The King's Blood

by S. E. Zbasnik

  "You mean they kept you from murdering them," Aldrin said, disgusted.

  "I had the throne, Vasska should be happy, but all he wanted was the tower. So I threw open the door once more with the promise he let everyone live."

  "And you trusted him?" Aldrin refused to believe the nonsense spewing from his brother's mouth.

  "Every knight, every soldier not cut down in the 'ambush' are locked away in the dungeons. Once Vasska's finished he'll free them."

  Aldrin shook his head, "And what of the servants?"

  "What of them?" Henrik snorted at his weak sibling. "Do you care for the dogs and vermin as well?"

  The prince turned from his brother, disgusted at everything he heard. "Only a fool would believe a snake's lies. Only a fool would trust the mute to honor his word."

  "And only a fool would let his entire country burn for some dead bastard in the sky," Henrik rounded on his brother, having spent most of his self-loathing with his confession. Now all that remained was hate with only the slayer of his mother in sight to burn it all on.

  "Vasska would raze us all to the ground for his glory. Why..." a small panic gripped Aldrin as tears clung to his eyes. He looked at Henrik, so cocksure in everything he did, "Why can't you see that?"

  Henrik folded his arms again, trying to rise as regally as possible over his brother. He wished he kept his heeled boots on, "Either the Emperor will slit all our throats for his dark ritual on the top of the tower or he won't. Either way, you cannot change it. I am your King, little brother, and you must do as I command." Henrik held out his hand and pushed the Seal of Ostero into his brother's face.

  Aldrin staggered at that. His father almost never wore it, calling it a "Godsawful gaudy bauble what snags on my underthings." But it was the symbol, the mark of the pantheon chosen seat to fill the Ostero throne. And Henrik wore it proudly upon his fingers as if he'd already traveled through the trials and been awarded the crown.

  He turned away from his brother, staring at the door. The others were still out there. He could stay here with his King and let them find the sword and free the tower. But Henrik wouldn't stand for it. He'd sell Aldrin out as sure as he sold their father and everyone they ever knew for that hunk of metal upon his finger. Henrik could talk noble, but Aldrin knew the viper behind the Ostero eyes. The honey voice that whispered such sweet nothings at night called for an execution by day. He cared nothing for ruling, only for power. A lump fell inside Aldrin's stomach from his brain as a terrible decision was reached.

  He turned to look upon his smug brother as his hand cupped around the leather grip. Aldrin unsheathed his sword.

  Henrik let a flash of fear fade from his eyes as Aldrin said, "You are my king." He nodded in agreement, enjoying this new game.

  But the murky eyes of Little Bonny snapped up and hardened to steel as another piece of Aldrin's soul splintered off, "Yet you killed our king."

  Henrik backed up at the fury leeching off his brother. His hands flew up, the ring knocking into Aldrin's breastplate. He looks so much like our father when he panics, Aldrin thought as he bared down upon his only brother. His blade arm rose back.

  Despite the threat, or perhaps because of the fear, Henrik laughed, "Come now, Bonny, you cannot be serious. Put that down before you hurt yourself."

  Henrik started to slap the blade out of Aldrin's hands but a gauntleted fist caught his brother's wrist and turned it aside. "You must be executed," Aldrin said as he thrust his rusted sword deep into his brother's gut.

  Shock cut off the air trying to get to Henrik's lungs and his screams turned to mutterings as he fell to his knees. Aldrin kept his grip on his blade as the dying king slid off it. The icy eyes of his brother looked into Aldrin's and he whispered to his dying King, "I am sorry." And he meant it, as he watched that flicker of anger and hatred fade for the final time from Henrik as his body slumped over and fell to the floor. It would never rise again.

  Aldrin reached down and pulled the ring off Henrik's fingers before placing it safely in one of his inner pockets. He brought the sword up to his face and watched a strange sheen glimmer beneath his brother's blood dripping down the rust. Perhaps the blood of kings could polish any sword.

  He sheathed it back upon his belt and turned away from his brother still laying slumped against the floor, the blood oozing into the masonry. 'They would never get that clean,' someone other than Aldrin thought. 'I need to get out there and find the others. The dungeons are the place to look.' The stranger in his head kept up, giving orders to a child hiding in the corner gnawing at his fist for what he'd seen. What he'd done.

  Aldrin listened outside the door but heard nothing. He stuck his head out and, finding no guards, broke for the staircase to the dungeons at a moderate run. Behind him he left his brother, his King, and Little Bonny.

  Taban, his hand still clutching the terrified maid, opened up the door and peered out into the hall. "Your Princeling is not there," he closed the door and looked back at Ciara, "On the plus side, neither is his bleeding corpse."

  Ciara muttered something that sounded dangerously familiar to Taban and he tried to hide the smile at her dubbing the boy a "hopping lambskin." He may need to teach her proper Dunish lest she become the hit of the court on accident. The mewling thing in his hands squirmed and opened her mouth to scream. He clamped a hand over her mouth subconsciously.

  This drew the attention of Ciara away from where the hell Aldrin got himself this time. She looked into the wide eyes of the girl trying to squirm away from the people who assaulted and jammed her inside the makeshift linen closet, "Matilda? Is that you?"

  Matilda nodded and mumbled something under Taban's hand, slobbering down it. He sneered at her but looked to Ciara, who nodded her head slowly. It's all right. Slowly he removed his hand, ready to snap it back in place if she tried to scream, and rubbed his palm on his pants.

  "You're late," Matilda said to the fellow maid that shirked her duties for over three months.

  "Things got complicated," Ciara said, nodding to the witch scowling upon the girl and the leering priest. Given the options, Matilda preferred to take her chances with the hulking Sandworm still hovering near her. "Matilda, where's everyone else? Are the others still alive?"

  She nodded, still clinging to her basket as if it could protect her. "Aye, aye, there was a big commotion and next thing anyone knew the black soldiers were in charge," she paled as she looked at Ciara and babbled, "I mean thems in the black armor, not that their skin was black. Not that there's anything wrong with that. Probably."

  Taban grinned cruelly at that, flashing a few of his sharper teeth. Matilda shrieked a bit and cowered into her basket before a thought drove all fear from her. "Your Mum! She'll be needin' to see you!"

  "My mother's here? Unharmed?" Ciara asked, trying to bury any optimism in her heart.

  "Aye, aye," the girl nodded, shaking free the small bow pinned in her hair. "Them soldiers what wears black were explicit, no one was to 'harm' the womens folk. Somethin' about their God and the bald man with the squinty eyes. So most were told to fall in line and not do anything tricky lest they were to incur 'Argur's wrath.'" Matilda air quoted that, showing how much deference she gave to a god's vengeance.

  "I can't believe my mother would go along with that," Ciara said to herself. The woman she knew would raze a castle to the ground if someone failed to use the proper folding technique on the towels. Taking on invading armed forces was nothing to having to admit to Bralda they were out of clean teaspoons.

  "Aye, there's been some..." Matilda opened her mouth to say something, then shut it tight, afraid to break the news to the girl holding a sword. Let someone else be the dead messenger. "Some funny stuff in the castle. Keep. Tower. Whichever."

  "Matilda," Ciara inched closer to her, trying to get her attention, "where is my mother?"

  "By the launders no doubt, but she's always bein' watched by them guards. The limping one doesn't trust her."

  "We have to get to her," Ciara
said, grabbing onto the door handle.

  "No," Isa's voice commanded the ear of Kings and Emperors. All she got from Ciara was a slow turn of her head and a glare.

  "What do you mean, no?"

  "We're not here for mothers or soldiers, we're here for the sword. You, girl," Isa commanded of Matilda who blinked down at the small pale woman, "where is the Emperor?"

  "Emperor?" Matilda asked, uncertain of the snake eyes trying to pierce her soul.

  Isa sighed, unused to dealing with such incompetence outside of a man who tried to wipe with poison oak leaves, "'The bald man with squinty eyes.'"

  "Oh," Matilda nodded, "He's at the top of the tower. Been taking lots of firewood up there. Probably gonna have a cookout. The girls are all hoarding marshmallows..."

  Isa glared at the stream of words, daming them up with her indignation. "There, we belong at the tower's height."

  "You want the sword, you go get it," Ciara said resolutely, "I'm finding my mother."

  "Mateelda," the name rolled around Taban's tongue like sand, "how many soldiers are between here and the tower's height?"

  She tapped her finger to her chin and shrugged, "Dunno. More'en my fingers on both hands and my toes."

  Taban sighed, "In an unknown and tight space, with so much baggage, I cannot hope to best over twenty men."

  "You could ask Lord Albrant to help," Matilda shrugged carefree. "He's resting down in the rocky basement that used to store old halberds and unused jousting dummies."

  Isa's eyes lit up at that and she nodded vigorously towards the assassin. A distraction would help greatly for both their causes. Ciara scowled, knowing she lost whatever iota of power she'd maintained.

  Kynton nodded along before confusion blanketed his face, "Wait. What are we doing?"

  "Which way to the dungeon...'the rocky basement with the old halberds?'" Isa asked, her pale eyes hunting over Matilda.

  The maid sighed as if the witch were a townie, "You see them stairs, you go down 'til you can't go down no more. Can't miss it."

  Kynton giggled at Isa being put in her place by a slip of a maid. She turned her glare upon him and he only giggled more. "I'm sorry. But you're hilarious when you're angry."

  Ciara grabbed Matilda's basket to get her attention and told the girl, "Go and find my mother, tell her to work some way to get to the dungeons."

  Matilda nodded, then looked over at the assassin who finally released her arms. She scurried towards the door and picked open the latch. Opening it just wide enough for her and her basket to fit through, she slipped halfway outside before saying, "For what it's worth, I'm sorry Ciara."

  She was gone before Ciara could ask her what she was sorry for.

  The stairs were mercifully empty as most everyone abandoned their post for the evening meal. Her mother must be on serious outs with the Empire's men if she wasn't overseeing the whole dinner and was locked in the launder's room. Ciara steadied herself behind Taban as they tried to snake down and down towards the basement. Occasionally the assassin would pause, his ear to the wall. Once whatever danger he feared passed, on they'd go. This Keep must have been beautiful once, but time claimed the truest stake for her over the centuries. Tarnished candelabras filled with oversized candles lit their crumbling way.

  "Pause!" Taban said to the others and inched forward, a dagger slipping into his hand. Ciara held up Kynton and Isa as they listened to the assassin's footsteps, which vanished into the night.

  Muffled through the stairs and stone walls, a foreign voice called out, "Who goes there?" There was a rustling, followed by a gasp and gurgle.

  "The way is open," Taban called to them.

  Ciara rounded down the stairs to find the assassin propping the guard back upon his chair. He lowered the head to give the man the appearance of sleep and to hide the life-extinguishing gash across his throat. Taban looked upon her and methodically wiped his blade clean before turning to the bars behind. An imposing lock rattled as he tried the door.

  "Welp," Kynton said, flexing his fingers, "Looks like I'll have a go at this."

  Taban winced at all the picks he had to replace before turning to the priest, "Not this time," and dangled a set of keys he lifted from the guard's pocket.

  As he inserted the first key into the lock, hoping he'd luck out, Kynton mumbled, "Do you steal from every man you kill."

  The first failed, so Taban moved onto the second, then the third, "No. Only those that own things I really like. Ah," the fourth key finally turned, and the bars swung open with a satisfying but dangerous clank.

  Ciara stepped into the dank pit, her eyes refusing to adjust to the gloom. As she inched closer to the first jail cell, she cupped her fingers upon the bars and a small squeal escaped her mouth at the pair of bodies piled on top of each other like kindling. Taban flared the torch he also pilfered from the guard into the cell and illuminated the pile of canvas stuffed with straw.

  "Oh, it's simply dummies," Ciara said, trying to banish all dreaded thoughts of everyone she ever knew tossed upon a heap of broken bodies.

  A grunt called from deep in the dungeon and Ciara trailed after it. This place wasn't designed with comfort in mind. Pools of water collected inside sinking stones, as the bars pressed ever closer the more they moved inward. Quickly, it became a one person walkway, Taban falling behind her as she pressed on, passing mostly uninhabited cells. One was stacked high with jars, another with empty chests. A rather ominous one had a single white rabbit, its nose twitching against the air. But something deep in her gut warned her not to get too close.

  Finally, she came to the last and largest of cells, eerily quiet, and called into the darkness, "Is anyone there?"

  A hand lashed out of the darkness and grabbed her wrist, yanking her in deep. She struggled but slipped against the wet stones, her still bruised forehead colliding with the bars as the man emerged from the shadows. Filthy teeth, yellowed from age, chomped at her.

  Taban raised his torch high behind and commanded, "Unhand her," as he tried to unsheathe his sword in the tight quarters.

  The torchlight blinded the assailant clinging to Ciara and he reared back momentarily, never releasing his grasp. As the pain died down, a face scarred from a shield blow to the temple blinked back. "I know you," he said, staring at Ciara, "The Dark Knight's daughter."

  Ciara nodded, trying to place the knight before her. He looked like he'd been drug behind a horse and then tossed into a crypt to rot to death. "Sir Raltie?" she said cautiously.

  His hand dropped from her wrist and he placed it upon his breast before bowing, "At your service, milady." Then he rose, remembering what he did and said in a panic, "I offer my most humble apologies for roughing your arm in such a manner."

  "It's fine," Ciara said, hating to deal with the knights when they tried to out noble each other to meet their quota at the end of the month. She waved her hand about to show no harm, no foul.

  "What brings you to such depths, milady?" Sir Raltie asked.

  She reached behind her to Taban, who glared, but passed the keyring over. Taking a stab at it, she inserted the last key and turned the lock, "To free you."

  The door swung open with Sir Raltie still clinging to it. He stepped back, as Ciara entered inside the living hell of the men she'd spent her life serving. Three or four were seated at the left wall, gathered around one lying far too quiet upon the floor. Another five took up the right wall, each blinking back at the light blazing beside her. They looked exhausted but still fed and somewhat tended to. Her mother's doing, no doubt. She scanned for her father, but no white eyes blazed from the darkness.

  "My Lord," Sir Raltie said, looking towards the back wall still in shadows, "our savior has arrived."

  Ciara stepped deeper in, past the men struggling to their feet so they could bow. Chained to the back wall like a man about to have every one of his limbs amputated was Lord Albrant. His head rose from his breast as he looked upon the girl inching towards him, the keys dangling in her hands. He'd spent,
gods, days forced to stand under his own weight with the help of the chains stretching his frame like a starfish.

  "My Lord," she said trying to not look upon him for fear it'd bring even worse embarrassment to the man who'd been her master since before she could walk.

  Albrant coughed, a wracking pain up through his toes. "Dear girl, do not look upon us with shame. You are our salvation," he said, trying to place as much warmth in his voice as he dare. Ciara took in those soft eyes, always a distant and aloof care, like a traveling uncle or aging grandfather. She stepped forward, her fingers picking through the key that would break the shackles.

  "Ciara!" The voice echoed through the dungeon as a woman gathered up her ratting skirts and raced into the darkness.

  "Mum?" Ciara paused, turning towards the voice of home.

  The woman pushed past Kynton and Isa, shoving them out of her way. She dodged around Taban and threw her arms about Ciara, dislodging the cap that tried to keep those wily red curls in place. Ciara gasped, shock overtaking her limbs slowly rising to close the hug.

  Bralda clutched her daughter tighter, fighting through the tears building beneath her, "Ciara, my baby, I never thought I'd see you." She leaned away from her child and took her face in her rough hands.

  Ciara didn't even notice her own tears intermingling with her mother's. She gulped for air like a fish learning to walk on land and whispered in disbelief, "Mum, it's you?"

  Bralda laughed, a joy she'd dare never dream, "I'm supposed to ask that of you, little one. How in Scepticar's great blessing did you get here?"

  The assassin hovering beside her mother cleared his throat and nodded towards the witch. Isa's hair sprouted in tufts and that dangerous blue glow began to consume her eyes. Whatever magic gobbledygook was about to happen was happening quickly. "Mum," Ciara grabbed her mother's hands and pulled them into her own, "There isn't much time. Where's father? He, we, I need him to stop the Emperor. It's complicated."