by B Lynch
Royth bit his tongue. He knew well what Marrol intended; Royth’s once-good name would be dragged through shit-caked mud, and worse besides. The blame for Valric’s death, for the robbery, for the killings - even King Rionn’s sickness, poor crops, and the pox - all would be his fault. His would be the name whispered in children’s ears to frighten the wickedness from their hearts; his would be the form burned in effigy. And his Amaniren brothers and sisters would suffer, should they be so far north. Their dark skin would mark them for a greater pain, because of him - because he ran. It was a cruelty he’d never expected of Marrol.
If he stayed, Marrol would not be satisfied with silencing him, or keeping him from helping anyone who would disrupt his power. There’d be an axe’s blade nicking the back of his neck, as soon as Marrol found the opportunity. More than anything, Royth wanted to live and see Caliandra on her throne - and Marrol, the pretender, cast out.
But when? He wondered. With the axes gone, it could be months - years, even - before they were recovered. If they were recovered. Marrol would not let him live so long, if he stayed. He’d be dead within weeks. But Royth knew if he left - if he lived - then he’d have ways of helping Caliandra. And even if he never saw it in person, he’d make damn sure he did all in his power to bring that day to fruition. That called for hardness. For strength. For the Royth of the old days; the Zstraki days. Nothing showed on his face as he looked the King in the eye, and made his decision known.
“Then I will be your villain,” Royth replied, bitter. Marrol smiled; it was the grin of a man who’d bested a rival with great cleverness. Royth didn’t doubt that for a second. Don’t get too familiar with that feeling, Your Majesty, he thought.
Royth glanced at the Sparrow. “Follow me,” he said. “I know a way to the woods.” As they took to the stairs, Royth heard Marrol speak one last time.
“Yom-speed, Royth,” Marrol said. “And never come back.”
“Not while you’re alive,” Royth said, as he led the Sparrow out of the dungeon, and into the castle proper.
He looked left and right - and then, darted down the southern hall, towards the buttery. “Say nothing,” he said. “If there is a butler there, do not attack him. Let me handle him.”
It was fortunate, then, that there wasn’t; they took the steps down into the buttery quickly, and found no one watching the royal stores. Royth passed the collection of bottles, barrel, and casks, and led the Sparrow to a dark corner, blocked by a particularly large barrel. He rolled it aside to reveal a passage carved out of the stone - barely big enough for him to fit through on hands and knees, but well large enough for her. “Go through,” he said. “It’ll put you on the outside of the castle walls. I’ll come after.”
He felt her grab his arm. “Like hell,” she said. He saw a single-minded determination in her eyes; something he hadn’t felt in years. “You go first, and lead me out. The hell with the barrel.”
Royth was about to argue when he heard steps in the distance - near the buttery door. “Fine,” he said, as he ducked to his elbows and knees, and crawled into the passage. The Sparrow was quick behind him, keeping pace with his movements. There was no light to be had, but he didn’t need it; he’d carved it out himself, along with six other such passages, scattered throughout the castle. The dirt and rubble tore at the skin on his kneecaps, but finally, he saw the cracks of light - around the false side that he’d set in the outer wall.
He got close, and pushed. It stuck, at first, but he persisted; finally, it gave a few inches, and then a few inches more. Enough for a burst of fresh air to come through. He was glad for it; the still, stultifying air of the dungeon was enough to dim any man’s hopes. He pushed harder, until it fully moved aside - and let him out, to freedom, and the outer walls.
Feeling the dirt and grass beneath his fingers was a welcome relief; being able to stand, tall and free, was another. The Sparrow crawled out of the passage behind him, and found her footing next to him.
“Where now?” she asked.
“If we can make it through the woods,” he said. “There’s a town not far from here. We’ll steal what we need, and then you’ll take me back to the Nest.”
The Sparrow raised a sarcastic eyebrow. “That won’t go poorly at all,” she said.
“It’ll go better than you think,” he replied. “This way.”
He ran for the trees, and she followed him - mirroring his every footstep. He let his mind drift, and as he wove through the forest, he began to plot.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
The blood had not yet stopped flowing from Marrol’s arm when Kells descended the dungeon stairs with urgent purpose. Marrol could feel the slick warmth mixed with the pain, and hoped Kells’ first reaction would be one of alarm, or pity. It was not. “They’ve escaped,” Marrol said to the Captain of the Guard. “Now help your King.”
Kells looked around the room, and observed it. “Where are the prisoners, Your Majesty?” he asked. Marrol did not flinch, but he did not think as quickly as he had hoped; he was not in the least bit accustomed to lying.
“They escaped,” he said, nervous. “Royth had picked his lock, and freed the woman. They caught us unaware, and killed my guard.”
Kells squinted, with scrutiny. “It is lucky you survived, then,” Kells remarked, “and that you were not taken hostage.”
Marrol blanched. “Well, they couldn’t,” he said, as quick as he was able to come up with it. “They had to escape, so I was hit with a club, or a chain, or some sort of blunt weapon - I came to only moments ago.”
“I disagree, Your Majesty,” Kells said, as he descended the stairs. “I think you let them go. Much like you had men loyal to you kill the vault guards, and arranged for the Sparrow to attempt to kill Royth, and kidnap Caliandra. Would that be correct?”
Marrol gritted his teeth. His hand hesitated near his sword, but he kept it sheathed. If he drew on Kells, and someone were to see - it would be the end of his plan. But if Kells drew on me…
“Falsehoods,” Marrol said. “Nothing but lies and falsehoods. I have been attacked, prisoners have escaped, and you say such things of me?”
“I measured the wounds on the vault guards,” Kells replied, as he came to the bottom step. “Do you know what I found, your highness?”
“You found that they were dead,” Marrol said, harsh. “Now, go find Royth, and the Sparrow. Bring them here.” But Kells ignored him.
“The wounds inflicted were a match for our own soldiers’ daggers,” Kells said. “The vault guards were killed by their brothers. Just as this one was betrayed by his king,” Kells added, gesturing to the man on the floor, “I’d wager the dagger on the floor is the one you should have in your empty sheath.”
Marrol grew pale, and felt a nervous tremor jet through his body. His breaths became rapid, and his thoughts raced. Kells knew. Marrol’s mind darted to the dagger - but that wouldn’t work. Killing Kells would only make things more difficult. He thought of a possibility - a different way out. “And what if it is?” Marrol said.
“So you admit it? You admit your treason?” Kells said, firm.
“I admit that if you try to jail me, or draw steel upon me, it will look all the worse for you,” Marrol said. He felt a certain thrill from the words, and allowed it to course through him. “Can you prove it? Do you have more than mere suspicion?”
“It has been signed with blood,” Kells replied.
“But dead men are not witnesses, Kells,” Marrol said. “And the living who could speak to it have escaped. The killers of the vault guards could have as easily taken another guard’s dagger and used it themselves.” The King saw each retort clear in his mind’s eye, and seized them. But Kells was more than unsettled; he was incensed.
“You killed them, and set the traitor free,” Kells said. “I should slit your throat and be done with it.”
Marrol laughed. “Washing blood away with blood… think about what has happened here, Kells. For the first time in ages, a Barrish
man has assumed the throne without fate, without magic - and you want to kill him?” Marrol almost said wanted, but held his tongue. “Do you not believe in your fellow man?”
“I believe if there is justice, you’ll lose your head,” Kells said, eying Marrol angrily, hand on the pommel of his sword.
“There won’t be justice,” Marrol replied. “Not when all evidence points to you. Arranging the death of the vault guards, the theft of the Axe, the disappearance of the prisoners in your care… the poisoning of the King, and the untimely death of Prince Valric.” Marrol watched Kells flinch at the last bit, and knew the money he paid was worth it. “Oh yes,” Marrol said, “Your men are nowhere near as loyal as mine, Kells.”
Kells swallowed, but kept an eye on Marrol. “I saved our country from war,” he said. “He threatened children with steel, Marrol. That’s not the path of an honorable man.”
“You and I know that,” Marrol insisted. “Because we are honorable men. We are good men, Kells. We know what’s best for our country. And because of that, I want to give you mercy,” he said, holding out a hand. “Join me. And you’ll live to care for your children.” Marrol savored the other thought that went with it; sharing a bed with Ostre, while Kells cared for the children like a fool.
“Good men don’t kill their own,” Kells shot back.
“And what does that make you?” Marrol replied. And as he saw the stunned look on Kells’ face, he knew for certain. The killing blow, he thought. Kells did not speak for a long time; he stared at the floor. Marrol waited for his response.
“I am not a good man,” Kells finally said. “But I can still do good.”
With that, Marrol smiled. “Then do good with me, Kells,” he said. “You know the face of a losing battle. Give up these thoughts of betrayal, and help me forge a new Barra.”
“If you wish to do good, Marrol, bring back the axe,” Kells said. “Barra needs it.”
“Barra needs no axe,” Marrol said. His face clouded with the beginnings of anger. “Barra needs me. Men are the caretakers of the kingdom, not weapons. They are our tools of war, Kells - without the hand to swing it, an axe is worthless.”
“The Axe has not steered us wrong, Marrol,” Kells sighed, as he turned back to the steps, and walked away from his wounded King. “Many think it a blessing. Only you ever thought it a curse.”
“Where are you going?” Marrol demanded, as he watched Kells ascend the stairs.
“To find the prisoners,” Kells said. “I imagine I won’t… Your Majesty.”
Marrol watched as Kells left, and - although he knew he’d won the battle of wits, and saved his own life - Marrol wondered what he’d lost to do so.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
Kells came away from the dungeon with a heaviness in his heart.
I can still do good, he thought. But he gritted his teeth, and regretted the cost at which it would come. If he moved against Marrol, without evidence, he’d risk his own life - and the reputation of those around him. The blame fell too easily at his own feet. And if he didn’t, he risked more.
But later, as he addressed the first guards he could find, and sent them to search the castle, Kells could not find an easy answer - or rather, any answer. As wrong as Marrol was, until an alternative was found, he had to be tolerated. He had to be listened to. Kells had resisted his influence before, but now, it would be a mixture of stubborn defiance and well-chosen battles. Marrol knew the truth - he knew whose blade pierced Valric’s gut. The first course of action was to do exactly what Marrol wanted - search for the escaped prisoners, but fail to find them.
Kells coordinated hunting hounds, men on horseback, and so on - but pointed them towards the likely places, knowing that Royth would have never been so obvious. Kells was surprised, of course, to see Caliandra on horseback; more for her suspect timing than anything. She had a small, rolled-up carpet strapped to the horse’s side, with a tell-tale bulge that gave him instant alarm.
“Get down from there, Lady Caliandra,” Kells said; his tone was surly, and with a hidden sword in her carpet, he knew damn well what she wanted. “You go no further.”
“I’m going out for a ride, Kells,” she said, annoyed. “Why are you trying to stop me?”
“The prisoners have escaped,” Kells replied. “Until they’re found, you cannot leave the premises.” His eyes darted over to the carpet. “I’m not going to find a blade inside that, am I?”
“I’m taking it to my mother’s estate,” she said, as she blanched. “It’s a personal errand.” Kells motioned to two guards nearby, who came over with spears. He watched Caliandra’s gaze dart over towards them, then back at Kells, nervous.
“Oh, I doubt that very much,” Kells said, as he looked her straight in the eyes. Caliandra leaned down, towards him, and whispered.
“I saved your life, Kells,” Caliandra said, soft and careful. Her vision was fixed on the guards. “Call them off. You owe me this.”
“I’m saving yours,” Kells replied, more stern than before. “Get down from your horse, Caliandra. Now.”
Caliandra fumed; her quiet words turned hostile. He’d rarely seen her so angry, but not once had he seen her on the edge of rage. “He’s out there, and you let him live,” she said. “Let me go, for my brother’s sake.”
“Your brother wouldn’t want this,” Kells said. “He died knowing he’d saved mens’ lives. He wouldn’t want you throwing yours away.” The guards raised their spears. “Don’t fight me, Caliandra,” Kells said, as Caliandra considered her options. Other guards were coming back, and would surround her soon - but he knew they would hesitate. It was only days before that she was their Princess, after all. The ones in front of her stood firm, and held their ground; he only wondered if they would be willing to stop her.
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
Caliandra charged past Kells, towards the forest; she hoped to avoid the group of soldiers that blocked her way, but instead, found herself stopped by another set on horseback. Caliandra pulled on her horse’s reins, and rapidly slowed to a stop - dirt and grass kicked up from the ground, and brushed her leg. She recognized one of the riders, and her heart jumped. The man that Royth said she’d fall in love with; the soldier, Darryn, with his ice-blue eyes, the scar that framed his cheek, the spear and horse that blocked his way. “Good afternoon, Lady,” Darryn said, with the hint of a smile. “And where are you going?”
“Hunting,” she said, with no tremor in her voice - only pure conviction.
“Without a bow, or spear?” he asked. “Odd choice.”
“With a carpet,” she said. It set the other riders to laughter, but she saw the guards coming from behind her, with their spears; she wouldn’t have much chance to escape.
“Then I’m afraid you’ll have to turn back to the castle,” Darryn said. “If you had a bow and could shoot it, maybe you’d be of some use. A carpet’s another matter entirely.”
Caliandra did not smile; in fact, she dismounted, and moved straight to the carpet - and pulled at the handle of the sword contained therein. She produced an iron long sword, which only moved the riders to greater laughter; Darryn, however, did not laugh. She didn’t care if Kells saw it as he approached; she only cared that she passed the men.
“With that in hand, she’s welcome to try,” the round man next to him chortled. But Darryn had dismounted, and began to approach her with caution.
“Lady,” Darryn said, “I’ll ask you to put that back.” She didn’t; with hesitation, she turned the blade towards him.
“Let me through,” she said. “I want Royth dead.”
“That presents a problem,” Darryn said. “We’ve orders to take him and the Sparrow alive, and we can’t risk you coming to harm.”
“Of course,” Caliandra sneered. “Because a noblewoman’s death is such a tragedy.” It was then that she saw a small tinge of sadness in his face, prompted by her flippant remark - as if he might have agreed it was so. Why should he care what happens to me? She wondered.
<
br /> “When it comes so soon after the loss of her brother and father,” Darryn said, “it’d be a catastrophe.”
Unnerved, Caliandra strengthened her grip on the sword’s handle, to compensate. To give herself some solid purpose. “Out of the way, Darryn,” she said. “I want my revenge.”
“You’ll not get it,” he replied. “But if you want a fight, I’m glad to give you one.” She saw him draw his sword, and her heart raced in horror. She only wanted to intimidate him; she never imagined to fight him. But with the other guards closing in behind her, she had no choice - if she wanted to go forward, it was through him.
“Come,” he said. “Let’s see if you’ve got the iron in you.” Caliandra hesitated, but pointed her sword towards him.
“Move aside,” she said. Her hands trembled a little, but she held the sword firm. “I don’t want to fight you.”
“Beat me, and I’ll let you pass,” Darryn replied. “Then you can have your revenge, if you can catch them.”
Her sword stood still in the air, as she thought; a second later, she knew what she needed to do. She swung, and hated herself for it. He blocked, and for that, she was grateful; yet she did not forgive him. She swung again; her arms dragged heavy iron through the air, and it met with Darryn’s strong resistance. Caliandra continued to swing, and each time Darryn blocked, dodged, or parried it; but he never went on the attack. Not once. Her shoulders grew weary after minutes of swinging the heavy blade around, and she found herself frustrated - and short of breath - as they danced deadly in the grass.
His fellow soldiers were silent at first, but later cheered; were she not already red in the face, she’d have more been thoroughly embarrassed.
“Why don’t you fight?” Caliandra grunted in frustration, as he blocked another blow – close enough that her voice could be heard, quiet enough that none around could hear.