by Chris Pisano
Perciless completed another circuit around the room. “For years we’ve been hearing that my brother’s Elite Troop has been hunting wizards.”
“It seems like they have new targets now,” Thorna said.
“It’s clear we’re being hunted,” Landyr said. “How did they find us? How do we know that this place is safe? For how long?”
“The new Elite Troop used magic,” Cezomir said. “Their arrows were ensorcelled. Is it possible that some mage could have tracked us?”
“My brother has long since started his own wizard’s guild. It’s safe to assume that the Elite Troop has one,” Perciless said.
Landyr returned his feet to the floor and sat up straight. He closed his eyes tightly and scrubbed his fingers through his hair, from frustration, Perciless had learned over the years. “The gods only know what kinds of disgusting magics the king’s wizards are dabbling in.”
“What about Vogothe?” Lina asked.
“The crime lord? The king of the societal underbelly? Now you think he’s somehow involved?”
Cezomir shrugged his massive shoulders. “Makes sense to me. Rumor has it he has more knowledge about the kingdom than historians.”
“Rumor has it that he works with Oremethus and Daedalus,” Thorna said.
“Rumor has it that we are the only criminals he doesn’t own,” Lina added.
“Bah!” Landyr jumped from his chair with enough force to knock it over. “Rumors, rumors, rumors may as well be goat shit for all the good they’re doing us. We need facts.”
Perciless broke from his pacing to stand behind Landyr. “Rolin was a friend to all of us.”
“But it was my fault that he’s dead.”
“You did not shoot the arrow.”
“I’m his general.”
“You never refer to yourself as that title, so do not do so now to shoulder guilt you shouldn’t have. And I’m his king, so by your logic, I shot the arrow.”
Landyr clenched his fists and then released. With a slight slump in posture, he turned the chair upright and returned to sitting on it. “Point taken. But we need more information.”
As if on cue, a knocking came from the main door. Perciless gestured to it and said, “Then let us find out if our guest can provide some.”
Cezomir and Lina growled while the other three at the table went wide-eyed and tense, readying themselves to kill whoever might be on the other side of the door. Landyr stood and moved close enough to Perciless so his whisper could be heard. “Am I correct to infer that you invited someone to our secret safe house during a time when we should be using extreme caution?”
“Yes. This is an individual I personally know. We can trust him.”
“We lost Rolin because we trusted our environment.”
“We lost Rolin because we got sloppy by not deferring to our contacts enough. I will not make the same mistake.”
Another round of knocking came from the door. Landyr drew his sword and positioned himself so when he opened the door he could stay behind it. A young man entered. “King Perciless.”
Landyr grabbed the back of the man’s shirt with one hand and placed the tip of his blade to the man’s back. He slammed the door closed with his foot. “What is your name?”
“Wells! Wells Penderson!”
“This is unnecessary, Landyr,” Perciless said.
Ignoring the king’s words, Landyr continued, “State the nature of your business.”
“I was invited by the king.”
Perciless sighed. “Landyr, stop. Wells, how old were you when we first met?”
“Five. I was five years old, Your Highness.”
“Can you briefly explain the circumstances of our meeting?”
“It was . . . it was right after the Demon War, right when you became rightful king. You found me. You found me hiding in the rubble of my home. My parents had been eaten by the demons, so you rescued me and you personally found me a new family, one who preached love.”
Landyr released Wells and sheathed his sword. He mumbled, “Compelling story.”
“I think so, too,” Perciless said. He turned to the young man and shook his hand. “Thank you for coming, Wells.”
“Of course, Your Highness! How may I serve you?”
“I was wondering if you would be able to provide information.”
“I will provide all that I have.”
“We were ambushed earlier today by the king’s Elite Troop and unfortunately lost one of our friends.”
The young man lowered his eyes, his tone reverent. “I am quite sorry to hear this, M’Lord. I heard the Elite Troop was hunting wizards, not kings.”
“We have heard the same. In the morning we will be starting our long trek to Murveen. Is the mayor still loyal to my name?”
A large smile crept along Wells’ face as if he had no ability to stop it. “I have a lot of friends in Murveen. I visit quite often. Yes, the mayor is very much loyal to your name, as are many, many of the citizens.”
“Excellent. Thank your time, Wells. I apologize for being so brief.”
Wells tilted his head as if he were waiting for one more question. “Have . . . ? Have you not heard?”
“Heard about what, my friend?”
“In Orsrun. The king brought his gem dragon, metal dragon, and lightning dragon. Daedalus said he was looking for traitors, but we all know why he was there. He would have destroyed the whole town if not for a girl.”
“A girl? Who is she and what did she do?”
“A farmer girl named Ideria Wahl. She killed the metal dragon all by herself.”
Everyone in the room reacted with a gasp or grunt. Landyr whispered, “Impossible.”
“Not impossible, good sir. Very true. I went to Orsun as I heard and saw the remains of the metal dragon. Dead and twisted into a ball.”
Perciless looked to his traveling companions and smiled. “We need her, please.”
twelve
One end of the quarterstaff caught Bale’s cheek with a meaty slap. Everything was going according to plan. Bale was not fond of the plan, because of all the pain, but he reconciled to himself that the pain was going to happen anyway, so there might as well be a plan attached to it. It still hurt, though, to be beaten with quarterstaffs.
As a part of troop training, the king’s army would come by the dungeon of Castle Phenomere for a little live action practice. Bale always made such a great target for the most novice of recruits. A living, moving target that was not allowed to hit back. This practice session, though, Bale had a plan.
Two more hits, in rapid succession to his chest and he backed away. “Please stop.”
Emboldened by the encouragement by his commanding officer and the cheers of his fellow recruits, the young soldier with the staff continued his attack. He advanced faster than the ogre retreated and landed three more solid blows. Bale stumbled this time. “I . . . I beg you. No more.”
His words were fuel to the recruit’s fire. A strike from the right end of the staff, another from the left. So confident in his moves, the recruit spun and hit Bale squarely in the shoulder. The beaten ogre went flying into the weapons rack.
This was the hardest part of the plan. Bale knew he had the acting skill necessary to make it seem like the recruit with flimsy arms was hitting harder than a fussy wench with a pillow. He even angled himself well, getting closer to the weapons rack with each hit. The tricky part was to launch himself into the weapons rack without getting skewered or sliced. A halberd fell onto his shoulder with enough force to draw blood. Not a lot, just enough to lend credibility to his performance. The pain caused by the cascade of other weapons falling on top of him certainly helped as well. “Ow.”
“Dolt!” one recruit called out.
“Buffoon,” an
other soldier mumbled.
“Damnation. He’s bleeding.”
“Clearly he’s had enough,” the commanding officer reported. “You and you, escort him back.”
The two closest recruits looked to each other with the crinkled noses and curled upper lips of freshly formed sneers. Neither of them tried to help Bale up and just stood watching as he brushed away the many spilled weapons, while the rest of the soldiers broke away into different training groups.
“C’mon, you sack of festered meat. Move along now.” The recruit connected his boot to Bale’s rump as a form of encouragement.
Bale rolled his neck to stretch away the knots and then massaged it to keep his hands busy, so he did not ruin the plan by getting himself executed for strangling two twit recruits. They walked behind him as he entered the castle through the corner entrance at the rear, the one designated for supply deliveries. Just as Dearborn said, today the staff was unloading a full wagon of packaged spices. The cooks and servants and even a few guards carried the goods, each tightly packed sack about the size of a brick. Time for more acting.
Bale slowed his pace and increased his wobble. He listed to the left, his feet shuffling as if he had forgotten what they were used for. He successfully timed his stumble and landed on a neatly stacked pile of flour, bursting a few bags. The servants backed away, while the staff berated the soldiers for bringing an unstable ogre through their loading area. The one recruit made obscene gestures to the staff, while the other repeatedly kicked Bale until he stood up and began walking in the correct direction. Once past the loading area, both recruits took turns slapping Bale and hurling verbal abuses at him for the remainder of the trip back to his cell.
Dearborn was where Bale had last seen her; in her cell sitting on her bench. She was leaning forward, resting her forearms on her lap, her black hair creating a curtain over her face. She remained still as the soldiers shoved Bale back in his cell, giving him one last kick for good measure.
The recruits left the cells exchanging boasts about what they would do to Bale during their next practice session. As soon as they left, Dearborn flipped her hair back and rushed over to Bale’s cell. “You’re bleeding again. How badly did they hurt you?”
Bale grabbed a fistful of straw from the one corner of his cell and used it to wipe away his blood. No need to dirty his shirt. “This? This was me. I couldn’t dodge my own attack.”
“I’m so sorry, Bale. I hated to ask you to do what you did.”
“It’s okay. It had to be done.” He knew she truly felt bad and that she would have done it herself if she had the same leeway he had in regards to leaving the cell area. She had no issues sneaking from this cell area to the other ones on this floor to help the other prisoners as best she could. If she got caught on any other floor, then that would undoubtedly get the attention of Daedalus. It had been nine years since either Bale or Dearborn had seen the vengeful prince, and if neither of them saw him again before the end of their days, it would be deemed a victory. However, now that they were planning an escape, they might very well catch his attention. But to escape, they needed to execute their plan. “And it worked.”
Dearborn smiled. “Truly? You got what we need?”
Bale returned her smile and reached into his pants pockets. He pulled out two burlap bags, each packed tightly. He then reached into his left pocket and showed her the dagger that he pilfered from the weapons rack after he fell onto it. It was a very nice-looking weapon, too. It might be missed, but there was no way anyone in the army would suspect their ogre pet could have been the one who absconded with it. Dearborn took the pilfered items and went back to her cell. She hid them in the corner under some straw.
Bale placed his hands on his hips, thumbs on his lower back, and arched backward. That did nothing for the pain in his side. He walked into Dearborn’s cell and asked, “Would you be able to help me with my side, please?”
Dearborn went to her bench and laid down. “Sure. I could use the exercise.”
Once she was ready, Bale lumbered over to her and leaned onto her outstretched hands until his feet were off the ground. One hand on his hip, the other on his ribs just below his armpit, Dearborn held Bale sideways. He went limp, the muscles by her hand releasing. She lowered him and then pressed him into the air again. The rhythmic movement was relaxing, and the odd angle helped him stretch out. She must be really excited by this plan. She usually stopped at fifteen and her best ever was nineteen. She made it all the way to twenty-three before returning him to his feet. She asked, “Did that help?”
Keeping his arm stiff and rotating it at his shoulder, he replied, “It did. Thank you very—”
“Hurry!” came from the main doorway. A pageboy ran into the room and said, “Get back in your cell. Hurry.”
Bale had a difficult time remembering names and this boy was no different. He remembered that his thirteenth birthday was recent and that he had a fondness for Dearborn, because she would teach him basic fighting moves and offer him words to say to girls he was fond of. His eyes were wide with panic, so Bale did he was told.
“Why?” Dearborn asked, closing her cell door after Bale ambled into his own cell.
“Lock your doors, too. He’s on his way.”
The pageboy was gone before either Dearborn or Bale could ask, but they both locked their cell doors. That was more for show, since each of them had the means to pick the locks.
Fingers wrapped around the bars of his cell, Bale pressed his head against the cage and pressed his lips together. “Psst! Psssst!”
His efforts yielded a spray of saliva that ultimately cascaded from his chin and along the bars. His attempted whisper was no quieter than his regular speaking voice. “Dearborn? Who do you think it is?”
Dearborn stood by the bars as well. “I don’t know, Bale.”
“The pageboy seemed really scared.”
“He did. It’s as if he was talking about . . . Oh . . . oh, by the gods, Bale. There is only one person he could be talking about.” Dearborn’s voice quaked as she moved away from the bars. “He hasn’t forgotten about me.”
“No. No, I haven’t,” Daedalus said before he entered the main room. It had been nine years since Bale had last seen him and he looked just the same, save for a few more wrinkles under his stubbled face and more gray streaks in his wild black hair. He still had the eyes of a madman and his smile made Bale feel like he had snail slime oozing over his spine. “I’ve been looking forward to this day for a long time, my dear Dearborn.”
Bale had never seen Dearborn anything less than confident, let alone afraid. She stood in the center of her cell with her fists clenched, eyes wide. Bale had not expected to see Daedalus today, and it was clear neither did Dearborn. The prince had taken her by surprise. She could snap his neck with one hand, Bale was confident of this. She had single-handedly killed one of the twelve dragons! It was an adolescent, not full grown, but she broke its neck by herself, nonetheless. If she could break a dragon’s neck, she could break this man’s neck. Bale wanted to help, so he asked, “Why?”
Daedalus turned to Bale and frowned. The prince was still smiling, though, and the new expression made the ooze flowing over Bale’s spine drip faster. “Why? Did . . . did you just ask me why?”
Bale was three times his size, yet he shrunk away from the bars of his cell as Daedalus approached. There were no keys in the prince’s hands, nor any dangling from his belt, so Bale felt a sense of security due to the cell’s bars. “Yes. Why do you hate her so?”
“Well, my ogre friend, let me tell you. First, you need to understand my life has not been easy. I’ve spent half my life with an almost debilitating detestation of filth and when I finally got over that, I was penniless and powerless. As I started to experience life, I lost my arm and was thrown into a dungeon.” As he spoke, Daedalus removed his riding gloves to expose his skeletal han
d. He gripped one of the bars to Bale’s cell and squeezed. “All of these problems can be attributable to three people: my father, whom I killed; my brother, Perciless, whom I’m hunting; and Dearborn Stillheart. My father made me, my brother shaped me, and Dearborn added the finishing touches. But to add specificity to your question, dear ogre, she publicly humiliated me. When we were adolescents, during a quarterstaff exhibition, she beat me in front of all the Spring Festival goers. She stripped me of confidence, made me the butt of many jokes. No one saw me as a prince after that. Barely anyone acknowledged I was a human, let alone royalty. Dearborn Stillheart broke my dignity.”
“So, I hurt your feelings decades ago?” Dearborn asked. “And for this paltry infraction upon your ego, you still seek revenge against me?”
Daedalus let go of the bar to turn and address Dearborn. Bale ran his index finger over the indents left in the metal.
Facing Dearborn’s cell, Daedalus continued, “Oh, I will exact my revenge. I will break you. I will shatter you from the inside and I will do it without so much as laying a finger on you. You see, I’ve been planning this for nine years, the very moment after . . . after our last encounter. From that moment on, this country has been celebrating Dearborn Day, a monthly holiday when my Elite Troop finds the most magnificent maiden of the lands and brings her to me so she can pay tribute to your name nine months later.”
Daedalus backed away from the two cells, closer to the lone door to the room. Dearborn ran to the bars and gripped them tightly. “Monster! Those girls did nothing to deserve what you did to them.”
“I think you mean what you did to them. Had you simply lost the tournament those decades ago, had you not tried to stop Oremethus from rightfully ascending the throne, had you simply died, then I wouldn’t see your face on so many women!” His sneer turned to a smile when he turned to the doorway and his voice held a hint of song as he called out, “Dearborn! Come in here.”
A boy walked in carrying a swaddled baby. Wearing the smile of a snake ready to eat a nest full of unguarded eggs, Daedalus took the baby into his arms. “Beautiful, isn’t she? Her name is Dearborn. She is my newest child.” He then gestured to the boy. “This is my first born. His name is Dearborn. And here are all of my other children, all named after you, Dearborn.”