by J C Maynard
Eston pointed. “You see those ships? What are they doing coming in to port this late?” He turned to Fillian. “I thought our naval brigade left three days ago.”
“At this time of year, rough seas could have drawn them back.”
Eston squinted and his eyes widened. “Fillian . . . our naval ships each have three masts . . .”
Fillian stared at Eston and again at the four scarlet banners waving on each ship. Fillian whispered in horror, “Cerebrians . . .” The princes sprinted off the bridge and down the senators’ hallway toward the Guard tower.
“Eston,” said Fillian as they ran, “we need to warn the senators.”
“Not until the Guard kno-”
Before Eston finished, Fillian had already barged into a senators room, but stood still in the doorway. “Great Mother! . . .” he exclaimed in horror.
Eston knocked Fillian aside to see into the room. A pool of scarlet blood surrounded Senator An’Drui on the floor. “Senator!” He jumped forward and put his hand on her shoulder. Her neck was slit open and multiple stab wounds bled from her chest. He whispered, “Check Senator Mar across the hall.”
“Is Senator An’Drui dead?”
“Yes. Now go!”
Fillian sped away and returned a minute later. “I checked all the rooms . . . They’re all dead . . .”
Eston stood up and ran out the doorway and down the hall. “We’re getting attacked from the inside.”
“We need to warn the Guard!” called Fillian, running after him.
“Warn the Guard?” said Eston, screeching to a halt in the Grand Ballroom lined with great pillars. “Fillian, why do you think we haven’t seen a single Guard tonight?”
A familiar voice called out, “Piecing it all together aren’t we?” From the other side of the Grand Ballroom, a tall man holding a bloody dagger slowly approached, followed by more than twenty soldiers.
Eston stumbled back. “Wh- what the hell?” He could barely breathe. “What have you done?”
Illuminated by a moonbeam, Sir Whittingale stepped toward the princes in his black cloak and raised his hands like a prophet. “You should thank me.”
The soldiers behind Sir Whittingale were adorned in scarlet armor . . . the Ferramish Guard.
Fillian’s eyes widened and looked at the men. “You’re all traitors . . . You killed them.”
“Not just the senators.” Sir Whittingale sniggered. “By the end of tonight, the war will be over; countless lives will be spared; and Xandria will regain her rightful throne.”
“You coward.” whispered Eston, unsheathing his Queenslayer sword, engraved in the royal crest and an E. How could I have missed this all along? Then again, who else would have believed his treason?
“Coward, you say?” said Whittingale. “No, no . . . Hero . . . Twenty years tried my patience, but my loyalty to Queen Xandria never faltered. Play the part convincingly, and everyone believes you . . . At this moment, forty ships carrying nearly ten thousand Cerebrian troops sail in the bay of this helpless city. Half of the Guard has turned loyal to Xandria; the other half has been killed.” Whittingale stepped closer to the princes, and Fillian drew his sword. Whittingale continued, “The senators are dead . . . all that’s left is you.” In an instant, Whittingale lunged forward, ducked under the princes’ swings, and drove his dagger into Fillian’s side. Fillian screamed and fell to the floor clutching his sliced abdomen. Whittingale dropped the dagger and drew a sword from his waist belt, holding it up to touch Eston’s own blade as the Guard surrounded them, enclosing them in a circle. Whittingale smiled, an anomaly. “It has been over a month since we last dueled, my student.”
Eston looked at his bleeding, cursing brother and drove his sword toward Whittingale, who effortlessly swept Eston’s royal sword to the side.
“You aren’t on the balls of your feet, Eston.” said Whittingale. Eston yelled and slashed twice at Whittingale, who dodged both blows. Whittingale swiped at Eston’s legs, but the prince stepped back as the sword barely tore at his pant leg. Eston’s blows battered Whittingale, who parried each. Still in his cloak, Whittingale laughed and sliced Eston’s thigh. “Eston,” he said, “your sword tip is too low.” The soldiers encircling them laughed and moved in closer.
Fillian lay groaning on the floor in bloodstained clothes. Limping, Eston charged forward, but slipped on Fillian’s blood. He rolled to his side just in time to evade Whittingale’s downward slash; the sword was stuck in the wood floor, and Eston kicked Whittingale off balance. Whittingale quickly punched Eston’s side, grabbed the sword, and bashed the handle on Eston’s head, knocking him to the ground like a ragdoll.
Eston’s vision swirled and he tried to pry himself off the ground. He gasped for air through his blood-filled mouth and coughed.
Laughing, Whittingale grabbed Eston by the shirt and pulled him off the floor, putting him in a headlock. He held up Eston and forced his head toward the windows, looking past the circle of soldiers. In the distance, fires began to spring up and light the harbor orange.
“You see those ships?” said Whittingale. “You see your city? We will release a firestorm on you.” Eston struggled in Whittingale’s grasp, but his head pounded. Whittingale raised his sword to Eston’s throat and whispered in his ear. “You have lost.”
Suddenly, the sound of galloping hooves and yelling filled the Grand Ballroom. In an instant, a dozen armored horses with riders crashed into the circle of soldiers. Through the clashing of blades and armor, the sound of an arrow whistled through the air followed by a slice into flesh.
Whittingale’s grip on Eston went limp. Eston spun himself around as Whittingale coughed up blood from the arrow sunk into his back and fell dead on the floor.
The soldiers and horse riders battled around him as a hand pushed him to the ground. Eston watched a spear fly over his head and sink into one of Whittingale’s men. Within a few more seconds, the yelling and clashing ceased, and a chestnut-colored hand pulled him up.
Holding a bow, Qerru-Mai put her other hand on Eston’s face, with a horrified look. “Are you alright?”
Eston looked around at twenty dead Ferramish soldiers. On horseback were more than a dozen palace servants, each with bloody longswords.
Qerru-Mai threw her bow and arrows onto the floor and knelt beside Fillian. “You’re wounded, Fillian.” she said.
Fillian looked down at his scarlet side. “I need — need pressure on it.” Qerru-Mai cut off a sleeve of Whittingale’s cloak and tied it above Fillian’s waist.
“How’s that?”
Fillian grimaced. “It- It really hurts.”
Eston put a hand on Qerru-Mai’s shoulder. “Thank you.” He turned to the dozens of Palace servants and bowed.
Eston turned back to Qerru-Mai, whose face rested on the verge of tears. She spoke softly, full of helplessness. “Eston, they killed her.”
Knowing she referred to her mother, Eston embraced her. He whispered softly, “I’m so sorry.”
Stepping back, he saw pure anger take over her expression.
“I’m gonna kill every last one of them.” she said with blood boiling. “Every Cerebrian and every one of Whittingale’s men.”
Everyone looked out the windows both when they saw a flash of orange light, followed by a BANG. Forty four-masted ships were now in the harbor, and each of their scarlet banners were being lowered and replaced by dark green ones. Multiple blasts of light burst from the ships, followed by cracks like thunder. Explosions of fire erupted from a ship, and a building near it seemed magically torn to shreds. A wall of the Palace exploded inward after a set of fire bursts.
“What’s happening?” said one of the servants.
Eston’s heart pounded. “The Cerebrians’ new weapon . . .” He looked to Qerru-Mai and Fillian. “I need to find where they have our mother and do what I can to stop this.”
“I’m coming with you.” said Fillian. An explosion sounded from the harbor and a bombardment of cannonballs hit the Palace wa
ll. A thundercrack followed a flash of light from the harbor and a wall collapsed down the hallway.
“Are the Cerebrians in the city yet?” Eston asked the group.
A servant stepped forward. “My Liege, I was near the gate just five minutes ago, and the Cerebrians have set fire to the streets nearest the waterfront.”
“Are you all who is left in the Palace?”
“No,” said the servant. “There are about a hundred more servants who all have taken to the streets to fight. Half of the Guard has been slaughtered, and the other half is nowhere to be seen. But there are civilians fighting the Cerebrians.”
“The rest of the Guard is loyal to Xandria now.” said Fillian, clutching his wound.
An explosion went off in the second district, lighting the valley like a flash of lightning. “Qerru-Mai,” said Eston, “I want you to lead the rest of these men on horseback to Camp Aunes; ten miles away, I want you there in an hour. Alert the soldiers and have them return to the palace immediately. That will give us around four thousand men. With that many reinforcements, the city stands a chance.” The group bowed and followed Qerru-Mai to the stables.
“Eston,” said Fillian, “we need to find out how Whittingale did all this. He must’ve been in communication with Xandria somehow.”
“We can worry about that later, we need to find Mother now. I have a feeling we don’t have much time.”
Hundreds of screaming civilians flocked into the open Palace gates, hoping to find refuge in its walls. Cannonballs soared over the walls and bashed into towers. Eston shouted, “The Palace is under fire! Leave now! Leave now!” Only a few people obeyed, returning to the fiery streets.
Fillian grabbed Eston’s collar. “Eston, the beasts below the Palace . . . we could.”
“Are you mad? No! We don’t know what they are, and An’Drui is dead; there is no way back in there.”
A woman charged through the crowd of civilians. “Princes! The Queen, she’s at the docks! They’re forcing her onto a ship!” Fillian kissed the woman on the cheek and the brothers bolted out the gate and front gardens into the streets. Men and women pushed each other, trying to get away from the shore, screaming to the symphonic cannon bursts. The princes tried to shove their way against the flow of rich first district aristocrats, but could barely move a block forward as hands thrashed out and elbows flew into their sides.
Fillian yelled in pain and frustration. “There’s no way through!”
Eston looked up at the houses around him. “Yes there is!” He grabbed the windowpane of a house and pulled himself up. Turning around, he jumped to another window, zig-zagging up the wall.
Fillian put his hand on the window, “You have got to be kidding me.” Following Eston, he jumped up to the roof where they could see the massive Cerebrian ships firing cannons from the harbor and unloading soldiers onto the rocky beach.
“That one, there.” said Eston, pointing to the largest and most decorated ship which floated beside a main dock in the place of Ferramish trade vessels. “That’s it. It’s the only one not firing cannons.” The two princes ran like thieves across the rooftops of the district, jumping from roof to roof over the swarm of evacuating civilians. Like ants, hundreds of dark green uniforms swarmed the buildings and held torches to indoor curtains, smoking Ferrs out of the safety of their attics and onto their soon-to-be ash roofs. Dozens of buildings near the shore blazed, and the fire began to slowly creep inland. The street below them echoed of swords. A group of Ferramish men engaged a platoon of armored Cerebrians.
“Eston, the civilians are fighting!” called out Fillian as they ran across the uneven shingles on roofs.
“What choice do they have?” he replied while thinking, but they could flee . . . why don’t they flee . . . they are prepared. From below, Eston hear a familiar voice seeming to call out orders not to the Cerebrians, but to the Ferrs. “Fight! Defend your city!” When he looked back, the speaker was gone.
The boys reached a house near the docks and jumped off the roof. Fillian grimaced. “Your wound, Fillian?”
“It’s fine.” Abandoned but for Cerebrians, the streets next to the docks provided a straight pathway to the ship, patched with bellowing fires in the alleyways. A battalion of Cerebrian soldiers marched down a ship’s plank and onto the wharf. They had set fire to nearly all Ferramish ships in the harbor, and half the Cerebrian ships had already docked. The princes quickly ducked away and ran toward the towering ship whose silver plated side read, The Desolator.
Eston and Fillian hid behind a pile of wooden shipping containers. “How are we supposed to get Mother off that ship?” asked Fillian.
Eston shook his head and peeked over the containers. Another battalion was leaving its ship, and the cannons continued to fire, ripping the Palace far above them to shreds. The battalion marched in a massive line into the city. Eston leaned on a container to get a better vantage point, but it slipped out from under him, causing the whole pile to fall. The line of Cerebrians stopped and turned toward the princes. “Shit . . . Fillian. Run. Now!”
The princes turned away, but the Cerebrian troops began to fire arrows ahead of them to block them. As the green wave swelled toward them, Eston saw no other alternative; he stood firm and shouted, “Halt!” The battalion quickly surrounded the princes with their swords and bows drawn. “We are Princes Eston and Fillian Wenderdehl, sons of King Tronum!” he looked at Fillian.
“We demand to see your General!” said Fillian. The Cerebrian troops looked at each other beneath their helmets and silently agreed.
A soldier stepped forward. “We will respect a royal request and escort you to General Heirmonst. You will hand us your swords.” Fillian nodded to Eston and the brothers dropped them to the ground. The battalion of troops surrounded the princes and tied their wrists behind their backs, pushing them toward The Desolator.
The dark green-armored soldiers guided them over the planks of the dock and onto the ramp. The deck of the ship was large and open, filled with Cerebrian troops who began to cheer as they saw the two princes being escorted to the stern of the ship. Turning his head, Eston could see the burning Palace on its hilltop. New fires sprang up every second as cannonballs hit its ramparts. Although the air was icy, the entire shoreline of buildings blazed in a bright orange light. The Desolator rocked lightly in the harbor as snowflakes fell. The troops walked the princes up a staircase to the elevated stern deck. There, on a post, Queen Eradine was tied with a gag in her mouth.
Fillian looked frantically at Eston. An enormous man stood near her in a long green cape and silver armor encrusted in gems. A scar ran from his temple to his opposite cheek. He stepped forward. “Sons of King Wenderdehl,” he said in a cold Cerebrian accent, “Here to join your royal family get-together? Look at your nation.” The Princes turned to shore where flames devoured block after block, and waves of green from ships funneled into the city, firing arrows and throwing spears.
“You attack the innocent!” said Fillian.
General Heirmonst shook his head. “You think your citizens are innocent? No one in this world is innocent. You cannot extinguish Xandria’s flame in all its beauty.” The burning shoreline reflected in his eyes.
Eston struggled against the soldiers holding him. “You call that beauty? That is destruction! That is death!”
“Death is cleansing.” said Heirmonst. He removed a dagger from his belt and held it to Queen Eradine’s throat. Eradine looked at him without fear, but with absolute hatred. “Unless you surrender, the attack will continue; Xandria wants nothing but peace and will gladly accept you turning over your nation to her.” The soldiers held the princes tightly and Heirmonst pressed the dagger harder. “If you choose not to surrender, your whole nation will burn; your King and Queen will die, and so will you; Cerebria will still win.” He pushed the dagger onto Eradine’s skin, beginning to draw blood. “What do you say?”
Eston’s heart pounded and he stared at Fillian, who struggled against the soldiers holding
him. Eston turned to his mother who gently shook her head. Eston’s mouth began to quiver; one sentence of surrender could stop the war and the dagger.
The ship was silent enough to hear the wood creaking as it rocked in the waves. As cannons shot from neighboring ships, Eston looked at the burning city before him. With a tear rolling down his face, he whispered, “Xandria doesn’t want peace . . . she will stop at nothing to destroy what father stole from her.” He turned to Eradine, but spoke to Heirmonst. “Saving our mother will not save our people.”
Eston’s stomach dropped and Heirmonst nodded. “As you wish, Prince Wenderdehl.” Heirmonst drove the dagger forward, and Eradine screamed something before her head went limp. Eston’s mind swirled in shock. A bright flash of light seemed to envelop his vision, and he opened his eyes to the ceiling of his ramshackle attic in the third district.
◆◆◆
Kyan bolted upright and flew out of the door of his attic shack. Immediately turning west, he saw no flames by the shoreline of the city. The morning was cold and cloudless, and his sporadic breath drifted upward from his shirtless figure. The Palace looked pristine and unchanged; the people on the street below laughed and chattered; and far away church bells rang gleefully. It hasn’t begun. Why should it have? It’s this morning. He looked across at the clock in the square. November 4th. He remembered just seconds ago standing on The Desolator, watching Heirmonst slit Queen Eradine’s throat. I could stop it. The Cerebrians will come tonight. Kyan snatched a shirt and jacket, and bounded over his matrix of planks toward the Palace.
Robed aristocrats lined the streets near the top of the Palace hill, looking distastefully at the panting street urchin that flashed by them, intruding on their otherwise cleanly domain. Kyan glanced as he sprinted, they’ll be lucky to be alive by next morning. Kyan rounded the last street and under the tunnel of leafless oak trees of the Outer Palace Gardens, reaching the gate outside of which ten guards stood in scarlet. They each gripped their spears as the ragged boy tore up the last steps. “What business do you have in the Palace?”