by Elena May
“Of course,” Vlad said. “We have not reached safety yet. I have to help you.”
Tristan picked up his bow and fired five arrows in rapid succession at the vampires on the bridge. “Are you insane? In case you have failed to notice, there is a piece of wood inside your heart! What if it moves? What if the tip breaks off? What if a splinter breaks off and goes deeper? Do you realize how risky this is?”
“I know it is risky,” Vlad said calmly. “Which is why we will remove the arrow as soon as we have reached safety. But I cannot let you fight alone. And we need to find Armida.”
“Armida is safe.” Tristan fired another arrow. The last approaching vampire fell, and for a moment, things seemed quiet on the bridge. Even the rain was slowing down. “I saw her. She made her way across the Western Bridge, and there was no one pursuing her.”
“Are you certain she is safe? Perhaps there was an ambush…”
“She is well,” Tristan said. “I am sure she is already waiting for us in our cave.”
“And what about you?” the Prince asked. “Did you suffer any further harm?”
“Not a scratch. Now that we have established that both Armida and I are well, you can see we do not need your protection.”
Vlad looked up, eyes wide. “You got up the hill, fought your way through swarms of enemies, destroyed the Wizard in a whirlpool of fire and smoke, and returned, without getting a scratch? Tristan, you are incredible. I couldn’t have done it myself.”
“Flattery will not help you,” Tristan said sternly, although the corner of his lips twitched.
“I am not trying to flatter you,” the Prince said. “I am simply saying what I think.”
Now it was impossible for Tristan to hide his bright smile, but the resolve in his eyes remained. “Come now, I am going to remove the arrow, but only after I have your permission. You didn’t turn me against my wishes. Even though you knew I was not thinking clearly, you didn’t wish to take away my free will. I will return the gesture.”
Oh, come on, remove the arrow already and give me a hand, Myra thought, annoyed. The bridge was still empty, but she worried this could be the calm before the storm.
“What if I don’t allow you to remove it?” Vlad asked, and Tristan bristled.
“Come on, be reasonable. This arrow is a time bomb. It needs to go. Now.”
“And it will go, once we are back at our cave,” Vlad said. His eyes narrowed. “You haven’t been crying for me, have you?”
“What? Don’t be ridiculous!” Tristan snapped. “Why on earth would I be crying for a filthy barbarian? Ah, you mean this.” He brushed against the salty tracks across his cheeks with a sharp move. “A fly got into my eye.”
“I see,” the Prince said with a smile. “But it must have been a whole swarm of flies. Quite unusual for this climate.”
Tristan glared daggers. “Perhaps, in your delirium, you have forgotten we are in the middle of a battlefield. Dead bodies attract flies in any climate.”
Vlad’s smirk grew. “Not freshly killed dead bodies. The air still smells of iron and blood rather than rot. It will be a while before decay sets in and the flies arrive.”
“I have sensitive eyes, if you must know,” Tristan snapped. “If you have no meaningful point to make, I suggest you drop the subject.”
Vlad’s smile softened, and, with an obvious effort, he reached out and held Tristan’s hand in his. “Peace, my child. I will do as you ask. I will let you remove the arrow. Is that all right?”
Myra blinked. The fight was over? Just like that? But Tristan had paled, and his eyes shimmered. “All right?” He brought the Prince’s hand to his lips and kissed it. “How can anything be all right? You have a piece of wood in your heart! What if I cannot remove the arrow properly? What if a splinter breaks off and stays?”
“You should not worry about that,” Vlad said, his voice calm. “You can use a metal blade to cut around the wound and make sure nothing is left inside.”
“But it will hurt a lot,” Tristan protested.
The Prince tried to give him an encouraging smile. “Yes, it will hurt, but that will pass. I have seen wounds such as this, and I know I will make a complete recovery.”
A large group of vampires approached the bridge. Myra fired into the crowd and reloaded, firing again. Was this why the bridge had stayed empty for so long? Had the vampires used the time to regroup and charge all together?
Tristan stood still for a moment, his eyes squeezed tightly shut. Well, Myra did not have the luxury to wait for him. “Tristan,” she whispered urgently. “Vampires crossing. Out of bullets.” She reached out to reload, but knew she could not be fast enough.
Tristan looked up, changing completely in the blink of an eye. “Sorry, my lord,” he said as he carefully laid the Prince down and stood up, drawing his sword. “This will not take long.”
It did not. Myra had seen Tristan fight before, and she had seen him do magic with his sword. She had seen him write poetry with his blade as a quill. She had seen him dance, a dark and deadly dance, but no less beautiful.
This was nothing like that. This was short, and to the point, and desperate, and brutal, and ugly. Tristan was like a bear protecting her cub—strong, and fierce, and invincible. The intruders lay bloody and dead before the fight had even began. And when Tristan knelt back by the Prince’s side, Myra knew that the true fight was barely beginning.
“Forgive me the delay, my lord,” he said. “Please, keep drinking. We still have a lot to face.”
Vlad shook his head. “I will drink no more. No matter how much I drink, I will be useless in this fight once you remove the arrow. Better not waste your blood on me. Keep your strength.”
“All right,” Tristan said reluctantly. “Should I find you someone else to drink?”
“This is enough,” the Prince said. “Let us get this over with.”
Tristan shrugged out of his tunic and started cutting it into long strips. Myra eyed the makeshift bandages, half-soaked in the light rain, but they were the best they had. Vlad raised an eyebrow, grinning. “Your favorite shirt?”
Tristan glowered at him. “I figured I couldn’t mend the tear, anyway. You didn’t think I would sacrifice a perfectly good shirt for you, did you?”
“Such a thought never crossed my mind,” said Vlad, eyes twinkling.
Tristan looked at Myra. “Can you guard the bridge while I do this?”
She nodded. Strangely enough, she could. After Tristan had dispatched the last vampires, no one else had come even close to crossing. It was as if they were not even trying, and something about the idea bothered her.
Tristan undid his leather belt, cut off a large part, and folded it in two. He then gave it to the Prince to bite on, so that he would not bite off his tongue in pain. “Try not to fight me,” he said softly as he pressed down on Vlad’s chest with one hand while he held the arrow in the other.
Myra tried to look away, to shut off her eyes and ears, but she could not help hearing the Prince’s strangled cry, or seeing his body arch back and his hands clutch at Tristan’s forearms so hard that his knuckles turned white. It must have lasted moments only, but it seemed as if ages had passed before Vlad finally relaxed and fell back listlessly, his eyes closed.
Tristan was shaking and pale as a sheet as he brushed a sweaty strand of hair away from the Prince’s forehead and removed the belt from his mouth. Myra shuddered at the sight of the deep toothmarks in the thick leather.
“It was always I who was in trouble,” Tristan said softly, his fingers moving swiftly, applying and tightening the makeshift bandages. “It was always he who took care of me. To see him like this… I had no idea what to do.”
“You did well,” Myra said. “There was nothing you could have done better.”
Tristan snorted. “We will see about that.” He stood up and walked to the bridge.
Myra frowned. “Where are you going?”
“Back there.”
“Why?” she
cried, incredulous.
“I have to find Armida.”
“But I thought you said…” Myra froze. So this was why he had stopped her from cutting the bridge. “Let me guess. You haven’t seen her since the battle started.”
“Exactly.” Tristan ran a hand through his long hair, now soaked in rain, blood and soot. “He will never forgive me if anything happens to her. Stay here. Protect him. I imagine I will not take long, but if I am delayed, take him to a shelter. The sun could be out any minute now.”
“Tristan,” Myra cried as he stepped on the bridge. “You know that he won’t forgive you if anything happens to you either, right?”
He grinned ruefully. “I am not in a very good position, am I?”
Only now did Myra understand what the Prince had meant when he had said Tristan had a fear of heights. Watching the vampire clutch at the rope and take small steps, shaking, was painful. Perhaps he had crossed the bridge much faster and easier on the way here, when he had believed the Prince dead, but now that the adrenaline was out of his system, the fear was back.
After what seemed like a lifetime, Tristan reached the other side. Myra shot at anyone coming near him, and it took Tristan little work to take care of his wounded attackers and go on forward. Soon, he disappeared behind the rocks, and she could no longer protect him.
Myra’s heart clenched. Perhaps the Prince was a monster, but Tristan was not. He had been merely a young man, a young boy, in a difficult situation. So different from his fellow villagers, living in a small and closed community, unable to fit in and unable to relate to anyone. Then the Prince had come along and had saved him from the life he hated. He had taken Tristan out of the mud and shown him the way. His way. And although she could never forgive Vlad for any of the atrocities he had committed, she would forgive Tristan in a heartbeat.
Tristan was always so cocky, so arrogant, so annoying. And yet the Tristan she had just seen had been none of that. He had looked so scared, so vulnerable, and strangely young.
Be safe, she prayed, her eyes fixed on the spot where she had seen him for the last time.
No one tried to cross the bridge, and Myra stood there, her eyes darting along the edge, looking for signs of Tristan’s return. This could take forever. Armida could be anywhere. Perhaps she was hiding in one of the cave systems. Or maybe she had indeed escaped on one of the other bridges and was not on the Peak at all. Or she could be badly wounded… or dead.
The dark clouds danced high above. Beyond them was the sun. At any point, the cover could crack and sunlight could spill all over the battlefield. She needed to get Vlad to safety before that happened, but she wanted to wait for Tristan. But how long could she wait?
And then, Tristan reappeared. Armida was by his side, limping, putting more weight on her left leg. She was dressed to avoid attention, in earthy colors, mostly brown and green. Yet attention was the last thing she lacked as many vampires turned towards the pair. Yong had returned and joined the fight. Tristan grabbed Armida’s arm, told her something, and pointed to the bridge. She nodded and ran on, but he stayed behind, holding back the others.
Myra raised her gun, ready to shoot at any vamp going after Armida, but there was no need. No one followed. At first, Myra breathed a sigh of relief. Her aim had improved, but she would not trust herself to aim at anyone in Armida’s proximity. But then another thought struck her—why was no one following?
Armida limped along the bridge, but as soon as she had taken a few steps, she stood up straight and ran forward. Myra frowned. Either Armida’s pain had miraculously disappeared, or she had summoned her willpower to overcome it, or… or she had never been injured at all. But why had she pretended?
Armida reached solid ground and rushed to the Prince. She knelt by his side and placed her hand over his, her face twisted and her eyes shining. She stayed like this for a moment, and then stood up and drew out her sword. Myra frowned and clutched at her gun. Why draw her blade now, when she was far away from her enemies?
Armida walked to the end of the bridge, her sword raised high. Fire burned in her eyes as she glared towards the other side.
“Yong, you brainless rat!” she shouted. “The deal was the Prince remains unharmed!”
“Another part of the deal was the Wizard remains undestroyed,” he shouted back, his voice carrying over the pit. “I am not the one who broke my part first.”
“Really?” Armida yelled. “You and your witless goons allow the Prince’s puppy to climb all the way to the top all by himself, destroy the Wizard and come back unharmed, and somehow it is my fault?”
“Fine,” he cried. “I shot your beloved Prince with a metal-tipped arrow. If you give us the other thing we asked for, we will not pursue him.”
“Done,” Armida said, and with a powerful swing she cut down one of the ropes keeping the bridge attached. “The silver honey-cake is all yours.”
Chapter Sixty-Three
A New Power Rising
“No! What are you doing?” Myra cried and lunged forward, but Armida easily pushed her down, yanking the gun out of her hand.
“Armida,” Tristan uttered, his hushed voice carrying easily over the pit. He stared at Armida, his eyes wide and disbelieving.
“Sorry, sweetie pie.” Armida’s voice was soft and strained. She cut the second rope. “This world is not big enough for both of us.”
“Armida, please! Don’t!” Myra cried and grabbed the vampire’s hand, unable to stop her from cutting the last rope. She watched in horror as the bridge collapsed over the pit, in a flurry of wood and ropes. “He can’t cross. They will kill him! He will die!”
“Yes, that is the idea,” Armida said.
“Please, give me back my gun.” Myra clutched Armida’s arm. “Let me help him.”
“You can no longer help him,” Armida said, her voice strangely sad. “I suggest you come to terms with this and stop fighting.”
Come to terms with this? But how, when Tristan was over there, on the other side, fighting numerous vampires all alone with no chance to succeed, and she was helpless to intervene?
Myra glared at Armida, teary-eyed. “You are a bigger monster than them all!” She sobbed. “How could you do this? Tristan went out there to save you! How could you betray him?”
She looked back at the other side of the pit. Tristan was swinging his sword, beheading one enemy and wounding another with a single move. He reached out with his left arm, grabbed and pulled a nearby vampire, and sank his teeth into his victim’s throat, replenishing his strength from the other’s blood. Myra watched the scene, holding her breath and praying to whoever might be listening.
Tristan gave no sign of tiring as one enemy wave after another swarmed him. But then Yong raised his bow, and Myra screamed.
Tristan heard her warning and twisted around, just in time to evade an arrow in his chest. However, he was not fast enough, and the projectile made a deep cut across his upper arm.
This did nothing to break his deadly dance. He cut and slashed and pushed away everyone trying to attack him. And yet, he found no break to bind his wound, and he was losing blood. And blood meant strength. Blood meant life.
“I admit I have grown attached to Tristan,” Armida said. “But he is the price I needed to pay for what I wanted.”
“And what did you want?” Myra choked.
Armida smiled. “I wanted this beautiful night to last forever. I never wanted to go back underground, wandering this world like an outcast, like a refugee, instead of being its master as I should be.”
“You?” Myra snorted. “What have you ever done to deserve to be anyone’s master?”
Armida’s eyes were fixed on the other side, where Tristan was fighting for his life. “For starters, unlike the Prince, I actually wanted it.”
Tristan wavered on his feet, and Myra’s heart clenched. “The Prince wanted to rule, too.”
“Not in the way I did. He likes ruling and building his own world, but both the responsibility and the
security it brings bore him to death. But I am not like that.” Armida stepped closer to the edge, staring at the raging battle. The clouds parted for the briefest of moments and, for a second, a single ray fell over Armida’s wine-red hair. A few hairs sizzled and burned, and the last drops of the dying rain fell on them, putting out the flames. Armida did not flinch.
“Power never bored me,” she said. “But I never truly had it. It was the Prince driving the car, and I was in the front seat, right next to him, giving him directions and advice. But I did not want that. I did not want to be the grey cardinal behind the curtains. I wanted to be in the driver’s seat, to hold the wheel in my own hands, to turn it any way I wanted, to step on the gas as firmly as I wanted. I wanted to rule, not through him, but in my own right.”
Myra felt tears burn at her eyes. She had always thought Vlad was the real monster, and Armida and Tristan had simply fallen under his influence, too weak-willed to choose their own path. “So, when the Prince decided to destroy the Wizard, you wanted to stop him?”
“More than that,” Armida said. “I wanted to take the throne for myself. When the Prince disclosed his plans to destroy the Wizard to me, I shared them with all the trusted allies I had built over the years. If it had been up to them, they would have taken him down immediately, but my power and influence were strong enough to prevent that. I struck a deal with them. I would tell them the exact plans for the Wizard’s destruction and allow them to not only prevent it, but also destroy the Resistance and Ila with one single stroke.”
Myra’s stomach twisted as she grasped the enormity of this treachery. How far back in time it must have gone, how many years it must have taken to plan it all—and to lay in wait until the time came? “And in return, they agreed to spare the Prince? Is that why so few attacked us?”
Armida frowned. “No one should have attacked him at all, but traitors are everywhere, even within my own ranks. Yes, the agreement was that they spare him and make me their queen. Of course, we were to put on some charade in front of the Prince—they would pretend to want to execute him for his treachery, but I would sway them with well-chosen words and diplomacy. In the end, they would not only pardon us but let me rule.”