by N M Zoltack
“You were the one to kill my brother?” she asked. She looked positively ill. It was just as well she had never stood because she would have had to sit down upon hearing this revelation.
Greta said nothing, and a knock on the door interrupted anything either queen might have said.
A knight opened the door and cleared his throat. “Forgive the intrusion, but it seems the Vincanans have arrived at the site you selected for the next battle.”
Rosalynne’s eyes widened. “How did they—Our preparations are nearly set, but… Very well. We will fight them in two days’ time.”
The knight nodded and departed.
“As for you…” Rosalynne looked ready to execute Greta on the spot.
“You need me,” Greta said calmly. “My strategies, my cunning, my guile—”
“Are all reasons why you will be kept locked up until we have made a determination as to what to do with you,” Sabine said.
“Oh, and you may be interested to know that we killed one of those you paid off. It is only a matter of time before we locate the other, and then, combined with Tiberius’ word, no one will believe you innocent,” Rosalynne said. “Everyone will know the crimes you have committed against the throne. Perhaps I have been far too lenient. Mayhap my father had the right of it.”
“You speak of executing her,” Sabine said.
“Perhaps.”
Greta merely smiled. They could try to frighten her all they wished, but Greta knew what she was doing. Yes, Tiberius’ betrayal had come as a surprise, but she would not go down without a fight. They might cage her, but until she was dead, Greta would keep on fighting, and, Fates willing, she would not only survive. She would become queen.
73
Prince Marcellus Gallus
The battle site had been chosen because of its proximity to Atlan castle, almost directly north from where they stood now. River Zim emptied into the Vast Waters to the east, but they were at the western tip of the river, where it intersected with Arlingway River. This river also emptied into the Vast Waters, but the opening was far wider than River Zim, and if they needed the relief… He patted the horn attached to his belt. A single blow and relief would come with great haste.
Although the battle at the shore had been far costlier than Marcellus would have liked in terms of both ships and warriors, the prince's chest swelled with pride at the sheer number of rows and columns his legionaries had filed into. They were stronger when fighting as one, and as one, they would fight until either they or their enemies were defeated.
For two days now, they were standing there, waiting, resting in those precise spots. The marching and drumming that heralded the army of Tenoch’s arrival brought a smile to Marcellus’ face. It was far past time for this battle to commence.
If he had a horse, he would ride back and forth to ensure every one of the men and women could hear him, but Marcellus merely planted himself directly in front of the center of the first row.
“Vincanans! We fight for our future! We fight for the right to be free! And we fight with every beat of our heart! We have trained for this, and we will not fall. We will survive, and we will win!"
“We will win!” the warriors chanted. “We will win!”
Raising his sword high, Marcellus turned around and sneered. Their foe was mounted, and already arrows were flying through the air, arching high above them.
“Shields!” Marcellus called.
With a sound of metal clanking against metal, every Vincanan lifted their shields, interlocking with the ones in front, behind, and to either side. Not one arrow could punctuate that now solid mass above their heads, but a few arrows did strike down the ones in the front row, pierced in the stomach or legs.
Marcellus gritted his teeth. Perhaps those in the front should have two shields instead of one so their entire bodies would be safe, but that was a matter to consider for the next battle.
If there proved to be another battle.
“Hold your ground,” Marcellus commanded. “Switch to spears!”
Even he tucked away his sword and seized the spear on his back. The thunder of hooves furiously pounding the ground caused the earth to shudder and quake, but Marcellus held his ground. He was only three steps in front of the front row of his legionaries, all alone, but only for a moment longer as Horatia and Flavius stepped out of position to flank his sides.
“You should not be here,” he murmured.
"Our place is beside you," Horatia said firmly, her tone refusing to accept an argument.
Marcellus grinned. “If you two survive, will you kiss already?”
“Who says we haven’t?” Flavius quipped.
He glanced between them.
Horatia shrugged. “He kissed me. I slapped him. It’s over with.”
Flavius just chuckled. “It’s so not over.”
The warrior in Marcellus did not mind this part, but the human in him did. He angled his spear just so, as did the others, and when the crush of horses came upon them, the first threw horses all ran straight into the trio’s spears. They whined and toppled over to the side, crushing the legs of their warriors.
After that, the battle descended into madness, and Marcellus knew nothing more than the swing of his blade or the jabbing of his spear. He never bothered with a shield, something his father did not approve of, but he could take down a horse and another rider or even a horse and its rider or two riders at the same time this way. Besides, the length of the shields from the first row had caused him to be shielded from the arrows. The shields, when held directly in front of one’s body, reached to the ground.
Already, his arms were aching, but it was the good kind of ache, the one that cried the use of muscles well accustomed to this abuse. Again and again, he stabbed and struck.
The flash of metal was the only warning he had. He brought up his sword to block the blow, but instead of the rider guiding his horse forward into the throng, the rider jumped down. He attacked Marcellus with a savagery that suggested he knew exactly who Marcellus was.
Blocking the next blow set Marcellus’ teeth on edge. This man was not typical among those from Tenoch. If he wore no armor to denote his allegiance, Marcellus might even be tempted to think he hailed from Vincana.
“You are no prince,” the warrior said.
Marcellus merely smiled. He wasn’t about to waste his precious breath on words. Only an inexperienced fighter would do such a thing.
But the warrior said no more, easily blocking Marcellus’ first strike and parrying with a blow that had the prince backing up a step while also jerking to the side to avoid Marcellus’ jab with his spear.
The warrior stalked Marcellus, circling around him. If he wished for Marcellus to make the next move, perhaps Marcellus should wait and let him attack instead.
And attack the warrior did. He lunged forward and then brought his sword toward Marcellus’ left hand.
And promptly cut off the tip of the spear.
Marcellus dropped the now-useless weapon and eyed the opponent with new appreciation. He knew what to do. Disarming a foe was the best way to ensure victory, and when squaring off against a foe with too, that made that step all the more crucial.
Not that it was easy to use a spear in close-quarter combat as they were.
A body dropped to the ground. From his peripheral vision, Marcellus realized a Vincanan had fallen. He was dead, his eyes wide open, his mouth half-sneering, half-open in shock.
“You will join him in death,” the warrior said.
“Not today or any other day we meet on the battlefield,” Marcellus retorted.
The struggle between them began anew, their swords dancing, cutting, slashing, up, down, to one side, down low, and up high again. Marcellus raised his leg to kick the warrior back, but his foe nearly chopped off Marcellus’ boot.
The prince scrambled back, glad he hadn't hit anyone as he increased the distance between them.
“Don’t tell me you’re frightened,” the war
rior cooed.
“Not in the least,” Marcellus said.
“No? I think more of yours have fallen than mine.”
Marcellus wasn’t about to look, but he had to admit that he had not heard as many death shrills as he had expected. When a Vincanan warrior died, he or she was to do so with honor and respect and in silence. Death was not failure but merely an opportunity for another to succeed.
Perhaps some of those from Tenoch were also not crying out, but Marcellus heard grunts from both sides, frantic gasping for air, the clash of weapons striking weapons, of blade hitting bone, of horses neighing and whining.
“You should feel honored,” the warrior said. “I will give you a righteous death.”
74
Sir Edmund Hill
Edmund could hardly believe the strength and raw power flowing through him the moment he drank Tatum’s special potion. It came as no surprise to him as he spurred his horse forward that the so-called Prince of Vincana stood in the front. Marcellus was a warrior through and through, and Edmund had been looking forward to fighting him once again.
The battle between the two of them started off the way Edmund thought it would, but then, Edmund almost found his arms moving of their own accord as he sliced off the tip of the prince’s spear.
All around them, the battle continued on, but Edmund’s words hung heavy between them.
“You should feel honored. I will give you a righteous death.”
Marcellus inhaled and exhaled several times, slowing his breathing. He brought up his sword, the blade covering his left eye.
Edmund did the same, and for a moment, it seemed as if timed stopped.
The clash of their blades again and again, the frantic nature of their attempts to disarm the other… They were so evenly matched that both of them were sweating, and despite the potion, Edmund feared he hadn’t the strength and prowess to take down the Vincanan Prince.
But as desperate as his blows were becoming, so were the prince’s. They both wanted this battle to end.
“Who are you?” Marcellus muttered.
Edmund grinned. “The son of a shoemaker.”
The prince gaped at him while arcing his blade, but the sword moved too slowly, and Edmund’s snaked through and cut the prince on the side. It wasn’t deep, but blood stained the prince’s tunic.
“First blood,” Marcellus acknowledged.
“The prince!” a female cried out.
Whoever she was, she shoved Marcellus back and took his place fighting Edmund.
The knight squared off against her, disappointed the prince had escaped him once more, but there was something about this female warrior that was frightening even more so than the prince. It was as if she had the might of the dragons in her arms as she absorbed his blows and then struck and attacked, parrying with great skill.
Their swords tangled, and she tried to disarm him, whereas he merely wished to free his. The struggle kept them close, and Edmund did what he suspected the prince had wished to do to him. Edmund brought up his knee and kicked the female in the stomach. She staggered back, their swords untangling, neither disarmed, but she was distracted, head down.
Edmund stepped forward and brought the hilt of his sword against the back of her head. Silver flashed, and he jerked back. She had attempted to slice him from gut to glory, but she collapsed, unconscious only.
He brought up his sword, ready to end her life, when another sword came at him. He shifted, bringing down his blade not to kill her but to block the blow. A Vincanan in his thirties and blond attacked Edmund was a viciousness that seemed oddly personal although he had never seen the man before. Blow after blow, the Vincanan forced Edmund back, toward one side of the field.
“You will not survive,” the Vincanan hissed.
Edmund shrugged. He was in love with his brother’s wife, and although his brother abused her, she would not leave, and Edmund didn’t have the courage to talk to her. If he died, he would have regrets, yes, but he should have taken control over his life instead of allowing himself to follow the rules and regulations of society. He could not help whom he fell in love with, but he should at least talked to Dudley, gotten his brother to see that he needed to change, or spoken with Tatum and given her the courage to leave her husband as he clearly did not love her.
How could their happiness have turned so bitter and sour so quickly? The two had been so very delighted in each other from the first. What had changed?
“Death is release,” Edmund muttered.
They circled each other, looking for openings, feigning left and attacking right, block, parrying, striking.
Another dueling duo bumped into them, and Edmund somehow became engaged in the other Vincanan, the other knight fighting Edmund’s. Up and under, Edmund’s blade snaked, and he disarmed the Vincana and gutted him.
Whirling around, he sought to resume fighting the blond Vincanan, who was just withdrawing his blade from the knight. Edmund gritted his teeth, but the Vincanan rushed off, engaging another.
Trying to recover his breath, Edmund surveyed the field. Armored men from either side dotted the field, but other than the singular female Edmund had rendered unconscious, no other female appeared to have fallen. The bodies of horses all covered the ground, the grass watered well with blood.
A knight was backing away from three Vincanans, and Edmund rushed over to assist, as did Simba. The bald knight wore no helm, his dark skin contrasting with the silver of his armor, and the two of them dispatched of the trio, but only after they claimed the life of the knight they had hurried to protect.
Back-to-back, Edmund and Simba fought hard. One sliced Edmund’s cheek, and warm blood trickled down to his neck, but Edmund did not hesitate, did not react. Before the Vincanan could bring back its blade from the attack, Edmund had already buried his sword into his foe’s chest. Down he went, and Edmund barely had time to remove his blade before another Vincanan bore down on him.
If not for the potion, Edmund would have been so fatigued and tired and worn out by this point, his body aching and sore to the point that he wouldn’t know if he could continue to lift his blade. Yet, during a battle, no matter how long-lasting, one always could endure far more than a body should be able to withstand, potion or no potion.
And so Edmund fought that Vincanan and another and another, gaining more bruises and cuts and wounds, but fighting on and persevering somehow.
Yes, he could very well die this day, but honestly, it felt as if Edmund were fighting two foes—the Vincanans and Death itself.
75
Ulric Cooper
That morning, Ulric gathered his band together. Honestly, he didn’t recognize half of the faces anymore. Once word had spread about their sinking Vincanan ships, many more peasants and some of the injured merchants had begged to join their ranks.
They didn’t think Ulric and the others had failed. They had fought had survived. Yes, they had to flee, but that was so they could fight another day.
They weren’t giving up, not one of them.
“What we’re doing isn’t easy,” Ulric said as the peasants struggled to help each other put on armor. “We aren’t trained, and we’re going up against some of the fiercest warriors in all of Dragoona. It doesn’t matter how many we kill. It doesn’t matter if we die. What matters is that we stick together and fight as one for Tenoch.”
“Tenoch Proper,” one of the youngest newcomers corrected.
Ulric’s smile was forced. Of late, he had been thinking more and more that perhaps There should be no Tenoch Proper, no Vincana Proper. Each island and continent should be separate, although Princess Vivian had mentioned that those on Zola needed assistance and that the people of Xalac had just upped and disappeared…
“We fight for Tenoch Proper,” Ulric said to appease the young man, who grinned like a fool.
“Do you think we can bring any down?” a merchant asked.
“Why not? We have before.”
“But they… They don’t ca
re who they kill,” the merchant mumbled. “They almost killed me!”
“So have your revenge. Make them regret not killing you.”
The merchant nodded slowly.
“Keep your blade up at all times, and try not to be preoccupied by the other fights going on around you. Focus on the Vincanan in front of you. Don’t look all around. Distractions can be deadly.”
Ulric fell silent and put on some armor himself. He wasn’t used to it, but this was a battle unlike any other.
“You might want to avoid the females,” Ulric added. “Princess Vivian said some are called Valkyries, a title used for the warriors of the dragons. They will be incredibly hard to take down.”
“We’ll have potions to take, just like the guards and knights?” someone called from the back.
“Yes,” Ulric said, “but they won’t give you knowledge, only strength. Be wary, be mindful, and be alert. Oh, and swing hard and jab them with the pointy end as hard and deep as you can.”
Hours later, the battle was still raging. Ulric had done his level best to keep everyone close together. There hadn’t been nearly enough time to train everyone, not that Ulric was the most capable of teachers, as demonstrated by Noll. Still, Ulric did his best, but considering a few had just joined his band yesterday… None of them had enough experience or knowledge. Eagerness to fight and a wiliness to lay down their lives, that they had, but it would not be enough to keep all of them safe. Out of the guards, knights, legionaries, and Valkyries, Ulric knew the number of those fallen on this day would be highest among his band.
“We still need a name,” Gomes complained as he fought one of the shortest Vincanans Ulric had seen. Most were quite tall.
“Will you concentrate?” Ulric asked through gritted teeth. The one he fought sported several scars, and unlike Gomes’, Ulric had a feeling this man had truly earned his.