The King's Blood

by S. E. Zbasnik

  His head followed her and she purposefully failed to stifle a cry, also trying to ignore the voice crying in her head that she had no reason to assume this wasn't all part of some twisted plan by the murderer to get her caught in the first place. Her foot snagged on the dinner the bag of laundry brought for the day and she paused just as the scout rose before her, the small shreds of light illuminating his sword like a bolt of lightning.

  Just as he reared, a hand popped up from behind and cupped over the shocked mouth as a dagger drew a red line over the throat. Without a word, the assassin let the body fall to its knees as hands tried to stop the blood flowing from the neck. He kicked the scout off the wall, who tried to scream through his severed vocal chords.

  "Do you have to kill them all?" Ciara screeched in a whisper, knowing she'd be seeing that face in her dreams for as long as she'd wake.

  "You'd prefer I let a few of them kill us to even the odds?" Taban asked as serious as the sunrise. He turned to look into the darkness in front of them, then behind and nodded. "Good, no more patrols upon the wall, yet. Those won't be noticed for hours in the commotion."

  "So, what, we hide on the wall until everyone's given up and gone to bed?"

  He laughed at that idea and shook his head, "No, no little Nachtegaal. Tonight, we're going to fly." He struck a match and lit one of the torches the guards didn't need anymore. Before anyone could notice the burst of flame, he tossed it over the wall into the forest. He leaned his head far over the edge and looked down to a net carefully draped across the trees hugging the castle.

  Ciara followed suit, her stomach plummeting as her fingers gripped the stone. "No, no, no. You, you're insane."

  Taban tapped his chin thoughtfully, "Insane? Yes, I suspect so. But these are the options." He pointed back to the buzzing castle, "Death," then he gestured to the flimsy net stories below them, "or escape."

  She stood, backing away from the edge. "I don't think I can do it."

  "Of course you can. Anyone can fall, only the truly great can fly."

  Ciara snorted, it sounded like something the old butcher would say while stuffing a pig's intestines back up with its own meat. "Where'd you learn that?"

  "I read it inside a biscuit," Taban smiled again, "Now, jump or death."

  A sharp cry of "Over here!" reverberated from beneath them. Taban's handiwork had been discovered.

  "Too late," the assassin said, and grabbing Ciara's wrist, he ran towards the open edge, pulling her down with him.

  As the keep broke like a wave smashing into a shoreline, the people rushed the main gate towards a shrouded party of riders while the historians beat a most dignified haste into the woods. Chance and Chase led the pack, the only two used to being anywhere near a tree without having to relieve themselves or dislodge something sticking in the spoke of the wheel.

  Aldrin struggled against Bartrone, who shoved the boy forward until he rolled down the hill and been rewarded by the sound of the gate slamming shut behind him. The Historian didn't even glance back at the girl he left to her doom, there were more pressing matters. Grabbing his makeshift armor tightly, he ran forward with the others moving through the trees like very confused and abandoned forest fire.

  But the town and caravan were all downhill; the only way they'd miss would be if one started to climb the mountainside. After pulling the professor of arms down from the tree he tried to shimmy up, the horde whipped through the trees, branches getting overtly friendly with their robes. Most were terrified out of their minds certain they'd brought sanctions down upon them. But a few others, freed from the hard life of academia, were having the times of their lives.

  Pajamas, still half naked, was hopping over fallen logs and dodging holes as if he were part deer, all while giggling and panting heavily. Kaltar, who'd had quite enough of this running stuff in his younger days contrabanding on the shoreline, gasped beside him, cursing whoever invented pastries.

  Being swept up into the horde, Aldrin rolled to his feet and found the group heading downward away from danger. He grew sicker with each step. Chase was the first to break into the clearing, and then run straight past, deeper into the other side of the forest. His brother managed to skitter to a halt in front of the Chancellor who'd spent the night calmly discussing clouds with the meteorologist.23

  Medwin rose at the pitter-patter of heavy feet, growing heavier as more cracked through the dying forest. "What is it? What happened?"

  Chance gasped, trying to get breath into his aching lungs, "Sir," he wheezed standing up and saluting.

  Medwin pushed himself off the meteorologist's shoulder and shuffled to the boy's voice. "Chance, yes?"

  "Sir, yes, sir!"

  The Chancellor sighed; the boy had been sitting in on too many of the prince's military lessons. "You may take your hand off your head, that isn't even how to properly salute."

  "Oh," Chance muttered as he pulled his palm from his forehead.

  "Now please, in crystal clear words, tell me what happened."

  The brother began to open his mouth when the lagging historians finally caught up with the only two in a shape approaching something other than spherical.

  "We're routed!"

  "They found us!"

  "Raise the mainsails! Haul anchor! Toss the cargo overboard!"

  The voices echoing across and through each other were too much for the Chancellor to bear. Another set of robes joined them, babbling as incoherently as the first. "One at a time! ONE AT A TIME!" Medwin shouted, silencing all who made it to the clearing. In the decades he'd been their appointed leader not once had he raised his voice above a patronizing library shout. As the silence fell, he smoothed his robes and, trying to point his voice to the mass of underlings said, "Good. Now tell me what happened."

  "We were telling the stories like you said."

  "Only they didn't get it all right."

  "Did so, you just didn't understand the artistical significance."

  "...there was only cheese in the room, and no windows!"

  "...Rorger stole five of their pikes."

  "Did not, it was only three, and they were letting the things go to rust. Look at them beauties, from the Aspic age."

  "....did just fine as Humphrey. Some even thought he was the demi-man re-born before them."

  "I didn't see anything. Mitrione's fat arse was in the way."

  "ENOUGH!" Medwin shouted again, his second performance not gaining as much traction as the novelty began to wear thin. "Where is the prince? Hopefully he can form something approaching a coherent tale."

  The robes glanced amongst each other. They'd been so focused on running away from something, though they were all hazy on what that something was, they forgot the reason for fleeing in the first place. "Um...well...ya see," was all the assemblage could mutter out.

  "You mean to tell me, you eight grown men managed to lose a single royal prince in a small castle?"

  "Well, there wasn't just the Baron and his family there. Was a bunch of soldiers of the Empire."

  The thwack of Medwin slapping his forehead reverberated around the campsite. "So it's okay to lose the boy as long as he's surrounded by men vowed to killing him."

  "I have the boy right here," Bartrone's voice called from the clearing's edge. And sure enough, dragging off his arm was Aldrin, shuffling his feet slowly towards the fire. The other historians smiled and nodded, of course they meant for the prince to be safe with Bartrone. It was only logical he keep up the rear, closest to any guards fleeing into the night to chase them down. It was, wossa, tactical.

  Bartrone dropped Aldrin's arm, the limb turning white from the hard grip of the man, and spoke quickly to his Chancellor, "We must make haste. As we navigated our escape undetected, the guards burst forth. The castle's abuzz with activity for unknown reasons."

  Medwin nodded and turned to the other historians, "Chance, Chase, unblock the caravans. Kaltar, assemble your associates to unroll the sails."

  The meteorologist licked his finger
and raised it to the wind, "Best we can hope for is a slight breeze out of the south, and a 75% chance of death."

  "The rest of you douse out the fire and pack, quickly. We leave in one hour," Medwin clapped his hands, sending the robes scattering once more to their various homes. Some would probably compare the chaos to a pack of headless chickens, but that would be unkind to poultry. Even in her death throes, there was something approaching a dignity with the twitching movements. In near full on panic the historians tossed books, pans, even full chests out the windows only to have another scoop them back up and shove them through the door.

  Bartrone, having gained the ear of the Chancellor, set to ordering his fellows about as if he had a clue what was going on. "Raise that gangplank and tie that sheepskin knot tighter!" Like all good peers, the others ignored the man who'd gotten an intoxicating taste of command in favor of doing what always properly worked.

  Medwin leaning against his chair, stood up unexpectedly as a pair of eager hands dashed it off to any available space. The imbalance threw him off slightly and his hip smacked into the boy who hadn't moved since Bartrone dropped him off.

  "Come child, we can wait out this madness somewhere warm," the Chancellor didn't need their weatherman to predict the coming storm; it called up from his bones.

  "No," the voice was hollow, bereft of any emotion. A statement as solid as a reed.

  "Boy?"

  Aldrin tightly gripped the wooden ears clutched in his hand, "I'm not leaving."

  Medwin patted the boy on the arm as a pair of historians ran past, carrying some of the unburnt logs by the fire. "I understand, vengeance and all, but now is not really the time to try and..."

  Aldrin looked up at the only port in the storm, "They have Ciara."

  "What?"

  "He," Aldrin started to point to Bartrone who was standing on top of his caravan happily unlocking every buckle for the sails while someone followed behind, re-strapping them down. "No, I...I let go. And they got her."

  Medwin stood straight up, the dying embers casting a menacing glow to his vacant eyes, "Mister Larron!"

  A wench fell from Bartrone's grasp at the mention of his family name, causing the sail to fully unwind and smack into the face of the arm's master who still had one of the pikes clinging to his back. Mister Larron walked unsteadily to the caravan's edge and muttered, "What is it...Sir?"

  "You were entrusted with bringing back eleven others, but upon reflection there seem to be only ten here," silhouetted by the fire the old man was an eyeless demon, its shadow sending waves of despair in the form of a serious reprimand. "Where is Ciara?"

  Bartrone turned to the others who fled just as quickly, never asking why that dark wench wasn't with them. Most looked away from the professor's glare, finding their shoes deceptively interesting. A few others quietly gathered up the last of their belongings, packing with less enthusiasm as the fire demon folded its arms. Only Chase and Chance, both still grateful for the girl's assistance in battling the dragon of stage fright, backed up their Chancellor. Where was the girl?

  Gaining his backbone, Bartrone called out, "The Empire's guards seized her. I acted as quickly as I could to remove the Prince from the situation and because of my masterful maneuvering we're all here."

  "'Cept Cia," Chase called loudly to the man teetering on the roof's edge.

  "She was a snake in the basket, a serious threat and mark upon all of us. It was a wonder they didn't burn her for witchcraft the moment she opened her mouth in the square!" Bartrone was trying to gather support, but reminding everyone of the reason they were sitting on actual food stocks for the first time in years just caused more shifting and glances.

  "They don't burn witches, they cuts them into pieces, you whelp of a female canine," Chance fought as he strangled the firewood in his hands.

  "Would you rather we have all risked our necks for her?" Bartrone argued back. "That we'd have faced our own personal pyres for a filthy sand worm?"

  Without pausing to think, Aldrin wound back his arm and, with a heavy grunt, heaved his wooden ears straight into Bartone's face, cracking his nose and chin. As the blood gushed forth, the historian tried to sop it up with his sleeve. His head tilted back when the underbrush in the distance began to rustle. He tried to make a warning sound through the life liquid dribbling into his mouth, but the boy had already pried off one of his shoes and was lining it up for another throw.

  "Wait wait, don't leave yet! I....oh, you're still here," a woman, her clothes tattered and smeared in red, burst through the northern side of the camp, scrambling over the excess piles of firewood.

  Aldrin dropped his shoe and rushed towards her, collapsing his arms around her waist in a bear hug. Ciara tried to lean away from the unexpected welcoming, but Aldrin had a grip like a leech when he had half a mind.

  "I'm so sorry, I shouldn't a let go," Aldrin blabbered beside her neck.

  "It's..." she tried to think of a platitude, but a part of her kept thinking, damn right you shouldn't have.

  "Is the girl returned?" Medwin asked crisply, burying his emotions in a coffin of proper procedure.

  "Yes!" Aldrin finally released her and stepped back, hobbling slightly.

  "Then we resume our preparations. We must be twenty miles north before the sun rises," Medwin ordered, working his way back to his own caravan.

  "I saw the door slam down. How did you escape?" Aldrin asked her, that hand of his still gripping hers tightly.

  She shrugged, uncertain about how to get into her tale of rescue, "Got lucky. I'm surprised you weren't already on the road."

  Ciara raced through the forest out running Taban, certain they'd already be packed and gone. And she'd be left with only a murderer in the darkest woods while hundreds of Empire soldiers hunted for her.

  Aldrin shrugged himself and mumbled, "I wouldn't go without you."

  "Oh," Ciara looked over the boy who seemed to be battling a terrible fever rushing across his cheeks. A face that looked a lot less like a wet bag in the moonless night, "What happened to your shoe?"

  Bartrone, unmissed and ignored as everyone else got to their jobs, watched a pair of trees shake lightly as something moved deeper into the forest. Even as he pinched his nose to stall the blood he lightly scratched his chin and thought, 'The girl was not alone.' Then he screamed, as he remembered the gash on his chin as well.

  Marciano shifted in the armor riveted a bit too tight for comfort in the rush. His night of quiet contemplation and hopefully quieter sleeping was dashed to bits by the wounded man riding up to the main gates. He was so slumped over in his saddle only a broken helmet greeted the guards.

  "Who goes there?"

  "Ugh."

  "How do you spell that?"

  Summoning up strength in the face of such ignorance the wounded man cried out, "I bring word to General Marciano."

  "Is that word 'ugh'?"

  "Let me through the gates you blighted fools before I bring my last wrath upon you!"

  The guard turned to his companion, "How do we know he's telling the truth? He could be one o' them pies we're supposed to keep out."

  The second guard poked his head through the small swinging gate and asked, "Is you lying?"

  "No." The soldier had been through enough small towns he was well versed in the mental capabilities of the man put in charge of watching the main gate. A goat with a "No Trespassing" sign strapped to its back had about the same affect.

  "Okay," the first guard responded, "But is you a pie?"

  Rising in his saddle, the man looked up into the black hole of ignorance from which not a single intelligent thought could escape, and doled out slowly, "I am not, nor have I ever been, a pastry, pie, or other baked good you serve for dessert. Now get me General Marciano!"

  Luckily for the dying man's sanity and vanishing blood pressure in the wake of his gushing wounds, one of the Empire's own came walking across the wall. "You," he reached back his black gauntlet arm and smacked the guard across the back of th
e head, "let the man in before he dies upon your doorstep."

  The wounded man's horse trotted through the slowly widening gap in the gate and he slipped from the saddle into the guards's arms. "Ambush, army, hundreds strong," bluing lips whispered into the Empire's ear.

  Laying the man down gently, the scout called for healing and, grabbing the gate guard, sent him after the General. "He'll be in the stables."

  "But all the guests were ordered to the Great Hall for the..."

  "Get your lily white ass to the stables before I shove my dagger into your ear," he kicked the guard on the lily ass to send him on.

  Marciano, down to a simple tunic and pair of knee breeches, beat off the frosty night by kindling a fire for war in his belly as he jogged to the scene. The scout, a young man fresh out of Avari on his first trip into the rest of the world, greeted him solemnly.

  "A dead man passed through the gates less than ten minutes ago. He wore the banner of the Eastern March."

  The general's breath pillared around his head as he stomped his feet, "Their company was to set forth to Magton as our vanguard."

  "Sir, he said it was an ambush. And he mumbled something about a Queen's crown upon their banner."

  So, this errant Queen of Ostero was living up to her reputation after all. Grabbing one of the Baron's guards clustered around the poor man's body as if he'd never seen death before, he said, "Raise the alarm. We ride tonight."

  "Sir?" the scout asked, trying to not imagine a long night on the back of a horse.

  "If our vanguard has been wiped out that means the entire town of..." his memory failed as every tiny town throughout the eastern provinces sounded the blighted same ending with an -on or -an. "...where we were to meet them is under mob rule. We cannot let that stand. People under the Empire must feel safe within its arms."

  "Yes, Sir." The scout saluted needlessly.

  "Uh," the General started, hoping the lad would finish.

  "Paulo, Sir."

  "Yes, Paulo. I want you to circle the walls searching for any of our fellows who might have had a bit too much celebrating tonight and gotten lost. Sober them up as best you can and stick them on a horse."