Risking injury Tristan stepped down on the mace as it made contact with the wet ground, pushing it deeply into the mud. The orc reacted faster than Tristan thought possible, bringing his left hand up as the back of his immense fist connected with the Prince’s nose. Tristan flinched as he felt his nose shift again under the force of the blow and he flew off his feet and landed hard on his back.
Again the Prince’s vision was blurred beyond use, and he heard a sword clear a scabbard. He could hear the orc closing in on him, all pretenses of stealth totally forgotten as he closed in on his prey. Tristan tried to use his cloak to clear his vision, however, when he tapped his nose a fresh wave of pain washed over him. The Prince let go of his sword, leaving it lying across his chest as he raised both of his hands to his nose.
Tristan had seen both Captain Robertson and Sergeant Frose reset noses before, and if he could manage to jam the pieces back into place his vision might just clear enough to continue the battle. He took two steadying breaths and then jammed his fingers together. The pain that shot through his body was like nothing he’d experienced before, even his toe nails throbbed in protest. Suddenly the pain dissipated as his vision coalesced.
The Prince looked up as the orc raised a large sword above his head with both hands. Time seemed to slow to a crawl as Tristan’s hand fell to the handle of his sword. With the orcs arms raised it lifted his breastplate up just enough to reveal his muscular stomach. It was covered in the same coarse hair as his head and arms were, though it possessed no navel. Tristan thrust with his sword, jabbing it deep inside the monsters stomach and up inside his rib cage.
He felt bones snap and organs burst, as his blade traveled up to what he hoped was the beasts’ heart. The orcs eyes opened in shock as he looked down at the Prince’s face contorted in rage and effort. He grunted, a small trail of bloody drool came from its nose and the side of its mouth as it mumbled feebly. Tristan raised his foot and kicked backwards, pulling his blade out as the orc fell backwards. Its breath exploded from it as it hit the ground with a wet thud.
Tristan turned his back to his men as the orcs arrayed in front of him howled and ground their teeth. He backed up, his soldiers parting so he could stand among them again. He held up his hand, shouting loud enough for his army to hear his command.
“Hold.” He ordered. Turning to his left he saw the blurred familiar outline of Sergeant-Major Frose, he whispered. “Reserves are to flank either side and we’ll strike up the middle. I want us to be the anvil and the reserves become the hammer. Let’s finish this.” He hissed.
The Sergeant Major reached into his pack and pulled out a pair of orange flags, he turned and relayed the orders to the rest of the army. Moments passed as both sides watched each other with bloody murder in their eyes. Tristan continued to relay the hold as loudly as he could, but his injuries were beginning to eat away at what energy he had left. Finally Frose was back at his elbow, whispering the orders had been relayed and accepted.
“Kill them all!” Tristan shouted as he took his shield back from the soldier who passed it along the line.
As one the army rushed forward, easily passing him as they sought to move him out of harm’s way. Tristan couldn’t decide if he was thankful for the thought or irritated. All such thoughts drifted away as orcs made it past the forward lines and he was in the thick of battle again. Despite his injuries, these orcs were the mindless killing machines he remembered. When the reserves came crashing into view the orcs tried to flee, but it was too late. They were surrounded and slaughtered down to the last creature. Frose stepped forward and drove his spear deep into the last orcs chest, as he yanked it free the soldiers around him began to step forward to engage the mercenaries who held back; content to watch the orcs sacrifice themselves.
“HOLD!” Tristan shouted as loudly as he could. “Return to formation!”
The army stopped it forward pressure and gathered in a ragged line on either side of him. More than one soldier breathed deeply, trying to catch his breath. In the course of the battle an axe had grazed Tristan’s thigh and he was aware of the blood flowing from the open wound. He limped forward slightly, separating himself from his army as King Boris stepped forward.
The King removed his ridiculous crown and handed it off to a porter. Boris smiled widely as he walked forward. Out of the corner of his mouth he ordered Frose to call up the last two legions and the 2nd mounted unit, and then he walked forward as well. He did his best to hide his limp and bloody arm, but he could see by the self-satisfied smirk on the bandit King’s face that his efforts were for naught.
He stopped mere feet from the King. Leaning on his shield his mind was filled with anger and grief, the loss of Pava still burned like a hot branding iron in the back of his mind. The dull throb of his nose and cuts cast away the final feeling of immortality so often found in the young. With grim determination he promised himself that if he was about to fall, he would make it a fight worthy of story and song.
“Young Prince Tristan if I’m not mistaken.” He asked with a wry grin.
Tristan nodded his head once, not trusting his voice to hide the rage that seethed just below the surface.
“You cause me irritation without end young man.” Boris said lightly. “As you can see, I have thousands of fresh men, ready to overrun what remains of your pathetic army. Stand down and I’ll see that you’re delivered safely to Kenting before I retake control of my country.”
The Prince snorted, trying not to laugh out loud. He was trying to give the legions time to prepare themselves for attack and needed to draw this out as long as possible.
“I don’t think you stand much of a chance without your witch.” Tristan shot.
Boris’ eyes widened briefly in anger before he yelled; “You’re nothing! I could beat you with one arm tied behind my back!”
“Then do it.” Tristan replied in anger. “Or do you leave the honorable fighting to your orc servants?”
Boris stared hard at the Prince, anger rose off of him in waves that Tristan could feel like steam from a hot bath. He continued to press the duel by untying his cloak and tossing it aside with his shield. Tristan spat on the ground between them for dramatic effect, knowing that it would anger to pompous would be ruler.
“Coward.” The Prince accused with disgust.
Tristan tried not to smile too widely as the King removed his cloak and handed it off to a porter. If he had been at full strength he could have made quick work of this idiot, but as it was Tristan wasn’t sure if he would survive the battle. Still, he had to allow his men time to assemble for the attack.
The King kicked up loose stones from the road they were standing on, which Tristan simply sidestepped. He heard the former mercenary gathering a small pile under his boot while they had been exchanging insults. Tristan smiled demonically as he laughed out loud.
“Surely you can do better than that?” Tristan antagonized.
Boris growled as he drew his bastard sword clear of its scabbard. It was straight with an indent that ran down the middle and it gleamed in the afternoon sun. The edges looked razor sharp and the pommel was wide and blunt, obviously used to block powerful blows, and strike opponents with. It whistled slightly as the King swung it through the air, finally pointing it at Tristan’s face.
“This is G’Tik.” He instructed, referring to the blade. “It means ‘blood-drinker’ in an ancient language.” He looked from the blade to Tristan, scowling. “I will bathe it in your blood, child, and you will know fear before I take your life from you.”
Tristan rolled his eyes heavenward. “Why do all you nefarious types talk so damned much?” He asked, showing his irritation. “Just fight man.” He urged.
The King sneered, bringing the blade back for his first strike. Tristan stepped in and drove his forehead into Boris’ face. He missed the King’s nose, but succeeded in knocking some teeth loose as he reeled backwards, dropping the tip of his sword down. Tristan used his chance to knock the blade up, exposing Boris
’ entire torso. With quick swipes he sliced through the King’s tabard and laid bare his chain mail shirt.
As the pieces of his tabard floated to the ground the King’s eyes narrowed in anger and he yelled, cocking his sword back and striking powerful blows. Tristan parried and turned away most of the blows, but one of them got through and cut into his left bicep. The Prince drew his breath in with a hiss as he felt the blade break the surface of his skin. Victory flashed in the King’s eyes as he backed away.
“That’s one.” He said with malice.
Tristan focused his rage, trying to turn it into cold calculating strikes as he backed the King three paces. He made himself another opening where he made several small slices to the King’s forearms and shoulder. He kicked the King in the chest, sending the former mercenary crashing to the dirt road.
“Fight damn you.” Tristan yelled. “Stop talking and fight!” He shouted coming forward and kicking the King painfully in the stomach as he attempted to rise to his feet. The wind was knocked out of him as he rolled over on his back. One of his mercenary captains stepped forward between Tristan and the King, leveling his blade in a thrust designed to skewer the Prince.
Tristan spun to his right, using his sword to parry the blow and then bringing it in a high swipe, decapitating the mercenary captain. Boris used Tristan’s distraction to drive his sword point into the Prince’s side. Tristan yelled out in pain and he leaped backwards, leaning over where the King had stabbed into his ribs.
Breathing was becoming more difficult, between his damaged nose and now an open wound in his side, he was becoming short of breath. The King got to his feet quickly and began and quick and powerful series of strikes. Tristan blocked them all, but had to backup as he did so and was soon off balance and kicked to the ground. The King returned the favor kicking Tristan in the face with the side of his boot as the Prince began to rise.
Tristan rolled down into the ditch that ran along the road. Covered in mud, bruises and his blood, he pushed himself back to his feet as the King leaped from the road, bringing his sword crashing down with both arms. The Prince couldn’t raise his arms in time, so he rolled off to his left. Boris’ sword struck mud where Tristan had been moments before. The King recovered quickly as he swung his sword around and tried to decapitate Tristan. The Prince ducked under the strike and leaped forward, running the edge of his sword along the King’s exposed abdomen.
The King gasped in pain, reaching down and feeling where Tristan had opened him up along his stomach. The Prince hadn’t rolled again though, as the King suspected. Instead, he stopped himself stood with his back to Boris, and as the King turned around with his sword raised Tristan reversed his grip on his sword and drove the blade deep into Boris’ stomach. The King’s chin came to rest on Tristan’s shoulder as he took his last rattling breath. The Prince stepped forward, letting Boris’ lifeless body tumble back down into the ditch.
“NOW!” Tristan shouted and his army rushed forward to engage the last of the King’s soldiers. He took one shaky step forward, and then fell backwards into the ditch where he rolled to a stop. His vision began to go black as men rushed towards him. Tristan could see Captain Robertson looking down on him.
“I’m coming old man.” He muttered before he passed out.
Chapter 6
Drake and Euri sat in the gardens playing catch with young Jonathan. Mina and Peria watched on in fascination as the three of them tossed small apples and pears to one another, using only their minds. Mina’s son was only two years old and already she felt as though his life was taking a dangerous path that she likely couldn’t follow him down. As the dragon in human form and young Princess played with her giggling son she tried to shake the profound sadness that had inexplicably gripped her when Tristan had left.
The manipulation that had forged their coupling and eventually her pregnancy with their son had left a scar that no spell or tonic could seem to heal. It was like having an open wound on the roof of your mouth that refused to heal and you couldn’t help but poke at. She was deeply disturbed that the feelings that had felt so real, and then hurt so badly could resurface anew and without magical interference.
She had thought long and hard about asking her mother to arrange their marriage, hoping that even if the feelings proved to fade in time at least Jonathan’s father would be close at hand. Then it had occurred to her that she would be forced to uproot their lives and move to Terum. She loved her country and couldn’t abide the cold of Vallius, or the ashy, dry heat of Terum. Long sleepless nights she tossed and turned, trying to balance the happiness of her son and the stability of her country.
After a long deliberation she approached her mother weeks before Tristan’s visit and asked her to find a husband and father for her son, someone worthy of assuming the ruling of their country. Tristan’s arrival had been a bittersweet pain; she found that she loved him despite the magic being gone. She felt safe when he embraced her and enjoyed watching him play with her son.
Mina even began to imagine their life together but she couldn’t clearly picture where they might live together. He seemed ill at ease in her family’s home and she knew she would feel like an outcast wherever he called home. She protected herself as well as possible, guarding her emotions from him. When he arrived, her problem became more complicated, as matters of the heart often do. He had a woman now, and even though she tried to hate the girl, her smile and kindness melted Mina’s heart.
She was happy that Tristan had found someone to ease his troubled mind, for after all she’d heard since he’d left her, trouble always seems to find him. Mina began to reason that fate must have a different purpose in mind for her and the safety of her son was better served in their peaceful palace than exposed to the treachery that seems to go hunting about for his father.
Still, having his grandfather and sister here made her content. They doted on her son, playing with him, seeing to his education and even though they tried to hide it, she knew they trained his mind as well. Often she would see her son tilt his head to the side, as he often did when wrestling with a puzzle, and look directly at Eurydice or Drake.
A month had passed since Tristan, Maggie and the strange soldier had left when Euri approached Mina as she sat on the edge of one of the many ponds. The Rajina’s daughter played absentmindedly with one of the fragrant flowers, mulling over the past. Euri approached and cleared her throat quietly. Mina looked up and smiled, motioning to the lip of the pond beside her.
Mina marveled at Euri’s baring. The girl was only fifteen years of age, and yet carried herself as a Queen would. She sat down quietly, composing her thoughts as she often did, and then slowly looked over at Mina with deep sympathy.
“How are you sister?” She asked.
The Rajina’s daughter loved when Euri did that, she had the strange feeling that the Princess knew that. It made her feel less alone in the world, which she had since her father and Fudi had died. She felt terribly alone.
“I am fine.” Mina lied.
Eurydice gave her a searching look. Mina was sure she knew she lied, and only searched her face for how best to proceed. “I understand a suitor is due here next week.” Euri said lightly.
Mina smiled; she knew that Euri felt the same way about suitors as she did. Men who acted as they should for appearances alone. One could not truly judge him unless he was forced to reveal his true self. She thought bitterly of her father. An otherwise kind and generous man, he was led astray by greed and ambition. His true measure and his legacy had become a shameful act of treason.
“That is true, and another the week after, and most likely another after that until mother chooses a worthy match.” Mina replied.
“I’ll have a word with her.” Euri said kindly. “Tristan and I have a cousin in Sutten who as honorable as my brother,” She lowered her voice for dramatic effect. “Though he’s less adventurous.” Euri winked.
Mina laughed; she always enjoyed her sisters’ candor. Eurydice also seemed to kno
w Mina’s heart quite well. She longed for a man who would make her a happy home where they could grow old together and she wouldn’t be constantly worried about his welfare. After all the stresses of the last few years, she longed for the comfort of routine.
“Your heart will mend. It only needs time.” Eurydice said patiently patting Mina’s hand.
Jonathans laugh cut through the air as he floated inches above the grass, his great-grandfather floated upside down next to him, making funny faces and hiding his eyes from sight. Her son amazed Mina, she had no magic to her, despite being the granddaughter of a dragon, and yet her son effortlessly controlled magic around him as though it was part of his being.
Mina sighed, she knew Euri was right of course, but it was a hard thing to do none the less and she wasn’t looking forward to the fawning of suitors that would begin arriving in a week’s time. She silently hoped she could convince Euri and Drake to stay; she needed their strength and often sought their council.
~
No, no my dear. Socolis laughed.
Ever since Draconis had found the young dragon they had been trying to jam all the knowledge into her as possible. Now they were paying the price as she refused to even attempt to control the flow of the water in the wooden cup. Lesariu was laughing nearby as Bethia launched the water and the cup at Socolis with her mind in irritation. She harrumphed theatrically, sending a few multi-colored sparks from her nostrils.
The hatchling had taken to her training with great enthusiasm, but as her youthful exuberance began to fade and her responsibilities began to come forth she became less willing to focus. Socolis and Lesariu could hardly blame her; they both remembered their youth with fondness. They had undergone similar training, compressed into months instead of the stately passing of years out of necessity. Their training had been tempered by war though, and there were other dragons to assume their places if they failed.
Deadly Intentions (Blood Feud - Volume 2) Page 10