Daggers of Ladis

by RG Long

Donald, the other cloaked figure, chuckled.

  “So, this is the little firecracker?” he said. “Looks like you’ll be accused of harboring witches also.”

  “Not like we haven’t been already,” Blume said under her breath down at Ealrin appreciatively.

  Donald folded his arms.

  “Been awhile since I've seen some real magic. I hope you give the prince a hole in his head with a spear of lightning.”

  Ealrin raised his eyebrows at this, but Holve shook his head.

  “No magic,” he said with finality. “It’s bad enough we’re already fugitives in the city. We don’t want to give ourselves any extra worries we don’t need.”

  Blume stuck out her chin at this, but didn’t argue anymore. Ealrin could see the benefit of not casting any spells within Meris. In the last two cities that they had spent any amount of time in, using magic had increased the guards and made the general populace more than wary of newcomers.

  If they were going to perform a rescue operation, they didn’t need heightened security.

  “So, what’s the plan?” Ealrin asked, rubbing his hands together and looking toward Holve.

  “They would’ve taken them to the dungeons,” Holve said, sitting back. “Fortunately for us, we have someone in our midst who is very acquainted with the Prince of Meris.”

  Donald sat down with a flourish.

  “Expert lawbreaker, fugitive, and jail breaker, at your service.”

  THEY DECIDED TO WAIT until nightfall to execute their plan. Under the cover of darkness, they would head to the castle and let Donald do his thing. Ealrin was still a little fuzzy on one or two elements, but for his part he understood what was required of him. He wanted to get Olma out of that jail as soon as he possibly could. He had dedicated himself to protecting Blume because she was someone who had come into his life that needed protecting.

  Why should it be any different with Olma?

  Ealrin sighed deeply as he thought about the people he had given himself to but had been unable to protect.

  Checking himself, he moved from firelight to firelight in the street as they silently made their way through the alleys of the city. Very few torches were lit in this section. Whether it was due to a lack of occupants, or a desire to remain hidden, Ealrin didn't know. After one more turn, the lights disappeared entirely. All that was guiding them now was the light of the moon and the cold breezes that accompanied the night.

  Each of them was wearing borrowed dark clothes. There seemed to be an abundance of them in the city.

  “There used to be more of us,” Gregory said plainly. “Unfortunately, the survival rate of spies in Meris isn’t what it used to be.”

  “What did it used to be?” Blume asked as they stopped at the corner of the building to allow Donald a chance to look out and see who would be waiting for them at the end of the alley.

  “A year at least,” he said before Ealrin could ask if he was making a joke or being serious, Donald signaled for them to follow him out into a slightly busier part of town.

  Cloaks and hoods appeared to be in vogue at night time in Meris. Either no one wanted to have their faces shown, or people here were really just struggling getting used to the fall that was settling in on them.

  At a predetermined spot, Gregory, Holve, and Jurrin took a right turn. Ealrin nodded at them as they went. He didn’t like the idea of splitting up, but he knew why it was necessary. They would be back together once they were inside the castle grounds.

  Ealrin, Blume, and Donald continued on the straight path. It wasn’t long before the streets began to brighten as more and more lamp lights were lit. Turning a corner, Ealrin saw that they were coming close to the castle. The royal grounds were alight with life. Music was wafting over the walls of the structure and the entire place seemed to be lit. The rest of Meris seemed dark and dreary by comparison.

  From what Ealrin could tell, there was some sort of festival or party going on inside the walls of the castle. There was music, laughter, and the tell-tale sign of people enjoying themselves.

  “Doesn’t it seem like a bad idea to try to sneak into a castle when there’s a party going on?” he asked Donald skeptically.

  The cloaked man shrugged.

  “It depends on if you want to seem like you are blending in with the crowd, or prefer to hide in the shadows when there aren’t supposed to be any people there at all.“

  Ealrin supposed that made sense. But he still didn’t like the idea of so many people watching what was about to happen.

  When they were still a few stone-throws away from the castle, Donald took them down another alley and away from a group of guards who were patrolling the area.

  The houses they were encountering now at least seemed like they were kept up well. Ealrin wondered why it was only the places close to the castle that received any attention when so much of the city needed help. He didn’t have long to muse about the unfairness of the distribution of wealth, however.

  Donald was showing them the first part of the plan.

  They had arrived at a set of carts that held barrels lined up in the road and he smiled.

  “Stage one,” he said theatrically throwing out a hand and indicating three empty barrels lying on the ground next to the cart.

  “And you’re sure we won’t just be stuck in these barrels for an indefinite amount of time? Blume asked warily.

  “That’s the job of our little pyrotechnic show and our companions on the other side of the castle. Assuming all things work together, everything will go smoothly.”

  He picked up a barrel and set it on the cart, indicating Blume.

  “Ladies first,” he said happily. Blume looked like she did not enjoy the idea of going first at all.

  Ealrin liked the idea of her being alone with Donald while he was stuck inside a barrel even less.

  “I’ll make sure you get out of there,” he said, trying to sound reassuring. Blume looked at him thankfully and then climbed up into the cart.

  22: Birthday Wishes

  Prince Grattus was having a hard time enjoying his birthday. Not only was the priest giving him reason to regret the man living by questioning his authority and the usefulness of his guards, but also the wine was late.

  All the socialites for Meris were present and accounted for. This was a part of the reason for his current bad mood. He would much rather prefer to spend his time in the company of very few women and a select amount of books.

  But being the prince in a time of war meant that he would need to secure funds for campaigns that were sure to cost much more than anyone’s current expectations.

  It was odd enough to remember the old wars. Odder still to remember how expensive they were as well. If Ladis was being invaded, then the cost of war was going to go far beyond that of human life. There would be coins that needed to be paid.

  No one much liked to admit to that, but that was his place as prince. Admitting to the things other people did not care for.

  Like how useless he felt the old religion of Ladis was becoming.

  Where was the power in convincing people their greatest sacrifice was death? He needed people alive and serving him, not wishing for death to come and ferry them away from useful service.

  He shook his head and went to go ask his servants when he could expect the next round of drink.

  Several of the lords and ladies of his country greeted him as he made his way through the crowd. Thankfully, he had a ready excuse for not stopping to talk to any of them. They wanted more wine just as badly as he did. Shuffling through fancy dresses and cloaks, he finally came to his head servant, Alfred, who was looking quite anxious himself.

  “If there is not a glass of wine in my hand by the time this song is over, I will be most unhappy,” Grattus said.

  “Forgive me, forgive me, My Lord,” said his servant, bowing. “There was an issue with the last batch of wine. My servants kept saying something about a fire.”

  Grattus huffed his frustration.
<
br />   “I saw the smoke,” he said, irritated. “I’m surprised that such a small thing caused you so much headache. If my guests and I are not drinking wine shortly, there will be a riot, and potentially a hanging as well.”

  Grattus turned on his heel to leave the head servant stuttering apologies after him as he stormed off towards the castle. Without wine to dull his senses, he felt he would be unable to endure the presence of these people much longer.

  The only thing worse about being the Prince of Meris would be being the prince of a country just to the north of him where they had to endure cold weather and the priest who had successfully managed to squander most of the funds that had come from the castle on himself. Meris was not a well-off city; Grattus knew that. But he was proud of how he had found himself a comfortable life despite the poverty of the surrounding citizens.

  Grattus took a leg of meat off a tray and sunk his teeth down into it. It was cooked just to his liking, and the juice dribbled down his chin. After a moment, he remembered the priest’s promise to come calling for the prisoners later. The thought of dealing with the man made the meat begin to taste bitter.

  Retter had always been one step ahead of him. It infuriated him to no end. While his people complained about simple things like food and their general well-being, Retter was able to go on and on about how the Priests of Ladis could keep Meris safe from the outside threat of war with its extravagant wall.

  Grattus set the meat down angrily on the table and continued walking towards the castle.

  He had paid for that wall. Unknown to the people, the priest had made a deal with him but it would have made him look like a fool if he had spoken of it at large. Retter got all the praise, and he was stuck drinking bitter wine.

  A small child ran in front of him, nearly causing him to trip. Who would dare to be so impertinent around the prince?

  “What the?” he asked as someone else bumped into the front of him and mumbled sorry before running off after the child.

  The pair of dark clothed people went past him so quickly he barely had time to berate them.

  “Get back here!” he shouted at them. But by the time he recovered himself enough to order them back, a crowd of people had closed in again and several lords and ladies were wishing him happy birthday.

  How he hated parties.

  Nodding thanks, he tried to look over their heads to get a better look in the direction the two ungrateful brats ran. He figured they must be some of these more ungrateful well-to-dos’ children. Dismissing every pair that congratulated him on another year of life, he went to go grab another drink. He needed something cool in his hand. Thinking about it made him realize that something already occupied that spot.

  A note.

  He unfolded it quickly and read the scroll text.

  Information. The usual spot.

  That was all it said.

  Grattus looked up and crumpled the note, throwing it into a fire that was lit inside an ornately carved skull. No one lord or lady looked his way. His servants were bypassing them as quickly as they could. Some carried barrels of fine drink. Finally.

  He really needed a glass of wine.

  AFTER BEING ACCOSTED by a few obscure lords who had apparently traveled a great distance just to wish him happy birthday and ask for more provisions for their various cities or towers, Grattus excused himself from the party. He put the far flung landowners off on one of his advisors and prayed the man didn’t promise them any actual coins or goods.

  Most of his guards and underlings knew he desired to keep as much money in the castle as he possibly could. It wasn’t that he didn’t care for his subjects. It was that he had earned this position of prince and was going to make it worth his efforts. It was no small feat to have obtained both the favor of the king and life after the war.

  Historically, other princes were born into the royal family. After the war, several of the king’s own children and cousins had perished. This left the kingdoms of Ladis up for grabs by the most faithful of generals and servants to the king. Surviving the war, however, was no guarantee of a long reign it seemed.

  The king’s own son was gone now, or so the rumor went. Now the throne was up for the taking and Grattus had just as much claim over the kingship of the Theocracy as any former cousin or nephew of the king. He had led troops to valiant victories and through hard battles during the Rebellion wars. Now he was determined to be worth what he had put into his hard campaigning.

  Of all the parts of his castle that he took care of and sought to make worth being in, the dungeons were the one place he allowed to wallow in their own state of disrepair. What good would it do him to spend his precious coins on criminals?

  By virtue of this, the prison hall he was walking down was ill-lit and poorly manned. The sole guard who saw him coming hurried to unlock the stout door that led to the holding cells. It took some time for the door to move as it had long been neglected.

  Grattus waited impatiently and waved a dismissive hand at the guard who apologized for the inconvenience. Punishment could come later. He passed by cell after cell, each smelling more foul than the last. Some prisoners dared to stretch out hands in his direction. Obviously not knowing who was walking their squalid halls. He batted away any that came too close to him.

  “Away, filth,” he spat at one that reached out to grab him.

  “Forgive me, Prince Grattus,” came a much stronger voice than he expected to hear.

  He stopped and looked back to the cell where the hand had come from. As he had passed cell after dirty cell, they had all seemed to blend together. Black stone mixed with corroded iron and rotting criminals.

  This one was different.

  He was relatively clean, bright eyed, and looking directly at the prince. Most of the prince’s prisoners wouldn’t dare to raise their heads in his presence. Grattus was not a usual visitor to his dungeons, but when he did he insured some prisoner was tortured or killed. This was always done in full view of the prisoners and by his own hand. He wanted them to fear his very voice.

  Grattus looked closely at the man who was inside the cell. He looked oddly familiar.

  “You were one of the men in the market today,” he said slowly.

  “And you came here for information,” he replied much too knowingly for Grattus’ liking.

  Suddenly, from the shadows, several figures emerged. Some were holding swords and pointing them in his direction. Grattus remained still. He was a soldier, after all, and was wearing a sword at his hip. He was not stupid.

  Then again, figuring the information was going to come from a source he had used previously and had trusted well, the prince had waved off any guards who had sought to accompany him down into the lower depths of the dungeons.

  It would not be odd for him to be gone an hour or two and the shouts that would surely find their way up the stairs to the soldier who waited by the door would surely be thought of as prisoner’s yells.

  Before he could formulate a plan, he heard a man from behind him speak.

  “Prince Grattus,” it said coolly. “We meet at last.”

  He didn’t recognize the voice. It sounded grizzled and old. Like he expected his own to sound when others heard him. The sneering prisoner grinned at him broadly and the thought struck the prince that he could at least skewer the gloating man in front of him before he was killed by these...whoever they were.

  “Don’t touch that blade, Mister Prince,” said a voice from down by his hand. “You won’t wrap your fingers around it without a whole lot of trouble.”

  Grattus looked down to see the same child he had witnessed running in front of him earlier. Except it wasn’t a child at all. It was a...

  “You’re a halfling,” he finally choked out, feeling foolish that these were his first words after being cornered in his own prison.

  The little man smiled.

  “Yes, sir,” he said, rather proudly in Grattus’ opinion.

  “Prince Grattus,” said the voice from behin
d him again. “I have a few questions for you, and after you answer them, we will gladly let you live and walk free.”

  Grattus scoffed.

  “You dare threaten a Prince?” he asked, still not turning around. “I’m not sure you’ve heard about enough of my previous exploits.”

  “You held the canyon of Iridis for three weeks with five men and two swords between you when you were nineteen,” the voice replied. “You fought back the Isolian advance in Grellis until there wasn’t a single man left to report the defeat of the invaders when you were twenty. The youngest general ever to serve the Theocracy’s banner. You defended the King’s life in the siege of Prommus and you were the first choice of the King to lead the men down in the Disputed Lands, and you’ve only returned due to the King’s offer of Princedom here in Meris.”

  Grattus stood stock still, his eyes narrowing.

  “Have I missed anything?”

  His eyebrows furrowed.

  “Only my recent accomplishments,” he muttered, knowing full well that no one outside of himself knew of those.

  “Then I think I know you quite well,” the voice continued. “And here is my first question: How long has it been since you’ve seen the Prince of Juttis?”

  Grattus swallowed with difficulty.

  He thought back to all the injustices he had been forced to perform in order to preserve the Theocracy in the rebellion wars. All of the countless who had fallen to his blade or his men in those battles surely had relatives who sought vengeance from one of the few generals still alive to kill. The witches and heretics he had killed in the Disputed Lands during his long campaigns there.

  He had always anticipated an attempt on his life. There had been at least two he had foiled himself and more prevented by his fortified walls and strong castle.

  And this was the question that was asked of him?

  Yet this one single question chilled his fingers and made his mouth go dry.

  “Some months,” he replied honestly.

  “Let’s recount your last visit, then,” the voice said. Grattus could feel the smile, rather than see it. He knew it was time to act.