Prince of Demons

by Mickey Zucker Reichert

  Apparently, Charra interpreted the silence as Kevral’s willingness to listen. “The king’s new sages . . .” Charra referred to the elves in this manner, “. . . claim they can detect pregnancy at its earliest stages. You are to lie with the prince until either they detect one or your courses start. At that time, you are free to stay in-or leave Pudar with the promise that, if a baby results, you return it here. If it’s a healthy female, your obligation is finished. If sickly or a boy, it remains and you agree to lie with the prince under the same terms. In either event, the remainder of your teaching commitment to Pudar is waived. The twins stay as collateral until the new baby is delivered.”

  Kevral felt as if a fire had kindled in her chest and gradually washed over every part. “And if I don’t agree?”

  “Lady, you’ll leave no choice but to force it upon you, unwilling.”

  Kevral exploded. “Get out of here, Charra!”

  “Lady, the world needs you. If you see it as the honor it is instead of—”

  “Get away!” Kevral howled like a war cry. “Leave me alone.”

  Frightened by the noise, the baby beneath the shroud screamed. Charra cradled it in her arms as she skittered away, and Kevral caught one last glimpse of her son.

  Pacing like a caged lion, Kevral watched the shadows swallow up healer and baby, heard the howls fading down the corridor. Her chest ached, as if Charra had spirited away her very heart. The urge to kill seized her, to expend life and rage in a wild flurry of thrust and parry. Instead, she launched into a frenzied kata, imagining a sword with such intensity that it became more real than the bars and the memory of a situation too desperate to contemplate.

  For hours, Kevral lunged, whirled, and dodged, until fatigue fully overcame rage. At length, she sat on the cold floor of the cell, trying not to contemplate what she could not change. The extinction of mankind lay in the hands of herself and others. Let the others carry the burden. Yet Kevral knew enough about pregnancy to realize that even the most persistent farm women did not produce offspring every cycle. Eventually, they would all fall prey to death or sterility. One more baby. Two, maybe. Eventually a cycle will slip through, and my responsibility will end. The idea that King Cymion intended to dictate who fathered the babies stirred the ashes of her anger. I won’t agree to that. He can find another woman to birth his royal bratlings.

  Again footsteps clomped down the hallway. Ire flared anew. Kevral did not want to talk to anyone, not while the burden of a species hung over her and a foolish king tried to dictate the future of her children and her body. She needed time to think out her next course of action, even her next words. Otherwise, she might condemn herself to a dishonorable death and her children to life as orphans. They deserved the right to come before the Renshai chieftain, who would determine whether they could join the tribe. She would need to argue well to convince them that their fathers’ bloodlines would serve, rather than dilute, the race. Only then could she give the boys the names of Renshai who had died in valiant combat who would then become their guardians in Valhalla.

  Kevral grabbed the top blanket, hauling it into the center of the cell, then curling up on it. She feigned sleep. Only that might spare her from another round of unreasoning demands and whoever approached from violence.

  The footsteps stopped at her cage. Metal clinked a random cadence. When the one who watched neither spoke nor left, Kevral opened one eye a crack.

  A guard in a mail shirt knelt in front of her door, a steaming plate of food on the ground beside him, a key in one hand, and a mug of water in the other. A sword hung from a sheath at his left hip.

  Kevral watched him with both eyes now as he inserted the key in the lock and twisted. A click snapped through the cell, and his gaze swung toward her. Kevral closed her eyes, remaining still, and the guard continued working. He set the mug down just beyond the door, so it would not spill when the gate pivoted shut. He turned and hefted the food.

  Kevral rose and sprang. The guard dropped the plate and whirled, hand rushing to his hilt. Clay shattered against stone, flinging lumps of chicken and beans. Mashed roots splattered the floor and walls. Kevral darted for the opening as the guard shifted to fully fill it. The sword rasped from its sheath.

  Unable to check her charge, Kevral nearly impaled herself. She ducked frantically under the hovering blade. Her foot mired in a blob of food, ruining the perfect nålogtråd, “needle and thread,” Renshai maneuver she intended. The guard pivoted with her, sword speeding toward her again. Regaining her balance, Kevral spun. As the blade whipped for her, she dodged toward the guard, scooting beneath his arm. He followed the motion, and she reversed in an instant. Overshooting her location, he spun in a wild circle that lost him her position for a deadly moment. Kevral bore in, seizing his sword wrist by a well-learned pressure point. His own momentum twisted his wrist. He staggered, trying to rescue his grip on the sword. His foot slammed down on a shard of the plate. The scramble for balance stole attention from his hold. The sword plummeted, and Kevral snatched it gracefully from the air. She finished with a lightning head strike.

  Terror filled the guard’s eyes suddenly with the desperate certainty of death. His frenzied evasion would not save him.

  At the last moment, Kevral pulled the strike, though it nearly cost her her equilibrium as well. Save your anger for the one who deserves it. She leaped backward and into a crouch, expecting the sentry to attempt to regain his sword.

  He did not, nor did he run. “Thank you,” he managed, gratitude, not fear, holding him in place.

  Kevral made no reply, simply charged down the corridor. True to his appreciation, the guard did not announce her escape with screams or warnings. The hilt in her fist felt heavenly and as much a part of her as fingers and eyes. She thrilled to its presence, barely swallowing back a howl of fierce joy. Her bare feet drummed silently against the stone, her step far lighter than the guard’s or Charra’s. The two sentries farther up the hallway scarcely managed to draw swords before she fell upon them, laughing with savage joy.

  A single stroke battered both blades aside. She lunged in with a low attack the larger one barely evaded. Her second offense crashed against his knee, sprawling him. The hallway funneled and amplified his screams to an ear-splitting cacophony. The other swung for Kevral using the maneuver she had demonstrated the previous day. Instead of the leap backward she had taught them to expect, she drove nearer, forcing him to retreat. When he did, she scurried past.

  “Alarm! Alarm!” The sentry’s footfalls and voice chased her down the corridor.

  Bastard. Kevral considered killing him to teach him a lesson, but the thought passed quickly. And what lesson would I be teaching him? How to bleed? Instead, she quickened her pace, soon reaching a set of stone-cut stairs. She raced upward, taking them two at a time. Halfway up, another figure blocked her exit. Tired of the game, the fires of anger growing with each encounter, she gave him a low growl of warning. “Out of my way.”

  The guard did not budge. He, too, wielded a sword, true to her teachings. As she rushed toward him, he executed a fluid stop-thrust. Kevral cut beneath it with an angry jab he parried wildly with more desperate luck than skill. The steps gave him little chance for retreat. Behind her, Kevral could hear the other sentry pounding toward her. “Move, you idiot.”

  To his credit, he answered only with another slice toward Kevral’s chest. She evaded it with a swift sidestep. Her sword wove under his, trapping it. She scurried to his left, kicking the back of his knee. He staggered. She gave him a shove that sent him plummeting down the stairs. Ducking around a flailing arm, she sprinted up the final steps to a heavy oak door with a single barred window. Behind her, she heard the slam of bodies careening downward, the first guard sweeping the second with him.

  Kevral seized the latch and tugged. The door did not move. Damn! Kevral yanked harder, then thrust against it. The panel still did not budge. Rage flared into a bonfire. “Let me out! Damn you all to the pits, let me out of here!” She hac
ked at the door, chopping splinters that scarcely marred the surface. A face appeared at the window, withdrawing in a wild scramble as her sword slammed the bars. “Open! This! Door!”

  “Settle down,” the man said with infuriating calm. Then, to a companion Kevral could not see, he instructed. “Inform the king.”

  “Yes,” Kevral snarled. “Inform the king I’m going to cut his heart out.” Footsteps tapped rapidly along the outer corridor. A thought slipped past the seething boil her thoughts had become. The guards will have the key. She spun, surprised the sentries in the prison had not already followed her up the stairs. Whirling, she clambered back to the bottom corridor. The guards were nowhere in sight. Huh? She stormed through the hallways, looking left and right for some sign of the men. She found them near the place where she had bruised one’s knee. All four occupied the farthest wall of a cell, three standing and the last clutching his leg and moaning.

  Kevral grabbed the door to their cell and pulled. It shifted minimally, metal clanking against metal. Kevral stared, surprise temporarily breaking through rage. “You locked yourselves in there?”

  “Standard procedure,” one explained. “Keeps out-of-control prisoners from killing anyone until reinforcements arrive.”

  “I’m not out of control,” Kevral said through gritted teeth. “If I were, you’d all be dead.”

  The one Kevral fought on the stairs spoke next. “In control, huh? I guess I missed the moment we constrained you.”

  Kevral wished she had not started the semantics argument. “Just give me the keys.” She held out a hand.

  None of the guards moved. Except for the one on the ground, they simply stared back.

  Kevral shifted her gaze to the one who had thanked her.

  He shook his head sadly. “I’d rather die on a Renshai’s sword than be executed for treason. Either way, I die. One dishonors my loyalty and my family.”

  Kevral glared. “Slow and painful is in my repertoire.”

  King Cymion’s voice snapped suddenly through the corridor. “Swordmistress!”

  Every head swung toward the sound, including Kevral’s.

  “I understand you wish to speak with me.”

  No. What I wish to do is cut your fool head off. “My second choice. I’ll take it.” The voice had come from the staircase, and Kevral headed back that way. Soon she reached the bottom and started up the steps.

  King Cymion’s face swayed in the barred window. “Kevral?”

  “I’m here,” Kevral replied, deliberately leaving off the “Sire.” She eased up the stairs, hoping the king’s first view of her would be the deadly earnest promise of murder in her eyes.

  Cymion eased back as she approached. “Swordmistress, return to your cell, and we’ll discuss this rationally.”

  “There’s nothing to discuss.” Kevral resisted the urge to spit. The king’s plans left a bitter taste in her parched mouth. “I heard your intentions. I’ll suffer none of them.”

  “Kevral.” Cymion used a commanding tone that usually quailed his guards. “Let me explain.”

  “Explain it to yourself. My answer is ‘no.’”

  Rage deepened Cymion’s voice. A critical situation, and an unreasonable audience, drove him beyond the polite composure he always displayed in the courtroom. “I am the king.”

  “That doesn’t give you the right to violate me, you bastard.”

  Cymion’s eyes flashed with a fire as intense as Kevral’s own. “It gives me the right to do as I please. And you will address me as ‘Sire.’”

  “Or what?” Kevral shot back.

  The king gave the only answer he could. “Or I’ll have you executed.”

  Kevral grinned and played her only card, “You won’t do that. You need me.”

  “True.” Cymion hesitated only a moment before returning Kevral’s insolent smile, thoughts as ugly as her own taking shape behind it. She had underestimated his desperation. “But I don’t need your sons. If you don’t do as I say, I’ll have them killed. Thirst will weaken you long before it will my guards down there, and I’ll still get what I want. Your babies will die in vain.”

  “You wouldn’t.” Kevral swallowed hard, Cymion’s words reminding her she needed a drink. She had lost a large amount of blood birthing two babies. “Sire.”

  “Return to your cell. When the guards have you locked in, they’ll report back here. You’ll get as much food and water as you want. Then, we’ll talk some more.”

  Kevral remained rooted in place. She could either condemn her children to death or sacrifice her own freedom. The choice was none at all. Without another word, she turned and headed down the steps. Docilely, she walked back to her cage, tears of anger hot in her eyes. For now, the king had won. Somehow, eventually, she vowed to turn that victory against him. Head low, she dragged past the caged guards, mumbling as she did so, “Lock me in, damn it.”

  The sentries’ gazes trailed her into her cell. Finally, one spoke. “Just pull your door shut. Hard.”

  Kevral wrapped her fingers around the door, hesitating. Once she slammed it, she would trap herself into a nearly intolerable situation. She felt certain the guards would use more caution when feeding her in the future. Her only hope lay with Prince Leondis. If she could get him into a compromising situation, with or without his cooperation, the king might bargain his own son for hers. She shoved the panel outward, and the lock clicked into place.

  Only then, the guards freed themselves from the cage. One remained with the injured man while the others approached cautiously. “Hand out the sword.”

  “No.” Kevral clung to her only comfort. She knew the king could wrest it from her with the same threat, but she would not surrender the weapon until he did so.

  The speaker sighed, then turned to his companion. “Head up and ask whichever superior you find what we should do about the sword.”

  The guard rushed to obey, passing the third sentry who was assisting their limping associate toward the exit. Kevral recognized the Pudarian remaining near her as the one who had chased her up the stairs. Alone, he showed her a look of sympathy that bordered on pity. “Swordmistress, I don’t know what you did, but I do appreciate all I’ve learned since you came here.”

  Too distracted for a thank you, Kevral only nodded.

  Shortly, his companion returned. “His Majesty said to let her keep it.” He glanced at Kevral as he shrugged. “We’re to return to our posts, and they’ll send another down to replace Brunar.”

  Kevral hefted the mug of water the guard had left and drank, licking the last few drops off the side. It barely moistened her mouth, sparking a thirst excitement had mostly kept at bay. She shoved the empty container through the bars, hoping the king intended to keep his promise. She wondered for the sanity of the king’s decision to allow her to keep the weapon; but, for now, she did not scrutinize the windfall. Surely, he eventually planned to claim it from her. In the meantime, she would use it to the utmost.

  Rising, Kevral pitched into another frenzied practice. Exhaustion weighted her limbs, and thirst disrupted concentration. She forced herself past physical discomforts, into a prayerful trance. The same Renshai mental techniques that had kept the agony of active labor at bay now did the same for the needs for sleep, food, and water. She dedicated herself to the religious experience that was combat, giving self and skill to the god and goddess of Renshai. Despite postpartum weakness, despite blood loss and the rabid boil of emotions that had swept through her since the birth of her children, she gave her all to the practice, seeking enlightenment in svergelse where she had found none in logic. The sword skipped around her, the very definition of dexterity. Her lithe body spiraled, capered, and reached. In a whirl as primal as flame, she explained her situation to the deities, seeking their assistance through faith and wisdom.

  Kevral’s head buzzed, and exhaustion skidded across her limbs as if turning her to stone. Her best practice ever crumpled gradually, battering through the mental defenses she had woven. She c
lung to those long after they failed her, plunging her world into darkness. The realization that the king had drugged her water flitted briefly across her thoughts before she collapsed and knew nothing more.

  CHAPTER 36

  Urgent Solutions

  Urgent problems need urgent solutions.

  —Colbey Calistinsson

  Kevral awakened to a pounding headache, and her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth. Her lashes peeled apart, stretching tears that had dried nearly to glue. She worked her tongue free. It seemed to rasp over her cracked lips. She reached to wipe her eyes clear. Her right hand jarred, stopped after minimal movement, and pain flashed through her wrist. She scrabbled for her sword with her left, only to find it similarly trapped above her head. Her legs would not obey her either.

  What now? Kevral rolled her eyes, taking in as much of her cell as that allowed. She recognized the patchy discolorations of the dungeon ceiling above her. Bars filled her vision. Straw stabbed into her back, poking through the ticking that enclosed it. A pillow beneath her head broadened her view but also stiffened her neck. Shackles encircled wrists and ankles. A blanket covered her, protecting her skin from the draft that caressed her face at intervals. She could feel the fabric’s weave against her otherwise naked flesh. No. Too weak to fight, she lay still. The king’s desperation went even beyond her own.

  The clink of metal rings sounded just beyond her sight, surely the movement of a mailed guard. Kevral did not bother to look. She did not want to know who saw her at a time of ultimate humiliation. She berated herself for her surrender. I should have battled to my death. Yet even now her heart longed for the twins, the one she had not seen and the one she had. For them, she would suffer in silence.