by David Estes
He shook his head at his own foolishness. Now I sound like Roan and Gwen, he mused. Talk of fate and destiny was naught but an attempt to explain the randomness of bad luck and ill fortune. No, I failed because I wasn’t strong enough. I failed because I was too slow. But I shall not fail again, not on this night.
The furia began funneling onto the bridge, forming a wall in front of him. Two remained at each side, ensuring he didn’t attempt anything reckless. Anyway, he was tied firmly to his mount, his hands secured behind his back. I can barely move, much less throw myself over the side of the bridge.
But that doesn’t mean I can’t do something, he thought. The fools should’ve sealed my lips when they had the chance…
He stared ahead, pretending his fear was naught but excitement, the tingling thrill most soldiers felt the night before a battle.
Near the center of the bridge, the furia stopped, their horses stamping and snorting.
Where? Gareth wondered, for he saw nothing but dark waters lapping against the stone columns, the twinkling lights of Portage, a path of darkness running from the bridge and across the border into the east…
And then they were there, dozens of riders in full metal, both human and Orian. In their midst, one held a flag, which snapped as a strong wind blew from the south. The flag bore the crossed iron swords of the east, the royal Ironclad sigil. A symbol of strength and you-shall-not-pass and—
I am the Shield, not the Sword, Gareth thought. The sigil is no longer mine to claim.
He saw him, riding up the field toward the front. His brother, Grian. The youngest of the triplets, but now a man grown, a born leader, decisive. Gareth immediately noticed the changes in his brother. His typically messy hair was combed neatly, poking out in clean strands from the helm he wore. His riding stance was more erect, prouder, not the brash, charge-into-battle position he used to prefer. Though his face was once identical to Gareth’s, now it seemed like the face of a stranger, the jaw firmer, the eyes sharper and wiser, the eyebrows narrowed in determination.
He looked every bit like the king he was meant to be the moment Guy was killed in battle. And yet I’m older, the next in line for the throne. Gareth gritted his teeth and forced away the thought the moment it appeared. No matter what Roan said, he would never be king.
Immediately behind Grian was a figure nearly half again as large as the king, an imposing warrior Gareth had seen kill hundreds of lesser men in battle. A descendant of the mountain men of the north, Beorn Stonesledge stood over eight feet tall, his legs as thick as small trees, his arms battering rams. He rode a horse stolen in battle from the Phanecians, who bred the largest steeds in the Four Kingdoms, the only ones large enough to carry his weight.
He wore an iron pendant shaped like a fist around his neck. An exact replica of the skinmark he bore on his flesh, the source of his incredible strength and prowess in battle.
As awe-inspiring as Beorn was, Gareth had once called him a friend.
Now the man refused to look at him. Grian also avoided Gareth’s stare, as if he didn’t exist.
They’re ashamed of me. They think I’m here to ruin them, to fail all over again.
I won’t. I promise. He formed the words in his head, ready to scream them as soon as he was certain his brother would hear.
But Roan. But Gwen.
Though the thought of never seeing them again broke his heart into dagger-like shards, this was what he had to do. His chance at redemption. His final chance to be the Shield he became the moment he emerged from his mother’s womb ahead of his brothers.
He opened his mouth, knowing the furia on each side would be too slow to stop him—Do not ransom me, brother! Archers! Shoot me! Shoot me! Shoot me! For the east, I am the Shield!—but his words never emerged, for his brother, King Grian Ironclad, spoke first.
His words were like knives. “It seems you have come a long way for nothing,” he said, speaking directly to the Fury.
Gareth squinted, trying to make sense of his brother’s words. Wait. Does he mean…
“There shall be no ransom for Gareth, not today, not tomorrow, not ever. The moment he failed to protect my brother, Guy Ironclad, heir to the eastern throne, the moment he failed as Shield…that was the moment he stopped being my brother. And when he fled from the east like the coward he is? He showed us his true colors, a pale shade of yellow.”
A pit formed in Gareth’s stomach. Bitterness coated his tongue. I want to die, he thought.
“You would dare go back on your agreement with Queen Loren?” the Fury asked, her words filled with venom.
“Oh yes, I dare,” Grian said. “If you want to contend it, we can do battle here, on the bridge that once represented the strength of the west, now rebuilt by the strength of the east. Perhaps you will kill me. Perhaps you will kill Beorn. But you will not kill all of us. You and your sisters will die, and then you won’t be able to deliver our message.”
“What message?” A growled question.
“That we are coming for your queen. Knight’s End will fall, and you and your false god will fade into history, lost to all but memory.”
Gareth knew he could still say the words, still call for the archers to end him; now more than ever he was certain his brother would allow it, even command it. But instead he breathed in a ragged, quavering breath, refusing to cry. Refusing to give Grian the satisfaction.
A few grains of sand trickled through the hourglass of time, settling silently. In some ways Gareth hoped the Fury would attack, would force his brother’s hand. But in a million other ways he wanted her to walk away.
Yes, I want to die, he admitted again to himself. But not like this. Not for a brother who hates me. Not for a kingdom that shuns me.
Without another word, the Fury wheeled her horse around and retreated across the bridge, heading westward. Her furia followed, occasionally flicking dark stares in Gareth’s direction.
Now that he was useless as a prisoner, he knew Rhea would kill him.
Twelve
The Western Kingdom, Knight’s End
Ennis Loren
Wrath-damn Darkspell and his Wrath-forsaken potion!
And Wrath-damn my stubborn cousin and her arrogant ways.
Three days earlier, Ennis had been rendered helpless by a single drop of Darkspell’s potion. He’d stared, seeing all, but unable to do anything, not even to change the direction his eyes faced. His mind had been fully functioning, which was perhaps the cruelest truth of all, for he was a prisoner in his own paralyzed body, his thoughts spinning wildly like a tornado as he was carried to his quarters, set on his bed, and left to stare at the ceiling.
He had slept on and off, off and on, for what felt like days and days, though, according to the potionmaster, the effects should only last for a day.
Even that amount of time was too long, he had known.
Still, he’d clung to hope that he wouldn’t be too late. As soon as his stiff legs and sore arms had become his own to command once more, he’d rushed from the guards’ quarters, not even bothering to wait for the mechanical lift to carry him up, instead taking the steps around and around and around, his stiff muscles burning, screaming, his lungs heaving, throwing open the door to the tower cell, which was…
Empty.
Gareth was gone.
“No,” he’d breathed, nearly breaking his neck as he’d flown down the steps three at a time, stumbling from the staircase and rushing to the palace gates, hoping against hope that they hadn’t left for the Bridge of Triumph yet…
For the last two days, Ennis had been sleepwalking, going about his guard duties with numb disconnect. In the past, he’d tried reasoning with his cousin, tried appealing to the girl he knew she once was. And now he’d tried to commit treason, and had once more failed. He was but a man, while Rhea seemed almost supernatural in her ability to stay ahead of him, to forge a new path across the Four Kingdoms, riddled with corpses and bloodstains.
She didn’t kill you, he reminded him
self. It was that single truth that had sustained him thus far, but even that fact seemed to matter less and less with each of his failures.
Now, a stream had arrived from Restor, and Ennis could guess it was from the Fury, confirmation of Gareth being traded for Beorn Stonesledge. He watched as Rhea’s eyes gleamed when she snatched the still-wet parchment from the messenger.
Her lips moved as she read.
Ennis dropped his head, wallowing in the muck of failure, as potent as sewer sludge.
Rhea screamed an obscenity and Ennis’s head jerked up. In typical Rhea fashion, she was tearing the parchment to shreds, one ragged piece at a time.
No one spoke, though Ennis was desperate to know what the message said. Anything that sent Rhea into a rage like the one she was in now was worth knowing.
Finally, after the message lay in wet tatters at her feet, Rhea said, “Gareth will be rejoining us in Knight’s End; Beorn Stonesledge will not.”
Ennis’s heart leapt. He didn’t know how it was possible, but something had caused the ransom to fail. There was still hope. The moment Gareth returned to the city, he could lay plans to help him esc—
“I will execute Gareth Ironclad myself,” Rhea growled.
“What?” The question burst from Ennis’s lips before he could stop it.
Rhea’s head turned slowly toward him, her eyes narrowing. He could see the recognition in her expression as soon as she realized who had spoken. “Guard?” she said. “Do you have something to say? Bern Gentry, correct? The subject of Darkspell’s little experiment. Nice to see you’re back in control of your own arms and legs.” The scathing look she fired at him was almost a threat: Cross me and you will pay dearly.
“Yes. I mean no. I have nothing to say.” Ennis hated that he had to play this game, that he no longer had the ear of his own queen, the cousin who he’d played with when she was just a little girl. Innocent. Unbroken. Full of vibrancy and life. She started to turn away. “Wait,” he said. Her head swiveled back to him, her eyes flashing. “I was just wondering whether the prince might still have value. Perhaps one of our enemies might want him.” It was a longshot, but—
“No,” Rhea said. “If Gareth cannot be ransomed, he is of no use to me. He dies.” Those two words ended the conversation before it ever really started.
And Ennis knew he was down to only one option:
He would rescue Gwendolyn Storm instead, then Rhea couldn’t kill Gareth, as she would need him to force her brother, Roan, to do her will.
Thirteen
The Western Kingdom, Knight’s End
Gwendolyn Storm
She waited like a predator in the dark, her eyes closed, her mouth, too. She controlled her breathing, slow and even, the rise and fall of her chest hidden beneath her breastplate. She hung from the wall by her neck, her feet dangling, her head slumped forward.
The façade hadn’t been particularly difficult to create, though Gwen had had to be creative with raw materials. First, she’d torn seven strips of fabric from the trousers she wore beneath her armor. It had been difficult without removing her armor, but she’d managed, digging her fingernails between gaps in the plate, tearing with hands that were made for tasks requiring strength of grip. Why seven strips? No particular reason, except it felt right to do while imprisoned in Knight’s End, where the seventh heaven was the ultimate goal for its citizens.
Next she’d tied the strips together, and then created a noose, double thick all the way around and triple-tied where it would secure the back of her neck to the wall. The ill-maintained stone wall of her dungeon cell was ripe with holes and crevasses in which a rope could be tied. Still, she wanted to ensure the location she chose wouldn’t crumble away under the weight of her armored body. The hole she’d finally discovered was the size of a fist, but still had enough of a stone bridge overtop that it would hold her weight. The only challenge was the height—it was nearly to the dank, dripping ceiling, a good jump for a mere mortal.
Luckily, Gwendolyn Storm was no mere mortal. Even for her kind, the Orians, she was an anomaly, her heromark adding height and distance to her leaps, power to her strikes, precision to her every move. She’d jumped, grabbing the thinnest of handholds with the tips of her fingers, clinging to it like an ore monkey. Ha. Gareth would’ve appreciate the reference. Quickly, she’d tied her noose with one hand, using her teeth to pull it taut.
Lastly, she’d stuck her head through and let gravity and her weight do the rest, pulling the double-layered cloth noose tight against her throat, which was protected by iron plate.
Now, she waited, as still as stone, letting a cool draft shift her slowly from side to side.
She heard a door creak open. Footsteps on stone. Heavy boots. Different than the sound of the earless dungeonmaster’s typical approach, which was scraping and scuffling and less heavy by half.
She squinted, peering through the strands of silvery hair that had fallen over her face.
A shadow holding a too-bright lantern stopped in front of her cell, releasing a gasp the moment he saw her. “Oh Wrath,” a male voice hissed. Frantically, he slung the lantern to the ground with a clank. Fumbled at the keys jingling in his hands. Tried one key, then another.
Gwendolyn took the opportunity to study him now that the lantern illuminated much of the newcomer’s form. He was tall, with light hair poking out from a helmet. A thick blond beard covered much of his face. She couldn’t make out the color of his eyes, but he wore hefty guardsman armor; the left breastplate was ornamented with the royal stallion of the west. Gwen could almost imagine the horse as it stood atop the cliff, its legs kicking as it reared in triumph. The sigil was a symbol of the original defeat of the Crimeans in the First Independence War.
Who is this man? she wondered. And why is he here?
Finally, the lock clicked as the man—my prey, she reminded herself—found the correct key. Had she truly been hanging herself, she would’ve died long before this fool got the door open. He shoved the door inward, letting it clang against the inside of the bars.
Wait.
He scampered through, reaching for her feet.
Wait.
She felt her body rise, the pressure on the armor around her throat releasing.
Wait.
She’d intentionally made the loop of the noose too large by half, making it easier to pull it over her head. When he lifted her further, she ducked her head and the makeshift rope fell away perfectly.
Wait.
He began to lower her to the ground, slowly, delicately, as if afraid she would shatter into a thousand pieces if he moved too swiftly.
Now.
Gwen snapped her feet over his head, locking them together as tightly as an ore panther’s jaws. He released a muffled cry just before she somersaulted backwards, springing off her hands and launching him crashing into the wall.
And then she was on him, slipping his own sword from its sheath and pressing the tip into his throat. I should kill him, she thought, but for some reason she paused.
After all, he’d tried to save her from hanging herself.
“Why did you come here?” she hissed instead. For days and days, she’d seen only the dungeonmaster, heard nothing but his scuffling footsteps, ragged cough, and grunts, and the whimpers of the other prisoners.
Though his eyes were wide as he scanned her face, she sensed no fear in them. This man is not afraid of death. The realization surprised her—it’s not what she expected from a mere castle guardsman. “To rescue you,” he said matter-of-factly.
For just a moment, she released the pressure of the blade against his throat. He might’ve sensed it, might’ve taken advantage of the opportunity to counterattack, but instead he only slumped back, rubbing his neck. “Nice trick,” he said.
“Why would you rescue me?”
“Because I made a promise.”
“To whom?”
“Gareth Ironclad.”
She jammed the blade back against his flesh. The edge pi
erced his skin, drawing a single drop of blood. “You lie.”
“I wouldn’t expect you to believe me, but it’s true. I spoke to him, offered to free him. His only condition was that I release you at the same time.”
Some instinct made her think she should believe him. Why would he lie? To save his own skin, possibly, but that wouldn’t explain why he was here in the first place. What he was saying would.
“Where is Gareth?”
The man shook his head and there was a sadness in the gesture, a resignation.
“Tell me.”
He told her what he knew, how Gareth had been sent to be ransomed, how something had gone wrong and that he was being brought back to Knight’s End. How Rhea had vowed to kill him now that he had no value to her.
“If I rescue you, then Rhea cannot kill Gareth. She’ll need him as leverage over Roan.”
It all made sense, except for the fact that this man was helping them. “Who are you really?” she asked.
“I’m Ennis Loren,” he said. Before she could laugh, he explained everything—his faked death, his false identity, the appointment as a guardsman.
Gwen hid her surprise. From her experiences with Rhea Loren, she wasn’t the type to spare the life of someone who’d crossed her. This man, her cousin, must mean a great deal to her. Still, even if Ennis’s heart was pure, he was still looking out for the best interests of the west, not the east. “I’m leaving,” she said. “You’re staying.”
He nodded, as if he’d been expecting her to say exactly that. “I don’t blame you. But if I leave with you, we may be able to help Gareth escape, too.”
She chewed on that. Yes, her mark made her ideal for just such a rescue operation, but it would be easier with an inside man. “You weren’t seen coming here?”
He shook his head. “I took the dungeonmaster from behind.”
“You killed him?”
Another headshake. “Paralyzed him using a potion concocted by Darkspell. I stole it from his chambers.”
She frowned, trying to recall where she’d heard that name before, but he cut her off. “It’s a long story. I’ll tell it to you once we’re away from here. Rhea could visit at any moment. You’re her most valuable prisoner now, or at least that’s what she thinks.”