by David Estes
She rose, and the chamber was just a chamber again, cold and dark, holding no power over her anymore or ever again.
“You are coming with me,” Annise said, sitting on the end of the bed. It wasn’t a request or an option, but a command.
Archer opened his eyes, finding hers. “What?”
“We leave tomorrow. We will find the Sleeping Knights together. That is, if you feel strong enough.”
Archer narrowed his eyes. “I am. But you’re still the queen?”
“Yes, so get used to it. When you are eighteen I will relinquish the crown to you, if you wish. But for now, you are still the prince and heir to the throne.”
“And if you marry?”
The question took Annise by surprise. Under northern law, if she were to marry before Archer came of age, her husband would become the king, and her brother would no longer have the first claim, not unless she and her theoretical husband died. “There’s little chance of that happening.”
“Because Tarin left. I still don’t understand why.”
“All that matters is that he’s gone.”
Archer nodded. “Fine. I can accept that. And I can accept your claim on the throne. After all, it is the law. I was just surprised, is all. I’m sorry I reacted the way I did.”
Annise scooted closer, wrapping him in a bear hug, squeezing hard.
“I submit, I submit!” he said, his voice muffled.
“What? Can’t hear you.” She squeezed harder.
“Can’t…breathe…”
She released him and he swung his feet over her head, twisting them to the side so she was pulled onto the bed. He hit her with a pillow for good measure. Archer said, “You know, just because you’re bigger—”
“And stronger,” Annise chimed in.
“And stronger,” Arch admitted, “doesn’t mean you can bully me. I’m a champion jouster, I’ll have you know.”
“The next time we ride into battle, I’ll tell our enemy to set up a tournament,” Annise quipped.
“That won’t be necessary,” Arch said. “I don’t believe those living in the Hinterlands are much for sport. Plus, you have my charm and good looks to fall back on. With any luck, I will seduce one of their princesses and form an alliance with naught but a smile and a wink.”
“I feel ill,” Annise said, holding her stomach and making a choking sound.
Arch hit her with the pillow again, but then his eyes grew serious. “Before we go north, there’s something you should know.”
Annise frowned. “I already know about the storm. It’s less than a week away.”
“Not that. I was the heir to the throne growing up,” Arch said. “Not you. Father told me things he never told you.”
“Like how to rule with terror and an iron fist?”
“No, like what we might find in the north. The…people who live in the Hinterlands. And why we can never go there.”
Annise chewed her lip, trying to discern whether this was a sibling ploy, but there was only truth in her brother’s eyes. “I’ll bite. Why can’t we travel into the Hinterlands?”
“Because of the pact,” Arch said. “Because they’ll kill us if we do.”
Nine
The Northern Kingdom, Darrin
Tarin Sheary
Although Tarin’s memories of Darrin were that it was a harsh city, built from stone and mortar and the blood of the soldiers who’d inhabited it for centuries, he had to admit that, from afar, it held a certain amount of cruel beauty. The castle’s spires rose like giant black swords, earning its nickname the City of Blades. Beyond, almost like a mirrored reflection, were the dark, jagged teeth of the Black Cliffs, more commonly known as the Razor, the easternmost bounds of the Northern Kingdom, which descended into rough ocean waters that tirelessly pounded waves into the stone barrier, as if attempting to break through. To the south were the snowcapped Mournful Mountains, the range that ran from one end of the kingdom to the other, broken only by the narrow river canyon known as Raider’s Pass.
“It’s been a long time,” Fay said.
“Not long enough,” Tarin said, though he wasn’t sure he meant it. In this city he had found a home, a purpose, fighting in battle after bloody battle against the easterners. In this city, his true nature was celebrated, not feared.
Here I can be myself, he thought, for better or worse. In agreement, the monster inside him purred.
And yet, standing on the snowy hill overlooking the city he’d spent five long years defending, something seemed different.
“Where are all the people?” he wondered aloud. Not a soldier was in sight. Where were the marching soldiers wearing gleaming armor and swords in their belts?
“Gone to Blackstone on Lord Griswold’s orders,” Fay said.
In other words, dead, Tarin thought. “But surely he left a battalion or two. Enough to hold the border. They should be patrolling the streets. Or in the snowfields training.” He scanned the flat, empty expanse between the castle bounds and the teeth-like cliffs. Not a human nor creature moved, though a stiff wind blew the freshly fallen snow in tornadic swirls. The fury of the early winter’s storm had passed the night before, forcing them to settle down in the midst of a thick copse of pine trees, providing a natural shelter. Tarin had been worried the branches might break under the weight of the heavy snow, crushing them in the night, but, other than a few creaks and groans, the trees had withstood the onslaught.
Just like the north, Tarin though. Cracked but not broken.
Now the land almost looked peaceful. Too peaceful.
“Perhaps the storm drove them inside,” Fay suggested.
It certainly would have, Tarin knew. While in Darrin, he’d seen half a hundred major snowstorms, perhaps more, and each time the soldiers hunkered inside thick stone bunkers to ride it out, telling exaggerated stories of battles long past, heroic victories and tragic defeats. But, after being cooped up for hours and hours, or sometimes even days on end, the moment the storm abated, the bored men would swarm the streets like bees emerging from a hive, filling the city to overflowing.
“They should’ve come out by now,” Tarin said. “It’s mid-morning.”
“Regardless. We can’t see all the streets. They could be congregating somewhere hidden.”
Tarin conceded the point and they moved onward, striding down the hill toward the empty, silent city. Up close, Darrin looked much the same as it had from afar. The stone buildings and walls were snow-capped and icy with frost, but as solid as the day Tarin had left for Castle Hill after being summoned by Lady Zelda. It seemed like a lifetime ago, perhaps two lifetimes. But now he was back, and the City of Blades was a ghost town.
They walked along the cobblestoned streets, unspeaking, their eyes darting furtively about, seeking any signs of habitation. There were none.
As they approached the familiar barracks, Tarin said, “Wait here.” He donned his helmet and face mask. Though he’d spent many years here, he’d never shown his face to his fellow soldiers.
Fay said, “No.”
Tarin sighed. He didn’t have the energy to argue. He rested his ear against the wooden door, listening. A frown creased his forehead.
“What is it?” Fay asked.
Tarin wasn’t certain. It sounded almost like a buzzing, as if a beehive was just behind the door. But it wasn’t consistent either. Strange. He opened the door, peering inside the gloomy stone barracks.
Frozen hell, was his first thought.
A few dozen soldiers lay askew on every available surface, forming awkward angles. Some were on the bunkbeds, backwards and forwards and sideways, legs and arms hanging off. Others were on the floor, nestled together head to head, feet to feet, head to feet, and every other possible combination. Tarin even spotted a soldier with no pants lying on the floor with his pale feet up on a bed, creating a tunnel. Underneath his bony legs another soldier lay on his stomach, peaceful as could be. There were women, too, most of them wearing the typical garb of serving wenche
s—low-cut dresses displaying ample cleavage, their hair tied up into varying formations atop their heads. All sleeping.
And many of them snoring; hence, the buzzing sound he’d heard through the door.
The strong smell of stale ale permeated the air, which was as thick as woolen knickers.
Despite the raggedy uniforms the men wore, Tarin didn’t think they looked much like soldiers. Many were too skinny, their bodies more like those of boys than men, while others were rotund, their flabby jowls quivering as they snored. One man was so ancient-looking, his face weathered and spliced with wrinkles, Tarin might’ve though him to be dead rather than sleeping were his stomach not rising and falling with each breath. The leftovers, Tarin thought. Lord Griswold had sent the best of Darrin’s men to Blackstone to die, leaving these sorry excuses for soldiers to guard his easternmost stronghold.
Behind him, Fay said, “They must’ve had a late night.”
Tarin didn’t respond, wondering what to do. In the end, he didn’t have to decide as Fay decided for him.
“WAKE UP!” she screamed at the top of her lungs. Right in Tarin’s ear.
He ducked as if a dragon was swooping down from above, firing a glare back at her. She only smiled and nodded toward the room.
Tarin swiveled around to find tired eyes opening and heads bobbing. Mouths yawning and arms stretching. The women woke up the fastest, covering their cleavage with their hands, picking up their skirts and slipping from the barracks before Tarin could count to five.
“Who the frozen ’ell are you?” one of the men asked. The geezer, his eyes milky with cataracts.
Fay stepped around Tarin. “Who is your captain?”
The old man laughed, but it quickly transformed into a wet cough. One of the other men, a stork-like man with a long horse face, slapped the geezer’s back until he dispelled a ball of phlegm, hacking it into a filthy rag obtained from his shirt sleeve.
A rotund soldier attempted to descend the ladder from the top bunk but slipped, landing with a thud. He stood quickly, saluting with a hand over his heart. “Captain Morris at your service, uh, Sir.” It wasn’t clear whether he was speaking to Fay or Tarin, his eyes flitting back and forth between them.
“What kind of operation are you running here, Captain?” Fay said.
He shrugged. “Haven’t had orders in days,” he said, as if that explained everything. “And the storms have been fierce. We’re on an extended holiday, you might say.”
This is pointless, Tarin thought. It was clear these men weren’t interested in being soldiers. He’d made a grave mistake coming to Darrin thinking it would be the same as it had always been, that he’d join a battalion and defend the border. He touched Fay’s shoulder. “We should leave.”
But she ignored him. “When the easterners come, what’s going to happen then?” she asked. “What’s going to happen when they find you drunk and asleep?”
“I’m planning to surrender the city,” Morris admitted.
“Shall I inform Lord Darrin?” Lord Darrin was the ruling lord of the city, the castle passed down over generations.
“If he’s still here,” Morris said.
“What is that supposed to mean? He lives here. This is his city.”
The old man interjected with another wheezing chuckle. “Soon as the streams about the impending attack came in, Darrin and his group o’ fancypants started packing up. He declared the city and castle forfeit.”
Tarin’s interest piqued. “What streams?” The latest streams back at Castle Hill had advised that the easterners had turned their attention to the south, attacking nomadic tribes on the edge of the Scarra Desert. It was just the reprieve Annise had been hoping for, which was why she would head north to attempt to find the legendary Sleeping Knights.
Captain Morris said, “You haven’t heard? The easterners have amassed six battalions at Crow’s Nest. They’re preparing to attack Darrin.”
“What?” Tarin couldn’t help his surprise. He knew an eastern attack was inevitable, but he didn’t expect it so soon. And yet, that’s why he’d come here in the first place. To protect the border. To protect Annise in the only way I know how.
The stork piped up. “Aye. That’s when we started drinking. Luckily a few of the wenches decided to stick around for another night. The rest of the townsfolk fled west.”
“And you did nothing?” Fay sounded incredulous.
“Fay,” Tarin said, trying to control the anger in his voice. “We should go.” A bitter stew of rage was boiling in his stomach, rising into his chest, pouring into his muscles, his bones. He had the urge to crush these men’s skulls between his hands.
She wasn’t listening, arguing with the captain and his pathetic group of soldiers. But Tarin didn’t hear any of that, a roaring tide rushing through his head, and a voice, at first a whisper, but then louder, more commanding, LOUDER:
KILL.
Tarin whirled and stumbled from the barracks, his armor clanking as he rebounded off the doorframe, slipping in the snow, righting himself, tearing off his helmet, cold rushing in, twisting toward the stone exterior, cocking his fist, and slamming his knuckles into the wall.
And again.
And again.
Pain shrieked through him, vibrating from his fist to his forearms to his elbow.
But still he punched at the stone, trying to pound a hole through it, to crack the mortar, to tear the barracks down one brick at a time.
Destroying himself and the soldiers’ quarters was better than ripping the captain’s head from his shoulders.
“Tarin!” a voice shouted, piercing the rushing water in his head. He ignored it. He continued with his other fist. Thud! Thud! THUD!
Someone attempted to tackle him around the legs, but he barely felt it, a gnat annoying a giant. And then his legs were forced together, sliding on the ice, throwing him off balance. He toppled into a snowdrift, his bloody hands sinking deep, crimson tendrils snaking outwards like red starbursts.
Something lashed across his face. A hand. He shook his head, seeing a form over him, a slender hand closing in and then—
Smack!
Upon impact, a shred of awareness burst through the fog, and Tarin caught the next blow, holding Fay’s wrist tightly, but not too tightly. Blood ran down his fingers, streaming along her wrist. He knew he could snap her bones as easily as a piece of string—and that’s what the monster inside him wanted—but Tarin was in command of himself again. Barely. The pain had helped, the throbbing pain in his knuckles, the stinging on his cheek.
“I’m here,” Fay said.
He released her wrist, dropping his bloody fist back to the snow.
Behind her, the ragtag group of soldiers stood barefoot in the snow. One of them was still without pants, but didn’t seem to mind the cold. They were all staring at him. “You’re that Armored Knight guy they always talk about, aren’t you?” Captain Morris said.
Tarin shook his head. “No. I’m just a man without a purpose.” He stood and walked away, hearing Fay following behind.
Ten
The Western Kingdom, Knight’s End
Rhea Loren
She felt empty inside, like a waterskin drained of liquid, squeezed free of every last drop.
She thought it strange to feel empty considering the child inside her. My heir.
Rhea hated this feeling, and yet she seemed to be feeling it more and more. Before, she’d filled the hole with the burning fires of revenge. She remembered how strong, how alive, she’d felt when she’d killed her cousin Jove and taken back that which was hers. She’d felt a similar energy as she’d carved the face of the Fury who had taken her own beauty from her.
But now:
The screams of her three new Furies had only made the empty feeling worse. When they’d left, their faces torn and bloody, she’d wanted to turn the knife on herself and cut away.
What is wrong with me? she wondered, staring into the mirror. I am the queen, I am loved by my people, respe
cted by the furia and the guardsmen. Ennis is alive; I saved him. I captured the prince of the east, and I’m about to ransom him for a warrior more powerful than any in the Four Kingdoms. I’m with child…Grey’s child…oh Grey, where are you?
A tear trickled from her eye, changing direction as it funneled into her ragged scar line.
She hated this feeling, this emptiness. She hated thinking about the man who’d bedded her and abandoned her, like she was a common whore. She hated that she still loved him.
My child, she thought. Will I be enough?
She needed distractions. Something to focus her mind on other than the past.
Her Furies would ride out on the morrow with her prisoner, Gareth Ironclad, in chains. They would exchange him for Beorn Stonesledge. But until then, she was stuck waiting, bored and alone.
A knock on the door startled her. Hurriedly, she wiped the tear from her cheek with the sleeve of her dress. “You may enter.”
One of her servant women slipped inside soundlessly. She was old, her bland face featureless, her long hair gray and tied into a knot atop her head. Rhea had specifically chosen her servants based on appearance. The more plain-looking the better. She couldn’t have them outshining her every time they entered her room.
“Your midday meal is being prepared, Your Highness,” the woman said.
Rhea smiled, which seemed to unnerve the woman. Do I rarely smile? She vowed to smile more. “Thank you.”
“May I help with anything else, Your Highness?” she asked.
Rhea considered. A distraction. Yes. “Please fetch the twins. Bring them here.”
“My queen?” the woman said, looking confused.
“Was my request unclear?”
“Prince Leo and Princess Bea are confined to the dungeons, Your Highness. By your own orders.”
“Indeed,” Rhea said. “And now, by my own orders, they are to be released, cleaned up, and brought here. Understood?”
“Yes, of course, my apologies, my queen. Right away.” She bowed graciously and departed, closing the door silently behind her.