A Princess of Sorts

by Wilma van Wyngaarden

  “I am not.” He was the priest that Sorrell had pointed out. He was not in court robes now, nor was his hand bandaged. His clothes were crumpled and dirty and hung loose on him. It seemed the burned bodies in the farm shed had not been the priests, or at least not this one.

  “Save your breath, priest.”

  Beside her, she could hear Jay’s desperate whisper. “Dearest Goddess...”

  “Jay. If you have to run, do so. He won’t catch you. Look, he is ill and weak.”

  The man was grey-faced, and his lank hair was dull. With a visible effort, he raised his sword. “Turn around and get moving!” he snarled. He advanced towards them threateningly.

  “Do not turn your back,” she ordered Jay. She said again, quietly, “Run if you have to!”

  He drove them backward step-by-step down the path toward the edge of the forest. Somehow the bright and picturesque clearing seemed more threatening than the silent gloom of the woods surrounding them. Tendrils of silvery mist flowed softly among the tree trunks and shrubbery.

  “What’s he going to do?” chattered Jay beside her in the barest whisper. He had picked up the sword casing and held it in front of himself protectively. Scylla held her slim blade at the ready, wondering if she had any chance against the much heavier sword in the hands of the man who was intent on driving them towards the hunting lodge.

  “Where are your prayers and rituals now?” she asked. “Why are you so ill?”

  “Shut up and walk,” he ordered, his reddened eyes glaring.

  “Either you have no food,” she guessed, “... or the means by which you feigned suicide has left you weakened. How did you feign suicide, just for interest’s sake?”

  A hoarse roar left his throat and he lunged at her. She and Jay jumped backward out of reach and she slashed at his forearm, missing by several inches.

  “Shut up, Queen!” he snarled, advancing on them as if he were herding them towards the building. “Queen! I spit upon the sorry house of Rellant!” He did so, spewing a gob of spittle on the grass between them.

  Jay made a retching sound in disgust. “Spit on your own sorry house!” he shouted at the man.

  The gaunt priest swung his sword clumsily at him and Jay leaped away. Scylla hobbled backward. The man came after her next, raising his sword. But he was weak and slow.

  With a hair-raising shriek, something small and shaggy sprang from the shrubbery to rush at the priest’s ankles. Scylla and Jay gasped. The priest gave a foul curse and swung his sword at the creature, which dodged back, yapping hysterically.

  “Good Goddess!” said Scylla blankly. “It’s one of the queen’s dogs.”

  “Bite him!” Jay yelled at the dog. “Get him!”

  The small dog, which had been white the last time Scylla had seen it, leaped in and out, barking viciously. It was now dirty, but not as filthy as the words spewing from the priest’s mouth. Some of the words Scylla had never heard. Some of them she had.

  “Don’t listen, Queen!” Jay cried. He danced around behind the distracted priest and hit him as hard as he could with the sword sheath, decorative vine and all. It clanged against the back of his head and with a grunt of shock, he fell forward on his hands and knees. He lost his grip on the sword, which spun away from his fingers. The hilt struck the dirty little dog with a glancing blow. With a yelp of pain, it scurried back into the forest undergrowth.

  Whatever was wrong with the priest now had left him with none of the power that had cracked the castle wall.

  Scylla reached forward and, with the tip of her blade, flipped the sword out of his reach. She straightened up, fighting lightheadedness as she contemplated what she was about to do.

  “What now? What now?” Jay begged in terror. “Run away, Queen, run away!”

  Scylla looked down at the man who was beginning to try to push himself to his feet.

  “This priest was present when the royal family was slaughtered,” she said coldly. “He is ill and I suspect he is dying. I do no more than help him on his way. Do not watch, boy.”

  She took one step closer and with no hesitation thrust the slim blade of Bart Smith’s sword into the throat of the man before her. Blood poured out and he fell forward with a gurgling cry of fear.

  Silence fell.

  “Dear Goddess... dear, dear Goddess,” Jay chanted frantically. His hands were covering his face. “Queen! ... is he dead?”

  “I expect so.” Scylla looked at the body of the priest. A pool of blood spread in the grass around his head. She felt no emotion. “I wonder if anyone else is here in this cursed lodge.”

  She raised her eyes and inspected the building and the grounds. Since the massacre had taken place, the grounds had been left untended and weeds grew tall. Some light mist still hung in the shadow of the trees. However, smoke rose busily from the chimney.

  “Harrowwwl,” said a lazy soft growling voice behind her. She whirled on her good foot, raising the point of her sword, which was beginning to feel like an extension of her arm.

  “It’s the green cat,” exclaimed Jay.

  So it was. Keet leaped agilely from the forest cat’s back and was staring with his sharp eyes at the bloody body of the priest.

  “I thought you were heading to the mountains... the passage,” said Scylla, lowering her sword to lean on it.

  “We were,” the cat agreed. It sat down and its tail wrapped softly around its haunch, the tip flicking slowly. “We received word that there was danger lying in wait for the queen of Rellant and we chose to come back.”

  “The cat decided to come back,” shrieked Keet in his thin voice. “I said Queen Scylla has proved herself capable... very capable! No need, said I! But here we are. Indeed, was I not right? Our journey delayed, our time and energy wasted. The attacker lies dead!”

  The cat was regarding the building with his calm yellow eyes. Scylla followed his gaze.

  In the side doorway of the building now stood another figure, leaning against the carved wooden door surround.

  “That’s the high priest,” she said. “Soler. At least, I think it is.”

  Keet danced angrily in the grass. “The high priest! He who planned to murder the queen at her coronation! Did we not shipwreck his plan? I and the Lady Sorrell!”

  Soler’s dead-looking eyes riveted Scylla. Her lungs constricted and she began to feel faint. Remember your destiny, said Minda’s voice inside her head. Stand up tall and be the queen!

  She straightened up.

  “The high priest.” She tried to shake off her fears. “He too looks ill.”

  “He can barely stand,” Jay said. Nevertheless, he ran over and picked up the sword from the grass. It was so heavy he had trouble lifting it, but he brandished it before him.

  The man in the doorway gave a breathy laugh. “What a brave little boy,” he whispered. “Bring me that sword, little boy.”

  Jay stared at him in horror, the sword dropping from his suddenly nerveless fingers.

  Keet screeched and danced like a flickering light around the others. The cat rose gracefully to his feet, his tail waving gently back and forth.

  “Were you the one that cracked the castle wall?” asked Scylla. She fought the feeling that was crushing her.

  “I am one with the power,” Soler whispered. She didn’t know how she had thought his eyes to be dead. They were burning like coals, piercing through to her very soul.

  “Oh Goddess!” wailed Jay. “Dear Goddess!”

  “Curse you! Whatever you are doing... ” said Scylla strongly. She raised the point of her blade and held it waveringly. Why was she losing her strength? The priest in front of her looked like he was even closer to death than the other. He was skin and bones, his robe flapping in the breeze. His skin was gray, his lips blue-black. “Curse you! You too are dying! What has happened to your power if it cannot save you?”

  Some indistinguishable words hissed from the blackish lips. Soler drew himself upright and staggered out of the doorway. Skeletal hands rose, p
ointing at Scylla. She shuddered, her breath rasping in her throat. What was he doing? Would he throw lightning at her, like the soldier swore he had at the castle wall? She heard Keet scream.

  “Dear Goddess...” she whispered, echoing Jay... and fought the constriction in her lungs, her eyes widening with concentration. She would not let it stop her.

  All she had to do was run him through with Bart Smith’s sword... the priest had no weapon and no strength... other than the waves of whatever he was sending at her. And his strength was fading further...

  “Help me, Goddess!” She channeled the vision of Jay’s Goddess from the spring – small ears, the leafy green gown, the trailing pink flowers. She fought off the weakness and took a step forward. It was like walking against a strong wind.

  But there was a flash of olive-green fur. The cat flew past her in an agile bound. He wrapped around the priest’s head, with ripping teeth, sharp claws and gouging rear feet. The skeletal priest screamed as his blood spattered. He fell to the ground in front of the doorstep, and the cat’s jaws sank into his throat despite the bony hands that tried to pry himself free. The screams choked off. The man writhed in desperation, while the cat clawed into the robes and shredded the fabric along with the flesh beneath it.

  A few moments later the cat released the slack body of the priest and leaped away, regaining his natural relaxation almost immediately. He sat down and began to groom his ruffled fur.

  Scylla found she was able to breathe again. Jay was quivering on his knees, pale with terror. Keet crouched like a bundle of sticks on the grass.

  “Did you feel that power, Keet?” asked Scylla, for want of anything else to say. Keet was making little huffing sounds and for once seemed unable to speak.

  “Your high priest had a little remaining strength,” the cat purred. “Somehow these priests found a toehold upon magic’s slippery slope. I do believe your priests’ uprising is now crushed. Blessings upon your realm!”

  “I... I thank you,” said Scylla.

  “Dearest Goddess,” Jay prayed. “Thank you for sending the cat.”

  “And me!” Keet screeched, finding his voice although it was weaker than usual.

  “And the stick man. Oh! ... and the dog.”

  Scylla looked around. There were no signs of the yappy little monster. “We will have to find that dog – we can’t leave it here.”

  The cat looked unconcerned. He was running one big soft paw over his ear and whiskers – with no sign of his sharp claws.

  “Do you know...?” said Scylla thoughtfully. “Did the substance by which they feigned suicide cause them to be ill afterward?”

  The cat yawned. “It may be partly so. But I am told the priests used their newfound power to attack the House of Rellant and even attempted to bring down the castle walls. They did not realize their destructive force would rebound to destroy them in turn... so naïve!” His gentle words fell into the sun-warmed air in the clearing. His nostrils sniffed the stirring breeze delicately. “Destructive power always contaminates the one who casts it...”

  Having groomed his fur to his satisfaction, the cat rose to his feet. “I sense no further danger here. And could it be that I hear the approach of a legion of hooves? ... Queen Scylla, your royal guard will be much relieved to find you alive and safe.” He gave his companion a quizzical glance from glowing yellow eyes. Keet, not quite as chipper as usual, crept across the grass, hopped onto the cat’s shoulders and gave the queen a nod.

  “Did you feel your power, Princess?” He tossed the words at her as the cat strode towards the shrubbery. “Goodbye to you and your court!”

  “Use your power for good, Queen Scylla! We wish you a long and interesting reign,” purred the cat.

  “Power – I?” she scoffed, rejecting the very idea. “And I do not wish for an ‘interesting’ reign!”

  “You may find it will be... In our lands, we are preparing for a much larger battle, I am sorry to say. Ours is not near finished and you yourself may feel the sting of it...”

  “I hope you are proved wrong. But we shall heed Keet’s warning. I and my council are preparing to do what we can do.”

  “Till we meet again! Merowww!” came the cat’s fading farewell as the forest swallowed them up.

  Jay had climbed to his feet and was peering into the undergrowth.

  “Well, I do like that cat...” said Scylla, mostly to herself. She re-plaited her hair with fingers that shook slightly. The long braid had loosened, but the pin was still holding behind her ear.

  She looked around her. One body lay in a pool of blood, dead by Scylla’s own hand. The other blood-soaked corpse lay face up, its head and upper body shredded by the cat’s claws. Bright morning sunlight touched the lodge and its grounds with a rosy glow, with the blind turret standing tall in its foolish glory. The limp flag on the peak lifted suddenly with the morning breeze. Such a beautiful place, and yet who could forget what had happened here?

  Jay returned to her side, staring down the road with dawning hope. “Queen... I think the soldiers have found us!”

  “Well, better late than never.” Scylla turned her back on the gruesome scene and watched the fast approach of Coltic and his companions. Hooves pounded, weapons clanged, metal jingled and flashed in the sunlight – it was a very welcome sight.

  She leaned heavily on her slender sword, the bloody tip pressing into the turf at her feet. “I wonder... have they any food with them?”

  Thank you to my family and friends

  for their encouragement and support.

  Thanks especially to Ingrid Uebbing, Sarah Withrow, Elizabeth van Wyngaarden and Elizabeth Crawford

  for reading the story and offering suggestions

  for improvement.

  A Princess of Sorts is Book 1 in a fantasy series

  spiced with fun, adventure and magic.

  The Springs of the Goddess series continues

  – watch for Book 2 in late 2019!

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  About the Author

  Wilma van Wyngaarden is an artist and writer living on the edge of an untamed woodland… where she often wanders, accompanied by dogs and horses.

  The wild, whispering forest inspired her fantasy series, The Springs of the Goddess.