The Spirit of the Realm

by Rachel L Brown

  Lighthelm began to reach for the small red flag tucked into his saddle.

  Felix was two heartbeats away.

  Lighthelm fumbled with the buckle.

  One heartbeat and Felix could hear Lighthelm curse into the wind. Felix smiled and braced himself, thankful for the high-backed saddle when his lance contacted Lighthelm’s shield.

  With a loud crack, his lance buried itself into the wooden shield, making it impossible for Felix to yank it back. He gripped the lance as hard as he could with one hand. While the other tugged the reins, Berserker slowed and started to fly backwards.

  While the lance was easing out of the hole he’d made in Lighthelm’s shield, he waited half a heartbeat and right when Lighthelm unbuckled the flag. Felix squeezed both his heels into Berserker’s sides, the griffin let out an ear-shattering cry and flew forward.

  Lighthelm lost his grip on the flag and tried in vain to steady himself. When the magic in the griffin’s harnesses activated again, the magic shoved both griffins away from each other with enough force to send Lighthelm flying off the saddle. His griffin screeched and swooped down to save their fallen rider. Their efforts were in vain, as a large glyph lit up from the ground below and slowed Lighthelm’s fall. He landed as light as a feather. A team of Vestrals ran over, their runes glowing as they carried Lighthelm off the field. His griffin was bribed back to the stables by a few stable boys carrying large chunks of meat.

  Felix let out a victory yell, while he flew Berserker over the cheering crowd. He wanted to fly near the nobles, but he feared someone would recognize his griffin up close. He returned to the waiting area and dusted off the small splinters that clung to his saddle. A page boy ran over with a drinking horn, which he raised up with a stick. Felix gulped down the cool water as he watched the next batch of riders prepare to fight.

  He glanced at the large wooden board that had the tournament riders banners on it, they had started with thirty and now only fifteen remained. Felix’s banner was lost in the sea of black, white and grays around it. In a tournament not restricted by the rules of mourning, his bare banner would have stood out among the colorful heraldry.

  His next few matches were like the first. He faced the portly Lord Ravenstock and the fierce Lady Greencliffs. Both of whom fell screaming to the ground and Felix had not a scratch on him. Soon it was down to the final five, then three and finally two. Felix longed to take off his helm and wipe the sweat from his eyes. But now with all eyes on him and his opponent, he didn’t dare. The final banner depicted a sea griffin fighting a dragon. The banner was much more impressive when in full color. It normally had a bright red dragon fending off a gray griffin instead of the muted tones it now sported.

  The banner belonged to Lord Dragonir, his house was known for tenacity and he was the only combat veteran still alive. Lord Dragonir had served as a mercenary for a few years during the Roltian and Litengull wars. Though the man was getting up in years, Felix would need to think fast when fighting him.

  Berserker scratched the wood on the perch as Felix raised his visor and peered across the field. Lord Dragonir’s griffin flew down in front of the royal dais. A flutter of black and white ribbons fell into the crowd of nobles.

  “Let’s give them a good show, Berserker,” Felix leaned forward and whispered, “Might be my last.” The griffin let out a grunt in response.

  He gripped his lance and nearly dropped it. His gloves had become soaked in his sweat. He lowered his visor as Lord Dragonir’s griffin landed onto his perch. The trumpet blew and as Berserker flew toward his opponent. Felix kept his gaze on Lord Dragonirs lance, instead of aiming it at Felix, the lance was pointing toward Berserker’s chest.

  He was trying to call Felix’s bluff by making him think he was going to kill his griffin. Something that would’ve unnerved a less seasoned flyer, but Felix had seen too much combat to be tricked by this. He aimed his lance at the center of the harness of Lord Dragonir’s griffin.

  “Two can play this game,” Felix said.

  As they both drew closer and Felix started counting his heartbeats, he noticed his opponent did not carry a shield, which meant Felix could not use the same tactics he had used to unseat his other opponents.

  Right before the magic in their griffin harnesses would have activated, Lord Dragonir yanked on the reins and his griffin banked hard to the right. The wings of the two griffins brushed as Lord Dragonir flew past. Both of their lances were facing the opposite side.

  “You clever bastard,” Felix said under his breath. Lord Dragonir saluted him before flying back to his perch.

  Felix flew Berserker back to his perch. He felt the griffin tense when his mate cried out from the stables. The griffin’s feathers stood up on end, and Felix struggled to get him to land.

  “Just one more round and you can go to your mate,” Felix pleaded with the griffin. Berserker let out a low growl in response and a few pieces of wood flew into the air when he scratched the platform with his talons. A low screech from Lord Dragonir’s griffin across the field caused him to utter a loud cry in response. Before Felix could stop him, the griffin leapt off the platform and flew toward Lord Dragonir with such speed Felix had to use both hands to keep his lance steady.

  Lord Dragonir tried to get his griffin to fly upwards, but the griffin had other plans since it kept flying right toward Felix.

  For a moment Felix considered alerting the Tournament Master they were both losing control of their griffins, but he did not want his last day of freedom to end in a draw. It was victory or nothing.

  He slowed his breathing and began counting down his heartbeats to impact. He pressed both his heels into Berserker’s sides and the griffin answered with another burst of speed.

  A loud crack filled the air as their lances smashed into each other. Felix gasped for air and dropped his lance. He glanced down and saw a large dent in his chest plates. Thankfully, no blood seeped out. He would have a rather nasty bruise for a few weeks. Lord Dragonir let out a gut-wrenching scream and Felix saw shards from his lance sticking out from his shoulder. Felix started to signal the Tournament Master, but Lord Dragonir held up his hand.

  “I still have another arm left, and I’ll be damned if I lose!” he shouted and flew his griffin back to his perch.

  When Berserker landed, Felix felt a stinging sensation, he looked down at his leg. Blood seeped out from his armor.

  “Gods damn the man; doesn’t he know when to stop?” Felix grumbled and readied Berserker for the next round. There was nothing he could do about his wound right now.

  He steadied the lance with his offhand, lesser men might have kept using their sword arm to continue the joust. Felix would’ve if this was actual combat, but this was not.

  Their griffins flew toward each other, both men’s lances shifted wildly in the wind and neither of them made contact. A lone horn blew from below when they reached their perches.

  They had one more round and if neither of them won. The joust would end in a draw and both men would have to reclaim glory at another time.

  No, Felix could not lose, but how could he win against a man like Lord Dragonir? The man was a beast. With his injured leg, Felix wouldn’t be able to stay upright if he was struck by a lance. He would have to take Lord Dragonir by surprise.

  The griffins flew towards each other for the final time, Felix’s leg throbbed and his vision began to blur.

  Felix dug his heels into Berserkers sides and the griffin banked upwards. He heard Lord Dragonir give a shout. It wouldn’t be long before he would be giving chase.

  Two horn blasts sounded; Felix was getting too far away from the field.

  His leg felt like fiery needles had pierced his skin and he nearly dropped his lance. Gritting his teeth he made Berserker fly upside down.

  Lord Dragonir was at least two full griffin lengths behind him.

  Here goes nothing. He let go of the reins and let himself fall off Berserker’s back. The griffin dove towards the ground, he let out a shriek
when he passed by Lord Dragonir.

  Felix struggled to pull his lance close to him as he headed straight toward Lord Dragonir. The man was too busy trying to poke Berserker’s harness when Felix’s lance slammed into his arm.

  The lance shattered on impact, sending more shards into Lord Dragonir’s good arm.

  “What the hell?” he exclaimed. His lance fell to the ground as Felix slammed into Berserker’s body. The griffin did his best to shield Felix from the wind while he struggled to sit upright in the saddle.

  He took a moment to catch his breath and Lord Dragonir held up a small white flag of surrender.

  His griffin flew down to the ground and a few Vestrals rushed to aid him off.

  Once Lord Dragonir was off the field, the crowds below him shouted with glee, some even shouted his “name”.

  “Lord Ravlen, please land your griffin and dismount!” the Tournament Master yelled, his voice amplified with a stream of magic.

  Felix flew around the arena one last time, relishing in the feeling of freedom. For a moment he considered taking Berserker over the mountains and living a life in complete solitude, never to be seen again. But he was not a coward, and he would never allow others to think he believed his actions to be wrong. As if she agreed with him, Berserker’s mate shrieked again. It wouldn’t be long before Felix lost total control of his griffin.

  “All right, let me land and you can go see what your woman wants,” Felix patted his neck. The griffin landed in an area where the stable hands had dragged a flight of wooden steps. A stable boy jumped onto the saddle after Felix dismounted and flew Berserker away from the field. Felix gripped onto the wooden railing as his body felt the effects of the jousts. A Vestral ran up the stairs and helped him down, pink magic swirled around healing the minor injuries. But his leg would need more intense care.

  “I need to remove your armor to heal your leg,” the Vestral said. Felix batted his arm away. The magic had healed him enough to walk.

  “Not until I receive my prize,” he snapped and stormed across the arena toward the royal dais. Felix spotted his mother first, her ink black mourning gown stood out amongst the others as her long black mourning veil danced in the wind. To his great surprise, Lady Ethelbright was standing next to her in a light silver dress. He wondered how she had gotten herself unbanished from court. Whatever the case, they didn’t look to be friendly. It seemed somethings would never change.

  The Queen had stepped down onto a lower platform. Her dress was a dark silver with black and white griffins embroidered into the fabric. A white veil meant to keep the dust off covered her hair, like most of the noble ladies around her. A circlet of pearls had been placed on top of her head. She could not wear the crown of state until she was anointed at her coronation.

  At her side was a tall man, his black tunic was embroidered with silver vines. A gold and silver crown, forged to resemble vines, sat atop his head. He was none other than the King of the Western Marshes, the man solely responsible for all the troubles Felix had been dealing with for the past few years.

  Felix’s hands balled into fists at his side as his magic swirled inside him, he longed to throw a fireball straight into that pompous bastard’s face.

  “Are you all right?” the Tournament Master asked when he walked over to Felix.

  “Yes, I just got banged up a bit,” Felix said through gritted teeth.

  “Right, let’s get this over with so you can get healed,” the Tournament Master said. He halted just before the platform and bowed when he faced the Queen. “It is with the greatest pleasure I introduce the winner of this tournament to Her Majesty the Queen and her esteemed guest King Olric.”

  Felix bent down on one knee, wincing when his injured leg sent a wave of pain through him. He was glad they couldn’t see his face through his visor.

  “Lord Ravlen, you have fought with the utmost bravery and we are proud to proclaim you the winner of this tournament,” the Queen said. Her voice trembled when she spoke, clearly not used to speaking in the formal Royal Speech. As she walked down the wooden steps into the arena, a servant followed behind carrying a small crown made of copper and inlaid with silver griffins.

  “Good sir, please remove your helmet so the Queen may place upon you the Crown of Bravery,” the Tournament Master said when Felix rose.

  Felix sucked in a breath and removed his helmet. A wave of gasps and murmurs swept through the crowd of nobles above him. The Queen, however, didn’t seem to notice as she continued toward him. The Tournament Master’s eyes widened with horror, and he ran over to stop the Queen’s approach.

  “What is going on?” the Queen asked. The Tournament Master signaled a trio of guards, who rushed over. Felix held up his hands when they pointed their spears at him.

  “That is Prince Felix!” the Tournament Master shouted. King Olric stormed down from the platform and stood by the Queen. His face was dark with fury.

  “Your Majesty, this man has committed grave crimes against the Western Marshes! Are you going to let him walk away with no punishment?”

  “Brave words from a man who lets his countrymen raid and destroy the lives of others,” Felix snapped, turning to face the crowd of commoners. “Understand that everything I did was to keep this kingdom safe from those who would do us harm!”

  “Felix! Do not make things worse for yourself!” his mother called out over the crowd; she had lifted the veil from her face. Her eyes were bright with anger.

  “Guards, please restrain the Prince and take him to his old quarters,” the Queen said, her words were tinged with weariness. She turned and went back up the steps with King Olric at her heels, yelling at her about wanting an execution.

  As they led him away, the crowd began to shout; some cheered for him while others cursed his name. He glanced back at the dais and saw his mother had turned her back to him.

  He was a fool. He should’ve run for the hills.

  12

  Seeds of Rebellion

  SINCE MARIUS’S DEATH, melancholy had swept over the village. Sade kept watch over the shrines while they waited for the nearby temple to send someone to take over. She pulled her cloak close around her as the winds picked up. They kept the shrines inside a small building that desperately needed a new roof. Sade sat outside the doorway; she spent most nights here watching for any troublemakers that might want to mess with the shrines inside.

  Corin and his men had reinstalled the God of Justice’s statue in the shrine. At first Sade had expected outcry from the villagers, but none seemed to notice as they went in and out, begging the Goddess of the Harvest for help.

  “You can go inside, the Gods won’t bite.”

  Sade looked up to see Corin standing over her, holding a small bowl of steaming stew. Leida and Attrius moved past him into the building.

  “No, I fear I am not allowed inside any shrines.”

  Corin’s eyes narrowed. “Why?”

  “Because an outcast Vestral is not meant to be seen in the presence of the Gods. They might smite me,” Sade shrugged.

  Corin laughed. “Oh come now, the Gods might see you as a Vestral who is so devoted to their God they don’t give up hope even when those around them have.”

  He tried to hand her the bowl of stew, but Sade gently pushed it away.

  “Sade, we did not hunt down the rest of those boars for nothing. You are looking ill,” he said and placed the bowl next to her. “It’s got onions in it. One of Jerrick’s boys found a few wild ones.”

  “I’m not hungry,” she muttered.

  The smell of incense wafted through the air as Corin and the others began their prayers. She held the bowl of stew in her hands; bits of boar meat had floated to the top. She placed the bowl back down, ignoring the gnawing hunger in her stomach and looked to the sky above.

  The constellations were changing as they headed into winter. Sade wished she had paid attention to the Star Gazers lectures when she was training in the Temple, but she’d been more concerned with learnin
g magic back then.

  She tugged out the rune for the God of Justice; it cast a soft orange glow on her hand. She clasped both hands over it and pulled it to her chest, reveling in the feeling of Divine Magic. She closed her eyes and let herself drift a bit into the magic. Letting the warmth cover her like a blanket.

  Murderer.

  Marius’s voice floated on the wind; her eyes flew open. She jumped to her feet, ready to face a wraith, instead she only saw dead leaves blowing around.

  “Sade, you can get some rest,” Attrius said. He poked his head out the door of the shrine. “Leida has decided to do a full-blown ceremony for every God and Goddess.”

  Such ceremonies could take the entire night if Leida stuck with the proper protocols. Sade knelt and grabbed the bowl of stew. She handed it to Attrius, whose brow furrowed as he stared at it.

  “You’ll need it,” Sade said then walked away.

  NO MATTER HOW HARD she tried, sleep evaded her. Marius’s face was the only thing she saw when she closed her eyes, and his screams were the only thing she heard in her dreams. Sade yanked back the blanket and opened the shutters to the window. A weak ray of sunlight filled the room, causing runes on the table to glitter.

  She grabbed her cloak and headed out into the village. A few sleepy-eyed people walked past her, some of them lugged buckets from the well. Despite disaster staring them in the face, these villagers looked determined to keep doing the same things they did every day. Though they were looking more like skeletons than anything else. Soon, this place was going to be a graveyard.