wife was not mentioned whatsoever. Could she possibly be the woman who had sent her the vision of the Healing Spring, pleading for help? “What makes you think I don’t?”
A hateful look crossed the woman’s face. “I am Zela of Rohedon’s Realm, third wife to the deceased Lord Rohedon and the plotter of all his greatness. You will not make it—you cannot!” Zela could not help but to smile fiercely. So her plan had worked, although a little differently than she had imagined. The army could still be divided and conquered. She was quiet sure from the yelling and screaming she heard in the distance that the quipas were doing an excellent job at that. And now that she had the young Queen in her grasp, she would be able to split the army even more.
The younger woman flared up to her full height, chest out, chin up. “I am Silvia, Queen of Lystia, wife of King Keelan of Lystia, conqueror of Lord Rohedon and his bride Rosenda, leader of the free people who seek glory, and I will conquer you!” She threw her dagger at Zela’s face with all her might.
Zela caught it in her free hand, the blade inches from her skin; she hadn’t even blinked. “The deepest bowels of Eerich’s hell await you, child,” she said, satisfied at the look of shock on the girl’s face.
“Then let’s not keep Eerich waiting,” a voice rasped.
Silvia threw her eyes to Quentin, astounded to see his eyes focused on the woman beside him. His hand was upon the wrist which held the knife to his throat. Zela’s eyes now had a distant look in them, and she dropped both weapons. Quentin took the knife she dropped onto his neck, wincing as it cut him, and stabbed her in the stomach. She made no sounds as she fell to the floor, bleeding to death.
“Quentin! Are you—“
Silvia was cut off in surprise. She looked down to see that her dark green dress had a dark red stain spreading on it. As she collapsed to the floor, the sword slipped out of her stomach. The man holding it smiled as he wiped the blood from the blade onto her dress and sheathed it. He left quietly, darting out of the wagon and didn’t make a sound as Prince Dalton’s sword went through his heart.
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“I thought you’d sneak in here,” Dalton said as he climbed inside. “I don’t know where that woman went but that guy was the last of them, milady.” He stopped short when he saw her on the floor in a pool of blood. Tears ran down his cheeks as he knelt down beside her, his black hair falling in his face. “Oh no,” he whispered. “No, Silvia!”
She opened her eyes and smiled faintly. “My people…and Quentin…are safe now.”
He glanced up to see her brother-in-law straining to reach Silvia with an outstretched hand, tears in his eyes as well. “Silvia, we have to get you to that spring,” the Prince said. “I will not have you die on me!”
“Won’t leave…Quentin,” she muttered before closing her eyes.
Dalton looked on top of the makeshift bed with a look of deadly determination. “So be it.”
Both of the horses had collapsed of overexertion; neither would have been able to pull the wagon back down the mountain, much less stand up. They were looking Death in the eye. The prince unhooked them and then dragged the woman’s body out of the wagon so the wagon wouldn’t be so heavy. He tied the harnesses from the horses on each wooden rail that extended from the front of the wagon and carefully wrapped each around his hands with a little slack. Then he picked up the hitching slat which ran between the horses to keep them from colliding and began to turn the wagon around in the clearing. It was much heavier than he thought, even though he had lightened it up as much as possible. He eventually made it to the foliage cover he had discovered while killing the sentries, but instead of stopping to move it he just charged on through it. The branches and thorns tore his face badly and snagged a wound on his left arm where one of the men had put up a short fight. After several minutes of heaving and pulling he made it to the path, his muscles straining all over his body and sweat pouring out of his skin. He started down the pass as fast as he could manage. He stumbled once and fell down, the wagon nearly running him over before he could regain his feet. But he would not stop.
He wondered how long it had been since Silvia was stabbed—five minutes probably. He prayed to all gods listening to let her live long enough to get to the Healing Spring.
“If she dies before I reach the spring,” he panted, “I vow I shall take my life to join her.”
He went on for another ten minutes before exhaustion really set in. His muscles ached so terribly that he was barely moving forward. In the distance he could hear the din of the army, but was too short of breath to call for aid. His clothes were torn and disheveled, covered in dust and soaked in sweat. Would he be able to make it there in time to save her? Had he the strength to go that far?
But he realized this did not matter, for a rider was fast approaching. He slumped to the ground, the wagon’s hitching slat pushing him several more feet, as the rider stopped before him. Dizzy with heat, Dalton at first did not recognize the dismounting figure.
Then the King of Lystia knelt beside him, untying the harnesses from his hands. “Prince Dalton! What happened? Where are Silvia and Quentin?”
“In the wagon…hurt badly,” Dalton whispered. “Must…get to the Healing Spring.”
Keelan nodded and began switching the harness to his horse’s neck and unhooked the hitching slat. He helped Dalton onto the driver’s platform. “Can you show me how to get to this place?”
Dalton nodded and Keelan climbed into the back of the wagon as the horse began to pull.
He fell to his knees, his heart breaking, and scooped Silvia’s body into his arms. He wept openly, tears falling onto Silvia’s face.
“I am so sorry,” he whispered into her red curls. “I have failed you in so many ways! I should never have let you go without me. I am eternally sorry.” He buried his face in her hair, not yet daring to look upon her mortal wound, and trying unconsciously not to fall out of the wagon as it rattled down the pass.
“You have not failed…but one test,” said Quentin from his bed. He was holding onto a handle on the side of the wagon to keep from sliding off.
“But mayhap that was the most important one,” Keelan said. He stroked his beloved’s face gently.
“It can be forgiven, with time.”
“I don’t want to be forgiven!” Keelan cried in despair. “I must be punished! I don’t deserve for her eyes to even look upon me…if ever they open again.”
“We’re there!” Prince Dalton shouted hoarsely minutes later. “But the wagon won’t fit through the trees!”
Keelan moaned audibly. It would take longer to carry her, but he would do it. He felt for her heartbeat; it was extremely slow. Her skin had paled considerably and her eyes refused to open. She had lost too much blood and was nearing death.
Suddenly the cloth over the back end of the wagon was thrown to the side and six burly men reached in. They took Silvia from Keelan’s arms tenderly as he watched in amazement. They lifted their queen high above their heads and started off towards the Healing Spring; blood spilled from her wound, leaving a trail on the forest floor. Four more men showed up to help Quentin in the same fashion. King Keelan and Prince Dalton went behind them, watching everyone bow their heads to the ground before the Queen and her brother-in-law. Hundreds had already gathered at the entrance to the path to the spring, and all went quiet at the sight of the Queen in such a state. A minute later the beautiful spring appeared before them, glittering majestically in the sunlight. It was emptied of people quickly, and the six men who bore Queen Silvia entered the water up to their waists before stopping. As one they lowered her in their midst until only her face was above the water. The water turned crimson all around her, but she did not stir.
Keelan held his breath and waited, not sure what was supposed to happen at this place hidden amongst the woods of the mountain. Despair had filled him to the brim and the only thing he could think of was to see Silvia’s eyes open again.
“She is almost beyond my power to heal,” said a voice, “but I will do what I can. I cannot, however, bring back the dead.”
Everyone looked up to see a beautiful white-gold light at the top of the small waterfall. It glided down to rest right above the water, and took the shape of a woman. Her face seemed timeless, with white hair that flowed over her slender shoulders. Her skin was nearly without a wrinkle, and her light brown eyes showed wisdom and age beyond compare. Her white dress was simple, ending in folds at the bottom.
No one spoke for a long moment. Finally Keelan said, “Might we ask who you are?”
“Why, of course you can...later. But tell me who this dying woman is first and why I should save her when she is but a hair’s breath away from dying.”
“I am King Keelan of Lystia. This young woman is my wife, Queen Silvia. You must save her if you can. We are on a quest of great importance, and her people need her…I need her.”
The older woman frowned, but nodded her head. Her feet, which were just above the water, now sank until she, too, was waist deep. She placed one hand on Silvia’s stomach, directly on the sword wound, and the other hand upon her forehead. “Be still, my child. Aldoa will still your pains.”
The King was more than a little apprehensive. “What is your name?”
She lifted a hard stare to him and he very nearly shrank back from it. “Such trivial questions during your wife’s last breaths,” she said as if admonishing an ill-mannered child.
Astonished gasps were heard from several people, and Keelan looked abashed. He knew the lady was right; this was not the time. It was then that the severity of the situation struck him: His wife was dying and there was nothing he could do for her. And if she died, what would he do? His life had no purpose without her.
Everyone was silent; not one person complained or made rude comments about not being able to get into the Healing Spring. The hot sun showed late afternoon rays, and sweat covered everyone’s bodies. All eyes were on the Dead Queen, so close to actually being lifeless. Several of the men who held Silvia’s body were shedding tears; the others were trying to blink them back.
/> The woman had her soft brown eyes closed, brows furrowed in concentration. Her lips were slightly parted, and sometimes she silently mouthed words—to herself or Silvia, no one knew. Everything stood still for what seemed like hours. Then, finally, Silvia took a great gasp of air. The woman’s eyes opened and a hint of a smile played at her lips. “Bring her with me,” she said crisply in a tone that simple would not tolerate any sort of insubordination.
She glided out of the water, her dress not the least bit wet, and went to a path of stones which led around the spring and behind the waterfall.
The six men carried Silvia out of the water and all were appalled, and relieved, to see that her once mortal wound had vanished.