by Michael Karr
“Don’t mock me. You look nothing like a Tor, and you speak like that worm, Morvath.”
Endrick took a few strides forward, holding his fist up, threateningly.
“You take that back,” he said, “Or I’ll—”
Quick as a flash, the princess snatched a weapon from the wall, whirled around, and thrust it out toward Endrick. He froze mid-step. Hovering a centimeter from his throat, gleamed the point of the weapon. “Or you’ll what?” replied the princess.
“Not be happy?” replied Endrick, meekly.
The princess snapped her attention to Skylar, still keeping the blade leveled at Endrick’s throat.
“I’ve seen you before,” she said. “In the ceremony of the Mutual Sacrifice. You were…one of the slaves.”
Skylar did not reply. He feared that anything he said would only cause him deeper trouble.
“But you are not a real slave, are you? A real slave, had he managed to escape, would never return to the castle. Nor brazenly intrude into the chamber of the deadliest man in all of Gorgoroth. No, I should have seen you for who you were when I first laid eyes on you.
“Have you figured it out yet, little brother?”
Skylar rocked back on his heels? Little brother? What was she saying? How could…
“What?” she replied, in mocking a tone. “Am I not what you were expecting to find? The poor, helpless, imprisoned princess of Ahlderon. Stolen from her parents when she was scarcely bigger than a babe. The poor, frightened princess. Is that who you came to rescue? So gallant, dear brother.
“I’m afraid you’ll find no such princess here, nor anywhere else on Gorgoroth.”
Skylar took an involuntary step backward.
“You mean…you’re my…sister…Aläna? But that’s not possible.”
It was possible, though. He didn’t wish to believe it.
“I’m not interested in trying to convince you. It’s not like you’ll have the opportunity to tell the story to your grandchildren. You’ll be dead long before then.”
Returning to the wall, she detached another weapon. With mechanical precision, she turned and threw it at Skylar’s chest. The blunt side of the weapon slammed into him before he had time to react and catch it. He stumbled back, his chest stinging with pain.
“Let’s see what kind of fighter they turned you into, dear brother. If you can kill me, then you’re free to escape.”
The princess poised herself with her weapon, ready to strike. Skylar looked down at the foreign weapon in his arms. It was more like a sword than any of the other implements of death in Du Kava’s collection. Only this sword’s hilt was nearly as long as the double-edged blade protruding from it. It also lacked a crossguard to keep his fingers from being sliced off. Despite its length, however, he found the weapon surprisingly light.
“It’s an easy enough weapon. I’m sure you can manage to hold it up at least,” she said.
Skylar shook his head and looked his her in the eyes.
“I have no desire to fight with you. If you truly are my sister, I want to bring you back with me to Ahlderon.”
He said this with such sincerity, that he thought it sure to touch some fragment of her heart. The comment only spurred her. Lunging forward, she swiped at his head before he knew what was happening. The moving air from the rushing blade brushed the surface of this pupils.
“Well, I do,” she said, preparing her weapon to strike again. “So, I suggest you guard yourself, or next time I shall let my blade slice through that scrawny neck of yours.”
“Don’t be a fool, fight back,” muttered Endrick from behind him.
Skylar had no time to think, for the princess was already taking another swipe at him. This time, Skylar managed to duck. She must have intentionally swung slower that time.
Backing a brisk pace to his rear, Skylar assumed a sword fighting stance, and tried to recall his many sword fighting lessons he’d received on Ahlderon.
The princess smiled, a mocking smile.
“This ought to be fun.”
She then commenced to assail him with such rapid-fire blows that Skylar scarcely had time to move his blade. Some of the blows, he knew he didn’t have time to move to block. Yet he still managed to block them. She was toying with him. Such swordsmanship he had only seen once before, when Grim Galloway fought to protect him from Morvath’s servants. Had she desired, she could have struck him down already. Perhaps she did not wish him dead, after all. Or perhaps she merely wished to amuse herself with his pathetic fighting abilities before killing him.
The princess’ weapon was a short staff, with a single-edged blade extending from either end. This she spun through her hands, over her head, behind her back, as though she were putting on an exhibition.
Skylar kept the corner of his eye on Endrick, who was edging his way toward the wall of weapons. Either the princess didn’t notice him, or she didn’t care if he joined the fight. She probably would prefer more of a challenge than Skylar could give her. He wondered if he and Endrick’s combined efforts could stop her. Doubtful. As yet, Skylar hadn’t even managed to execute a single offensive move.
The princess pressed him harder, forcing him to keep backing up toward the wall. Soon, he wouldn’t have anywhere left to go.
Perspiration coated his skin, and his arms began to ache. Suddenly, with an unexpected strike, the princess disarmed him. With a clatter, his sword fell to the floor. Momentarily stunned, Skylar watched as the princess raised her right hand over left and struck him squarely under the eye with the hilt of her weapon.
A burst of blackness flooded his vision accompanied by a sharp ringing his inner ears. Somewhere—like a distance call—he heard a cry of fear. Staggering backward, he put his hand out to balance himself and another to touch the spot beneath his eye. He let out a gasp of pain.
“What are you doing here?” he heard the princess snarl.
Skylar blinked his eyes and managed to see the hazy form of the servant girl standing in the portal.
“I…I heard shouting, my lady,” the poor girl stammered.
“Get back to your duties.”
The servant girl dropped her head. However, before she had a chance to turn to leave, Endrick grabbed the girl by the arm, yanked her into the chamber, and brought his dagger to her throat. The wretch let out a squawk of fear.
“Let him go,” demanded Endrick to the princess, “Or I’ll do away with your servant girl.”
The princess sneered. “Go ahead. I don’t believe you have the stomach for it. Besides, you’d be doing me a favor. I’ve wanted rid of her for years.”
Skylar knew the princess spoke the truth. Endrick was bluffing. He wouldn’t harm the girl. And—much as it sickened him—he knew the princess likely didn’t care anything for her servant girl. She might even kill the girl herself. How many servants had the princess had before this one?
Despite the princess’ harsh claim, Endrick did no readily let go of the frightened girl. He edged himself and the girl closer to Skylar. The princes merely looked at him with disdain.
“Your bodyguard is pathetic, brother,” she said, turning on her heal and marching for the door. When she reached it, she turned back and gripped the iron pull.
“I wasn’t going to kill your precious prince,” she said. “I was just having a little fun. No, my mother shall have the honor of dealing out your deaths.”
With that, she pulled the door shut with a thud. Then followed the unmistakable clink of a lock.
Twenty-nine
Rolander stared at the pulsating red dots on the control panel.
Company? What kind of company?
Behind him, he heard Jonobar’s footsteps fade away as he sailed out of the control room. From somewhere deep within his soul, Rolander felt an impulse to run away, to flee from Jonobar. In his heart, he knew he ought to obey that impulse. Reason, if he could collect himself enough to reason, demanded Jonobar’s actions be placed unde
r heavy suspicion. At the same time, a different emotion rose in him, challenging that reason. Compulsion. He felt compelled to follow his tutor. Inexplicably drawn in, as if under a spell. He ought to fight the urge. Shouldn’t he?
As if of their own volition, his feet set the rest of him moving, following irresolutely after his tutor.
Jonobar partially retraced their route which they had taken to the control room. Rolander tried to do his best to keep his gaze off the floor, off the bodies. He found he couldn’t. Just as he failed to resist the invisible pull of his tutor, so too his eyes could not resist the pull of the dead surrounding his feet. They seemed to beckon to him. To plea for help. He wondered how Jonobar walked through them as though they weren’t there.
Soon, they reached the main entrance to the castle. Punching a code into the keypad on the wall next to the double doors, Jonobar stepped back and waited expectantly. After a moment, a profound knocking resounded in the entrance hall, echoing down the castle corridors and shaking the walls. The knocking pounded out a regular rhythm as slowly the doors began to separate.
When finally stopped and the mouth of the doors gaped wide, Jonobar still remained silent and fixed to the same spot, waiting. From without, the cool night breeze came coursing in to rejuvenate the stagnate air of the castle. Rolander shivered. The air felt colder than he expected for this time of year. Outside, the dim lights of the castle’s entry hall spilled timidly into the darkness, revealing a few meters out into the bailey. Beyond that, the green glow of phosphorescent lamps exposed a haunting scene. Piles of dead soldiers, all cast in the same sickly green. Beyond them, the open gates of the castle.
Rolander realized what Jonobar had done in the control room. He had disarmed the castle’s blaster cannons and defense shield, and raised the castle gates. Even now, through the hazy night air, Rolander could make out the shadows of approaching figures. As he watched, the number of shadows grew. Gradually, the light from the lamps painted features onto the shadows. First indistinct, but then growing distinguishable. Fear rooted Rolander to the spot, and a cold sweat began collecting on his forehead. He’d only felt like this once before. On the battlefield of Haladras, where he lost his hand. Instinctively, he reached down and grabbed his right forearm protectively. This only reminded him of the mechanical hand he’d left in his quarters. How he longed to fetch it!
By the time the first wave of soldiers reached the open castle doors, Rolander managed to uproot himself enough to keep from getting plowed under their marching boots. These were not Ahlderion soldiers—none which he knew. Their livery did not bear the imperial crest. It looked like no military uniform he had ever seen before.
Like imperial soldiers, these also wore armor about their upper torso. Instead of white, the armor was a black, which seemed to suck in any light which tried to touch it. Their arms were bare, except for thick red bands about their forearms and thin ones about their biceps. A half helmet, with yellow visor, covered their head. Equally as dark as their breastplate, the helmets were adorned with a red circle above the forehead, and a stiff yellow plume jutting out above the right ear guard. This likely served the double purpose of antenna and embellishment. Hung at either side either side of their hips where hostlers, laden with blasters. Each carried a blaster across his chest, hand at the trigger. Not an attack position, but a ready one.
One soldier at the front of the line held up a fist, and the procession halted. He broke off from the group and approached Jonobar. Rolander believed he must be a commanding officer. Unlike the other soldiers, the plume of his helmet was black. His arm and forearm bands were likewise solid black.
The commander removed the helmet from his head and address Jonobar.
“Night Shade?” he said flatly.
Jonobar inclined his head.
“At your service.”
“I am Commander Alkrov. Are you aware of any remaining threats within the castle?”
“My Trackers have eliminated all threats, Commander,” replied Jonobar coolly.
My Trackers? What was Jonobar saying?
“My men will ensure it is so.”
With a few curt signals, Command Alkrov sent small detachments of soldiers tramping off in various directions, their blasters up and prepared to shoot. When he finished directing his troops, the Commander turned again to Jonobar.
“The castle’s control room, where is it?”
Jonobar rattled off instructions where to find it. Rolander noted that he left out the detail about navigating the corridor strewn with bodies. But these soldiers didn’t look as though they’d blink an eye at the sight of a dead body. Commander Alkrov signaled and two soldiers set off in the direction of the control room.
“The regent, where is he?” said the commander.
“He and the queen mother are both locked in their quarters, unconscious. The drugs should start wearing off within the hour.”
“Good. Bring them to me. You there, boy?”
The commander pointed straight at Rolander.
“Show my men where to find the regent and the brat prince’s mother.”
Caught off guard, Rolander hesitated, then looked to Jonobar for support.
“Is the boy dumb?” growled the commander. “Did you not hear me, boy? Show my men.”
The commander stepped forward as if to strike Rolander.
“He’s quite capable,” said Jonobar, intervening, much to Rolander’s relief. Then, to Rolander he said, “Go and do as the commander instructs. You shall understand all of this soon enough.”
Jonobar’s words gave Rolander the confidence to speak.
“It’s this way.”
He motioned with his left hand, as he struck off down the corridor. From behind, he heard the heavy plod of the soldiers following him, and Commander Alkrov instructing Jonobar to lead him to a council chamber. Swallowing hard, in an attempt to stifle the fear that wanted to escape from his lips, he kept walking.
Rolander walked as quickly as he could. Still, the soldiers barked at him to move faster. Between the soldiers behind him, and the bodies at this feet, he felt his heart would beat a hole in his chest.
Do not look down, he repeated to himself over and over.
He wanted to run. To scream. What would the soldiers do to him if he suddenly broke into a paroxysm of madness? Shoot him, more than likely.
At last, they reached the royal wing of the castle on the fifth floor. Rolander stopped in front of the door to the queen mother’s chamber, and informed the guards. The nearest guard responded by shoving Rolander to one side roughly.
“Out of the way, then, scamp,” growled the soldier.
Rolander smarted on the inside. Who were these soldiers who thought they could barge into the castle and boss him around—much less barge in on the queen mother?
The key to the door had been left in the lock by someone. Without even a knock, the soldier turned it and pushed his way inside. The second soldier followed, a grin on his face, his weapon slack at his side. Rolander felt a surge of panic. What did these soldiers intend?
Inside the chamber, he found the soldiers walking over to a body on the floor. The sight made Rolander’s heart stop. Then he remembered the words of Jonobar. They would find her unconscious, Jonobar had said. She was merely sleeping. Even as he observed her, he quickly realized this must be so. Her cheeks were not void of color. Her position on the floor—though perhaps uncomfortable—was not unnatural. And he thought he detected the faint rise and fall of her chest as she inhaled and exhaled.
One of the soldiers crouched beside her and place his fingers below her jawline.
“Beating strong,” he reported to his comrade after a moment. He rolled her onto her back with a none-too-gentle push.
“She’s pleasing enough to look at,” he said, after giving her a quick appraising glance. The other soldier grinned and wet his lips with his tongue.
“I suppose there’s time. She won’t be any good to the c
ommander asleep.”
The pair chuckled. Rolander felt his insides work their way up into his throat. These…monsters…what did they intend to do with Skylar’s mother? But he knew full well what their intentions were. It was written on their animal-crazed faces.
He had to stop them.
He couldn’t stop them. There was nothing he could do. Even now, his bones felt like they had dissolved into a gelatinous mass. If he attempted to move, or even to breathe, he would be on the floor in an instant.
Taking Skylar’s mother by the wrists and ankles, the soldier carried her over to her bed, onto which they tossed her like a sack of potatoes. One of the soldiers then began working to remove his breastplate.
“What do you think you’re doing?” said the other soldier. “You think you get to have her first, do you?”
The other continued to work at his armor as he shot back, “It was me who put the idea into your thick skull. Besides, I’m more senior.”
“You don’t outrank me,” the other snarled. “And I certainly don’t take orders from you.”
“You’ll take my knife blade—”
Withdrawing a dagger from a sheath about his ankle, the soldier with this armor partially undone drove the blade straight for his comrade’s neck. With impressive speed the other deflected the strike and struck his attacker in the chest hard enough to send him staggering back a few paces, giving him time to produce his own dagger.
“So, you want to play that way,” said the second, and larger soldier. “Fine with me. I’d be happy to kill you and have her all to myself.”
The pair circled each other, their blades held ready to strike, their free hands ready to counter.
If only Rolander could trust himself to run, to move. The soldiers had probably forgotten he was there. Krom’s chamber was only a few doors away. Krom might already be awake. Rolander could free him. Krom would know how to deal with the soldiers, to save Skylar’s mother from this debauchery. He turned to look at the open door. If only he could run.
A fierce cry rose up from the soldiers, yanking Rolander’s attention back into the fight. The soldier larger came down on top of the first. Each had his knife hand gripped by the other’s free hand. But the knife blade of the larger soldier hovered just centimeters away from the other soldier’s chest and moving slowly closer. Rolander could see the panic in the other soldier’s eyes.