by Lani Lenore
When movement ceased and the rodents were nothing but dead weight, Armand withdrew the blade from their flesh. Then he turned to Anne.
“Jump,” he commanded, holding his arms out to her.
She looked down at him, seeing that he was covered in blood. Even his perfect hair was clotted by it in places. Still, she did not hesitate to leap down into his arms.
She remembered the battle she had seen him fighting–remembered how the rodents had closed in on him and Brooke. How had he gotten away from that without a great number of them following him to her?
“How did you manage to–”
“Nein!” he said, silencing her.
He gripped her hand, and together they ran around the edge of the room. Armand chopped through anything that opposed them.
6
Once again, Brooke withdrew his blade from within the belly of a mouse. Blood splashed, making a pleasant splattering sound as it hit the floor. The number of dead were growing, littering the battle area and forcing it to widen. Personally, Brooke hoped the number of opposing was endless. He was enjoying himself.
He knew Armand was no longer fighting beside him, but he hardly paid attention to the fact. This blood… It was something! He liked the color of it; it was vibrant. He liked the feel of it; it had fleeting warmth, like being dotted with the life that was fading from the mice. The smell was not very nice. It was worse than the dark bile which Armand had expelled, but occasionally Brooke managed to rip out large chunks of flesh–organs–and that was very gratifying.
He fought them all alone, and in his frenzied, berserk state, he was sure to slaughter them all before even realizing what he’d done.
He felt something new emerge on his face. His mouth was stretched and parted by teeth. Had he ever smiled like this? So widely; so genuinely? No, he didn’t think so, but it felt too good to stop. In fact, he couldn’t stop. Something inside wouldn’t let it pass from his face.
Brooke threw his arms about, slashing through any feeble, flesh creature that came close.
He heard a sound. Laughter. It was wicked, maniacal, and it echoed back to him from the walls. The noise gave him chills throughout. Pleasant ones.
The sound had come from his own throat.
7
Anne could hardly keep up with the pace Armand had set for them, but he pulled her along behind him nonetheless. If she’d fallen, she was certain that he simply would have continued to drag her along the floor. They stayed in the darkness when they could, veering from the rodents. What was his aim in this, she wondered. To head to the shafts and leave Brooke here to fend for himself? Though, she had to admit by casting a glance that the soldier was doing pretty well for himself out there.
Brooke didn’t need Armand’s help. She did. Now if she could just keep up.
They passed before the fireplace, a raging inferno–the pit of hell. The heat was so great that Anne thought she would be pouring sweat before they got away from it. Though unpleasant, something about the fire made her stare into it with strict interest. It was ghostly and ethereal. The flames there were much greater than she was–so powerful. In them, she saw death.
This is how I’m going to die.
It was a sudden thought, but it was so intensely felt that it slowed her down. Her fingers slowly began to slide from Armand’s. Her feet got confused in their stride. Anne fell.
Armand stopped immediately, whirling on his heels. He reached out to her, and she up to him. She was right there, nearly within his grasp–and then she was flying.
The woman flew from the ground as if a bird–but a very confused one indeed. She shot up toward the top of the mantle, and Armand finally noticed the strings that ensnared her. Looking further up, he could see the puppets hauling her upward with their living threads, stealing her from him. She rose much too high too fast, and the nutcracker could do nothing but watch.
Fortunately for him, the woman was clever. Perhaps he’d forgotten that about her. There were stockings hung from the mantelpiece, out of the fire’s reach but not out of Anne’s. On passing, she gripped one, and the weight of the trinkets and candy inside made it impossible for the marionettes to pull her further. Armand could see she was distressed, but at least she was safe as long as her grip held. He had no way to know how long it would.
Now for his part: saving her.
He could cut the strings restraining her, but the only way to do so would be to throw something. He couldn’t risk having the sword slice through them freely and then plunge into the fire. The only things he had to throw were the needles, and they would have to hit those strings very precisely in order to destroy them. He could attempt it… No, it was impossible, but even if he freed her from the strings, she would still be there hanging from the stocking. If the puppets pulled her in, she would be their captive. If she fell when he wasn’t ready, she would die upon hitting the floor or fall into the fire.
Armand looked on at this predicament. The woman he’d sworn to protect was in trouble.
He had no idea how to help her.
8
Mice and rats fell left and right. Brooke cut through them before they had a chance to sink their dangerous teeth into his wooden flesh. He was sufficiently pleased with himself.
His brother Rivere had always been quick to fight. Lakke had always been reluctant to. Brooke had fought only when it was absolutely necessary, and when he did, there were no second thoughts. But this time was different. He had to, yes, but these mice were not like rebel toys. They fell so easily, and they were all enemies.
There was beauty in this.
Brooke had cut down so many that the rodents were becoming reluctant to attack him now. They stood in their circle around him, contemplating what they would do, but he did not let them take him off guard. He moved around constantly, looking in all directions. Anything that came close got a threatening slash.
The nutcracker had run off a while ago, likely to retrieve Anne from wherever she had gone. Pity; he was missing out on all the fun. Brooke would have loved to share this moment with one who was so skilled.
Upon turning once more, his eyes fell straight upon the nutcracker that stood before the fire. For a moment, Brooke thought he was being eaten by the flames, but his eyes were playing tricks. Armand was yelling something, but he couldn’t hear the words for the squeaking of the mice. The white–haired soldier pointed upward. Brooke had to swat away another mouse before he was able to follow that line of sight.
His brown eyes trailed up toward the top of the fireplace, and that was when he saw Anne, clinging to one of the loaded stockings with all she had. Further up, Brooke saw the puppets that had their wicked strings entangling her. Her strength would wear eventually. Then they would have her.
I have to get up there, he thought. Yes, that was what Armand was trying to tell him.
Distracted as he was, a rat managed to sink teeth into Brooke’s shoulder, ripping the material of his coat and making teeth–sized dents in his body which would never heal on their own. But the rat didn’t get as far as ripping Brooke’s arm off. A quick blade through its brain was good enough to make it fall.
Armand was running toward him now, and Brooke had a good idea of what would happen when he got there. He needed to get out of this circle. It wouldn’t be too hard.
Brooke ran straight into the edge of the circle closest to the nutcracker’s destination. Some of the rodents still stood in his way, but many of them moved for fear of their death. The soldier leapt into the air, flipping over the last few and hit the ground running once again. Armand was close. He locked his hands together and lowered, and when Brooke reached him, his foot fit perfectly into the fold of those hands.
Then Brooke was sailing through the air, higher and higher after the nutcracker had thrown him. But was his aim true? Would he be able to catch hold of the stocking that Anne hung from, or would he glide straight on through and into the fire’s blaze?
He was high enough, and it seemed that the length of
the throw would be true. It was close, but Brooke managed to grip the stuffed stocking just above the toe.
In the same motion that Armand had used to throw Brooke toward Anne, he reached and gripped the sword from his back, withdrawing it once again. The rodents had chased after him, but now they would have the nutcracker to deal with. Very suddenly, Armand and Brooke had swapped positions. Each would have to pick up where the other had left off.
9
Anne screamed when something weighty fell against the stocking near her, and, in fact, she nearly lost her grip. But looking down, all her fears faded to relief when she saw Brooke. She’d thought she would have to get out of this on her own. It was a good thing he was here. She was at a complete loss.
“Hold on,” he instructed.
He withdrew a blade and gripped several of the puppet strings in his fist. With a simple wrist flick, he cut through them.
Anne felt the burden of all her weight, as she was supported now by only the strength of her own arms. She was already weakened by many feats tonight. That strength would not last long.
10
Brooke tugged on the strings that were attached to the marionettes above. He’d managed to get a few cords from both of them. They pulled back, trying to manipulate his mass. He could feel the threads wriggling in his grip, struggling to escape. All it would take would be a good, firm yank.
Making sure he wouldn’t fall along with them, he pulled them free of the mantle. They swung down and forward, just as he’d anticipated, but before he guided them into the fire, he jerked the strings once again.
One puppet snapped free of the cords and soared into the flames. His plan hadn’t worked. He had one more chance.
He jolted the strings as if they were reigns, throwing the remaining puppet roughly. Nothing happened. Once again. Harder. One of the marionette’s limbs snapped off with the strings and the rest of the body plummeted into fiery death. The limb Brooke was left with was an arm. It wasn’t what he’d hoped for, but it was something.
Twisting the string with the arm attached, he swung it toward the top of the mantle, and it caught there in the crook of a heavy, silver candelabra. Brooke gave the cords a tug to insure that they were sturdy enough. When he was sure that it would hold, he turned to Anne.
The woman looked very weak indeed, struggling through the heat and the weariness of her body, but she had not resigned herself. She held on still, not wanting to die. He respected her for that, though he would never feel that thing she felt. He had nothing substantial to cling to–no reason to fear death.
He reached out for her. When she noticed, she began to climb closer to him while he gripped her arm for assurance and leverage. When she reached him, she gripped him tightly, wrapping her body around his.
Brooke almost lost his own grip at the notion of it. To be ensnared by flesh–what a feeling! Such arousal! He had nothing with which to fully enjoy her, but he felt her against him nonetheless. It was hard to shut the sensation down, but he forced himself. He was saving her now, their lives depended on this.
Aside from that, he had no right to have her or want her either one.
Enveloped fully in her trust at this moment, Brooke used the puppets’ cords to scale to the top of the fireplace. It wasn’t too difficult, though he hoped every moment that the arm did not break or slip loose. With a bit of extra effort, he pulled them both up over the top, onto a plain that was firm and solid.
He let her hold him a moment there before he pried her away. Eventually, she came to understand that they were safe. He saw relief in her eyes, and he realized then that all of his earlier bloodlust had faded away. He had been right about her. She was something worth protecting.
Brooke smiled at her, shortly and simply, but it was so genuine that she felt a wave of shock. She realized then in that moment, looking into his shining glass eyes, that he truly held her above all else. Not only was it a simple thought, he felt it inside him somewhere. He cared for her.
She had become his new princess, replacing Pirlipat, who had merely been porcelain and stuffing.
Anne opened her mouth to say something, though not knowing what was to come out. Her eyes widened before she had the chance to find out what it would be, her mind quickly swapping to a destined phrase.
“Look out!”
Brooke turned his head to see the puppet behind him, just with enough time to raise one of his weapons to block the oncoming scissor blade that was chopping down toward them.
11
From below the mantelpiece, Armand glanced up at every chance he got between slaying rodents, hoping to finally see that Brooke had delivered Anne to safety. To his relief, he eventually saw that very thing, though it was followed immediately by Brooke battling a marionette that they’d not seen or expected.
Armand turned to slice through a rat’s jaws before they could clamp down over his head. Into his ears, drifted a voice.
“Armand!”
Anne’s voice. From up above. He cut through a mouse. A new line of blood stained the floor.
“Open the door!” she screamed.
Door? He knew nothing of a door. Hadn’t the room simply stood open from the hallway?
He looked around as he defended himself. There was an open space that led into the dining room, but then, near that… Yes! There was another door. There was no handle–one of those that could be opened with a push from either side. Just perfect for him to tackle.
But what was the purpose? And did he trust Anne enough to know that this would be worth his while?
Armand maneuvered around, stabbed through a rat, and made his break for the door. He’d expected the rodents to follow behind him, and they did without hesitation. It was slightly difficult to stay ahead of them, but he managed. Nearly every step, he felt them at his heels.
He slammed into the door when he reached it, though it did little to move it at first jolt. It budged an inch perhaps, a decidedly heavy door. The nutcracker pushed back against it with all he had. The rats and mice behind him slowed, seeing that he’d run himself into an obstruction. Still, they were not overconfident. He had killed several of them, and those that were left were not eager to lose their lives.
The door was moving, being pushed with the soldier’s strength. He managed it only a crack when the mice decided they didn’t like what he was doing. They came forward–
–only now, something was helping Armand to get the door open. A massive creature had stuck its head through the opening that he’d made, and it pushed further in order to get its body through the hole.
Duchess, the large calico, hadn’t expected to come out of the kitchen door and see so many rodents, but she had smelt them there, and the scent was driving her mad. Now, she was free, and there were her prey, lined up in front of her for the picking. The rats hissed at her. She hissed back.
Armand left the area just as Duchess made her first strike and knocked the first mouse from its feet–also just as the first groups of rodents began to retreat. They would all be gone soon, he imagined, having forgotten about him for their fear. There wasn’t much left to do now save for make sure that Anne was still alright.
She would be alright.
12
Brooke’s marionette opponent was a nasty customer indeed, attacking so fast and accurately that the soldier hardly had time to dodge or counter. He managed, but the battle moved him all across the mantle–top so that he no longer knew where the edge was, or even where Anne had moved to.
He wasn’t certain of what was going to happen in this fight, but even if he had to plunge head first into the fire, he was at least taking the puppet with him.
Their blades clashed together, grinding against each other with an atrocious metal sound. Brooke threw back the puppet’s blade, but the enemy immediately began another attack.
The scissor blade flew in–burying itself accurately into Brooke’s leg.
The edge cut through the limb almost completely, and the soldier was forced down, fall
ing on his own leg so that the last fragments holding it together snapped. Behind him, Anne could only watch helplessly. She had nothing with which to aid him.
The puppet raised the blade once more, laughing its wicked, whispering laugh. Brooke had half a leg. How was he to get out of this mess? And was there even a way? Perhaps this was how he was meant to go–though he’d become convinced that he’d lose his being in an entirely different manner.
But Anne… She would be taken by this puppet if he failed. He couldn’t let himself die. No; he wasn’t beaten yet!
Having to prop himself up with one hand, he used the other to wield a blade, shooting it forward to run the puppet through its cloth stomach. There would have been sure pain, but this blow hardly stopped the marionette. It cut down with the scissor blade, but at the very last moment that would mean whether or not Brooke would keep his head, he used his blade to throw the puppet off the mantelpiece.
It plunged downward, but if it fell into the fire, Brooke didn’t know. He didn’t care to look either. He rolled his leg over to inspect it. Splintered badly.
As soon as the puppet had fallen, Anne rushed toward the downed soldier, leaning beside him to also inspect his injured leg. Oddly, it was the exact same leg that Armand had gotten broken off earlier that night.
“What can we do about this?” she inquired, but he was already a step ahead of her.
From within his coat, he withdrew a small pouch. “This should do.”
His voice spoke of pain, but his face didn’t show it much. Could he possibly have felt the same degree of hurt as she might have if it was her leg that was broken in half? She shuddered at that thought.
“What’s that?” she wondered aloud.
The pouch was filled with a sticky, goop substance, and Brooke smeared it on the broken place of his leg. Then, he set the bottom half back in place, matching the lines of the break.
“Wood glue,” Brooke told her. “The toymaker’s own concoction. Very powerful.”