Sword and Sorcery of Avondale

by Kai Kazi

  “I shall leave to join the knights straightaway as they ready for this new battle,” he told his father. “But first I will bid Avondale goodbye.”

  “Thank you, son,” Eaglecross said gently. “A father could not be more proud.”

  She was so beautiful, so serene, in sleep that he could not bear to wake her at first, and just stared silently at her for a few moments. Eventually he sat on the bed and brushed a few strands of hair from her face,

  “Avondale, my love.” He said, “Wake up, I must go.” Her eyes opened slowly, blearily,

  “Aiden?” She murmured, voice thick with sleep,

  “Everglade is under attack.” He said as evenly as he could, “Father has commissioned me to help lead the army in defense of our kingdoms.” She sat up quickly, as if burned by his words and blinked furiously,

  “Of course, you must go.” She said numbly, and he swelled with pride. She was every inch a queen already, “But…” she blinked,

  “Yes?”

  “Are there not men more experienced to lead, Aiden?” She asked suddenly, “Would you not be better served here, helping your father?” He ignored the sting that came with her words,

  “No. I will go.” He said curtly, “I am heir presumptive, it is proper and fitting that I should lead.”

  She bit her lip, looking unsure,

  “Very well.” She said, “Go with the Prophet, my love.” She kissed him tenderly and stood, gathering a gown about her, “I will sit with your mother tonight. I feel she might need me.” And she was gone, leaving him somewhere between affronted frustration and loving grief.

  He packed what few personal belongings were appropriate for the journey ahead and made for the stables with a gray cloud over his mind; perhaps he did lack the experience to lead, but how else was it to be gained than by doing so? He readied his horse in pensive silence until a soft hand on his shoulder made him jump. Avondale. The men that weren’t slipping away were staring at her as if she had stepped from another world. In her finery she might as well have, he supposed. When he caught their eyes, however, they dipped their heads and slid after their comrades.

  “Here.” She pressed a few small packages into his hands, “Some waxed cheese, a grinder for wheat, and a flask of good whisky.” She kissed him softly, “And my blessing. You will do fine, my love, I know it.”

  Suddenly, the palace and its grounds trembled; the two could feel the ground shake under their feet and while they could have argued that their love for each other was so strong that the earth moved, they knew that there was something far more sinister at play. Their gazes met, and Aiden pulled her to her feet as they raced to the Archibald courtyard. They narrowly dodged falling glass and metal from the ceilings as they made their way outside, which was not much safer.

  “By the Gods!” Avondale breathed at the sight that greeted her. Aiden had stronger words in mind, but his capacity for speech left for the moment. His father’s soldiers, no longer the organized unit that they usually were, were scattered across the courtyard, doing their best to mount a defense against the invading knights and the demonic guardians that were laying waste to the castle. Knights of Bledd. A red dragon soared overhead, scorching the earth every so often without any particular target.

  “Everything’s being burned to ashes,” Aiden said disbelievingly. They ran to the royal stable and jumped on a horse, Avondale hanging on to Aiden for dear life.

  Trying to steer a skittish horse through the battleground that awaited them outside the stable was less than an easy task, but the knights began to take notice. Aiden unsheathed his sword and readied to shed blood as Avondale clung to him tightly. Aiden was a skilled rider, though, and once the horse picked up on the sheer confidence with which Aiden was riding, the horse settled, its ears back in determination as horse and rider became one.

  The horse toppled under him, however, with an ungodly scream and an arrow in her chest. Avondale slipped from him and clattered to the cobbles as he tried to stop the panicked mare from landing on her. She seemed unconscious, but opened glassy eyes and pushed herself away as the horse crashed beside her. Aide took a dagger from his belt and plunged it into the mare’s heart; she had been a good mount, and deserved a swift end to her pain. The men attacking the castle were malformed, twisted beasts with piercing yellow eyes and protruding tongues. Where they chose not to kill they bore their prey to the ground for less honorable ends. The men of Bledd who fought beside them were no better, though, and Aiden looked away from three who were forcing a young serving girl to her knees, set to tear her dress from her back. He could not save every woman and child here; Avondale was his priority. The other men would have to look to their own women, and that bitter realization helped him to block out the poor girls cries as they turned to muffled, wet howls.

  “We must get to the tunnel.” Avondale cried, gripping his arm with tears in her eyes, and he nodded wordlessly.

  “Yes,” he said, looking around for the safest route, “lets go.” He pulled her behind him as they ducked and dived to stay hidden from the majority of the attackers. The few that noticed them were, luckily for them, too engaged in… other activities to chase them down. They did not seem to know who they were seeing. That fact alone made him wary; how could they mistake Avondale in all her regalia? Yet they did.

  “I will see you to the entrance, my love, and then I must return to the battle.” He said decisicely, but Avondale looked horrified,

  “Why?” She gasped as they entered the kitchens,

  “I need to protect my kingdom,” he told her, his gaze serious. She stared at him, eyes filling with tears as she nodded,

  “Of course.” She gasped, “Come on girls, with me.” She called to the serving girls and handmaidens who had somehow managed to find their way to this quiet corner of the castle, “We’re going to make it out of here and seek help in Avondale.”

  “I think that might be optimistic, princess.” A low, rough voice sent chills down Aiden’s spine; the Vlad of Bledd stood before the entrance to the escape tunnel in all his glory, armor shining in the dull firelight, “But I appreciate your spirit.” Behind him a beautiful woman with cold eyes watched the scene.

  “You.” Aiden said numbly, “It was you all along.” But he got only a dismissive smirk in return. The Vlad was staring at Avondale with a strange half smile; Aiden took his chance, unsheathing his sword as he surged forward. The Vlad didn’t even move; a sudden force slammed Aiden from his feet, sending him sprawling to the corner of the room, baskets scattering as he did so. The man that came into view was not quite that anymore; he was hulking, covered in thick muscles and scars, his eyes burned in his grey face. The bones of his knuckles had pushed through his skin, and it was these sharp, jagged points that he saw last.

  CHAPTER XVI

  Fighting was not her strong point.

  In fact, Avondale realized, she had never had to fight, and had always assumed she never would. That seemed absurd now. Why had she not been prepared? If the most charming and seemingly trustworthy men were capable of this, why had her father, her mother, why had Master Greendale not thought it prudent to allow her to protect herself?

  These were the questions as she found herself dragged unceremoniously into a bedchamber. Cold fear coiled in her belly. This was not how her life was supposed to be. This was not what she had been made for. She kicked against the men carrying her, but, although they were not the monsters she had seen at the castle, found they were too strong. Their arms barely moved and she twisted and bucked. They threw her onto the bed, but did not advance as she had feared they would.

  “Get dressed,” one said with a smirk. And they left, just like that, while she shook and whimpered on the bed. Avondale ran to the door, pulling it open to stare at the faces of them men who had just left with searing horror and wrath bubbling through her veins. They thought she would not dare to leave; they believed she had no escape, and that she lacked the will to try.

  She shivered in the doorway and ac
hed with the realization that they were right. Avondale shut the door and pressed her back to it as the tears began to slide down her cheeks.

  She dressed.

  When she was she sat for countless moments, waiting on a sign or a knock at her door. None came, and Avondale gathered her courage and opened the door once more. They were still there, leaning back against the wall as if they were losing patience. For the first time she was able to look at them with relatively calm eyes; they were huge men, cut from the same cloth as their Vlad, no doubt, but while one looked entirely pleased by the situation the other seemed hesitant. The face he pulled at her was halfway between a smile and a grimace, and it was laden with guilt.

  “This way.” The first said, “You’re late.”

  “For what?” Avondale asked, but neither answered. She found out soon enough, however, when she was pushed into a small, cozy room where a table had been set for two. The Vlad sniffed,

  “You’re late.” He said, sipping his wine.

  “I didn’t accept my invitation.” She said with surprising calm, and he laughed, motioning for her to sit. Avondale shook her head and hovered by the locked door. He sighed,

  “Avondale, I’m not going to hurt you.” He said, “I want us to work together. You are so much more than what that feeble-minded boy sees.” He leaned forward, “You’re not breeder, meant to produce child after child while he runs your kingdom. You are a Queen.”

  Avondale blinked owlishly; he was right, of course, she had known for so long that she was… she sat across from him, swallowing her fear,

  “How could you do all this?” She asked, “How? The women and children…” She shook her head and covered her mouth as he looked around. She fought to find the best way forward. Flattery perhaps? “My lord-”

  “Call me Drakho. You did before.” He said suddenly, reaching forward for her hand, “It… I didn’t know it would go so far,” he said, his voice was desperate, but something about his eyes made her pull back, “she told me it would be quick. She told me there would be a price, but I never thought…”

  “Then you must put it right.” Avondale said and pulled her hands away, “You should have done it before you raised Archibald.”

  “It was the only way I could speak to you,” he said, “I need your help, Avondale.” He ran his thumb across the back of her hand, and she found herself squeezing his hand, “I am so sorry to have pained you so.” He said and kissed her knuckles. Avondale blanched and pulled away,

  “Drakho.” She said, “I… will help you if I can, but I am a married woman. Happily married.”

  “Of course.” He said sullenly and dropped her hand,

  “What can I do?” She asked, legs shaking under the finely laid table. He stood and motioned for her to follow him to the fireplace. She slid a knife into her sleeve.

  “I can trust you?” He whispered, inches from her face as they stood by the fire. Avondale nodded, and he leaned forward,

  “Kill her.” He whispered, and she recoiled,

  “How? I cannot…” She said, “I could not.”

  “You must,” he leaned forward, “you can. You are so much stronger than you have been led to believe. I know it.” He said with a small smile, dark eyes reflecting the firelight.

  “Thank you.” She said quietly, “How… when would I have the chance?”

  “You are wasted on him.” Drakho said suddenly,

  “Drakho, if I am to-”

  The sudden force with which his lips met her would have sent Avondale reeling had he not gripped her waist with sudden ferocity. She squirmed, pushed back against the stony strength of his arms and hands. She was fighting again, but her first foray into that world had taught her something; Avondale did not try to fight his greater strength, but instead went limp. Drakho lost his balance, and when they hit the ground she began crawling away. Hands pulled her back, flipped her onto her back, and began to push her skirt away,

  “No, Drakho get off of me.” She gasped, pushing at his shoulders as he forced his hips between her legs and tore the front of her dress open. She slammed the knife into his shoulder; flattery, it seemed could not work.

  Drakho snarled, reeled back with a howl and tore the knife from his shoulder,

  “You could have so much more,” he said, and the dark glint that had always been in his eyes turned to madness,

  “Please.” She sobbed, “Please, do not do this…” she held out her hands, beseeching as he approached. As he bore down on her she finally understood; they had never taught her to fight because there was no point. She could never have won.

  “I can give you so much more than a leash and a pup,” he said, voice low with want, “I can give you the world.”

  “I do not want the world.” She whimpered, backing away with one hand clasped on the ragged edges of her dress.

  “What do you want?” He asked, suddenly calmer than she could bear,

  “I want my husband,” she said with calm, vicious certainty; she could already she what came after. His face fell. Drakho lunged, grabbed her before she could escape, and dragged her to the table, pushed the plates and glasses to the floor and pulled her skirts up, one hand pinning her by the throat,

  “Please!” She kicked weakly at his thick thighs to no avail. When he entered her it was nothing like the tenderness Aiden had shown her,

  “If you wont have me,” he whispered, “I’ll make sure he won’t have you. Imagine how he’ll feel when you drop my child.”

  “No.” Avondale screamed, slapping her palms on his broad shoulders,

  “Yes.” He grunted and spilled in her for the first time.

  ***

  “She will have your eyes,” Jon said, lazily stroking Fiona’s arm, “and my strength.”

  Fiona glanced at him, surprised. “Who is to say we are not having a son?”

  He grinned. “I think I would be so very happy to share my home with my girls,” he said. Fiona kissed his cheek, resting a palm on his broad chest. She kissed his hand, chest, and finally his neck,

  “I love how tender you can be.” She said, and he flushed with pleasure, squeezing her rear playfully. A frenetic knock at the door broke them apart, and he groaned, swinging his feet out of the bed,

  “Whoever is there best be quick about what they want,” he muttered.

  She giggled. “Be nice, Master Greendale,” Fiona teased.

  “I’m always nice.” He growled and pulled his breeches on.

  The regalia of the Royal Guard, previously his men, greeted him when he opened the door,

  “Bran?” He quirked a brow at one of them, but it was the messenger who spoke first,

  “Master Greendale,” the messenger said with a quick bow. “The king begs you meet with him.” Jon swallowed a sudden fear; Ridgehand did not beg, for anything. The situation must have been truly dire for such wording.

  “Of course,” he said, “but… what is it?” Bran and Rafael shared a look, as if neither wanted to speak at all.

  “Jon…” Bran said eventually, “It’s… it’s the princess. She has been taken.”

  “Avondale?” He said, blood running cold, “Taken, by whom?”

  “The Vlad. Prince Aiden was with her, but was overpowered. It’s only by the grace of God that he lives.” Jon set his jaw, and Rafael looked away; he knew what Jon was thinking.

  “There are men on the way to besiege Castle Bledd now, Master,” the messenger said, “but the King and Prince Aiden beg that you join them in this endeavor.”

  “Are there no others?” Fiona’s voice shook them like a hurricane; the tears reducing it to a hoarse croak, “Has my husband not given enough, have I not given enough, of our lives?” Her jaw was set hard, her chin tipped back as she surveyed them in that way that had made him so enraptured when first they met.

  “My lady Greendale,” the messenger began,

  “Be quiet boy,” she snapped finally, “Jon, I love Avondale as much as you. She was as much my child as anyone’s. I raised her,
but there are men better equipped than you to do this. Younger men without bad knees, who don’t have children on the way.” Her tears spilled over,

  “I have to go.” He said numbly, waiting for the storm, but she sobbed and shook her head,

  “I know. But I wish you wouldn’t.” She said, “For me and our child I wish you would let your honor lie for once.”

  “Fiona.” He said, reaching for her, but she stepped back,

  “I know.” She said, but she wouldn’t look at him, “It’s why I love you.”

  Jon felt a surge of love blossom in his chest for his wife.

  “I will return in time for the baby to come,” he told her.

  “Yes, you will,” she told him firmly, eyes brimming but resolute. “And this time, when you come back, you will be retired. No swordplay, no nothing except for you, me and our child.”

  “I will do my best,” he said teasingly,

  “You simply will.” She said with sudden force, “I deserve to have a husband, Jon. But not as much as Avondale deserves her freedom. I will relinquish my claim to you, for now.” She brushed her hair back, “But when you return you are mine. Ours.” She touched her stomach and he nodded, stepping forward again. She didn’t back away, and he kissed her long and full on the lips. “Thank you.”

  The armor had started to gather dust, and he had no time to polish it before setting off, but it still shone in the sunlight. The group waiting outside the castle must have seen him coming from miles away, but they didn’t seem enlivened by his appearance. Ridgehand looked older than Jon had ever seen him, and his advisors, already old men, seemed moments from the grave. Aiden greeted him first, his face streaked with blood and dirt, swollen and punctures as if it had been stabbed by spinning wheel spindles. He looked exhausted.