The King's Blood

by S. E. Zbasnik

  Bralda shuddered in her daughter's grasp. Her eyes rolled up to Albrant and she shrieked like a banshee crying before someone's death, "Murderer!"

  Ciara followed her mother's accusatory glance to the impotent man hanging upon the wall and back to the woman breaking in half from a sorrow only held together with the tape of joy. "Murderer? What are you talking about?"

  "It was him! He could have saved him, but he didn't. Just like Corwin," Bralda hissed. If her hands weren't still held by the daughter she feared she'd lost, she'd have begun throttling Albrant herself.

  "Corwin? What does any of this...mother, where's father?"

  Bralda's fight faded at the whimper in her child's voice. Slowly her head turned from her Lord to her daughter, pain etching deep the lines Ciara never knew she had.

  "Mum?"

  "I'm sorry, baby," every word fell with a dull thud against the ground, "he's dead."

  "No, no, no, no, no," Ciara repeated, shaking her head to dislodge her mother's words. But nothing could stick like that, the anger and hatred blended and diced until only a mush of sorrow remained. She'd said the same when Corwin was taken.

  "And it was him that did it," Bralda hissed, turning again upon Albrant. "He could have saved him. He should have saved him."

  Albrant said nothing, taking the vitriol of the woman he wronged twice over. The knights shuffled about the room, afraid to make eye contact. Not all had been accepting of the decision to leave the Dark Knight behind.

  Ciara's hands fell from her mother's; as grief overtook her she grew numb. Her body rocked and, for a brief moment, she feared she'd faint, but Taban placed a comforting hand upon her shoulder and jerked her back. Bralda, freed from her daughter, pointed a finger in the dying man's face and shouted, "You were born a coward, and you will die a coward." She spat upon him and reached back her hand to slap him. One of the knights grabbed her arm and shoulder, holding her tight as she struggled, crying and screaming to be let free. To find some justice in this world.

  A hand drew the sword of Cas from the scabbard. Ciara was surprised to find it was her own as she turned away from the patronizing eyes of the witch and the priest, both unable to say anything. She looked upon the man, the man who killed her father, and whom she'd sworn upon her own life to serve. The blade came up to his rattling chest and the knights paused. Even Bralda calmed down at the shaft of steel pointing upon one of the few remaining royal buttons clinging to Albrant's tattered shirt.

  "By the rights of justice, I may strike you down for dishonoring my father."

  The knights rushed to grab Ciara's hand regardless of the risk to their own lives but Albrant coughed, a small dribble of phlegm slipping around his mouth, "Stay. She has the right."

  Ciara looked at the blade beneath her fingers. Gods knew how many men it killed in its time. Hundreds? Thousands? And how many had been horrible, evil vile creatures that also patted little girls on the head and snuck them sweets when their mothers weren't looking. It grew harder to see through the murky fog drifting across the dungeon as she turned to find solace from her mother whose face looked more of a possessed jackal baying for blood, then to Taban, their expert murder. He grimaced, but nodded.

  She looked back towards Albrant, always proud. That was one thing he refused anyone to take. Her hand shook, rattling the edge of the blade as she inched closer.

  "Stop!" Aldrin's voice commanded through the hatred welling in her heart and stuck in her brain.

  She didn't look back at the errant prince parting through the ranks. "He killed my father," she mumbled to herself.

  "I heard," Aldrin said as the knights parted before him, trying to place why he looked so familiar.

  "Then I should kill him," Ciara said plainly as if solving a simple math problem. If I have one father and he takes that away, how can I not kill him?

  "No," Aldrin paused behind, afraid to touch her, afraid she'd feel the stain upon him.

  "Tell me one good reason why I shouldn't kill him?" she asked, pleading with the boy, "please, just one good reason."

  A soft hand slipped into the one that dangled limp at her side. At first, her fingers refused to curl around them, as Aldrin clung tightly to her. That harbor in the storm. She turned to her side and looked into his watering eyes. A puddle of tears collapsed down her cheek as she realized there was no mist in the dungeons beyond what welled in her eyes.

  Aldrin looked down at her hands, and then into those eyes that pained him every time they shed tears, "Because you don't wish to."

  Her fingers gripped his tightly, clinging desperately to a rock she never thought she'd find. The sword lowered and she nodded at everyone and no one. "Someone told me 'It takes a strong arm to wield a sword and a stronger one to know when not to,'" she whispered to the hushed crowd.

  At her words her mother sobbed heavy and fell to her knees, the emaciated knight unable to support her any longer. Ciara glanced towards her but remained steadfast.

  "Wise words," Taban remarked, "Who said it?

  Ciara looked deep into the eyes of Albrant and answered proudly, "My father."

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Without uttering a word, Ciara passed the keys to a knight. She couldn't find his name underneath the grime and didn't care to. He fumbled his way through the locks and freed Albrant, who fell to his knees. Slowly, their Lord tried to rise, directing whatever energy remained into his stumbling legs.

  "The King," Albrant rasped, "He is still under the Empire's thumb."

  "The King is dead," Aldrin said curtly, refusing to meet anyone's gaze.

  Shock and outrage burst through the knights, "Dead? How?"

  "I found him...his body upon the floor in a pool of his own blood," the boy's eyes lingered upon nothing, but his hands tapped against the sword still dangling by his side.

  "Aldrin?" Ciara tried to reach out to him, but he turned away from her, too afraid of what would forever follow him.

  "Then we must avenge him," Albrant said, "and take back our lands from the scourge!"

  "We have no King," one of the other knights muttered, turning to his others who weren't in a mood to toss away their lives for a ruler-less land.

  "We need no King to perform our duties, to honor our name," Albrant argued to his men, trying to summon whatever passed for courage among men wasting away in the bowels of the earth.

  Bralda rolled her eyes dramatically at his false bravado but the Knights didn't notice. A few smacked their hands to their chest and bowed, but the others, the splitting faction, continued to whisper and murmur. If they survive this, then what? Ostero could not handle a war with both the Empire and for the throne.

  "I will be your King," the voice was soft and low, like a morning wish upon the wind.

  "Boy?" Albrant asked, risking a step forward towards the child cowering away from the other men in the cell.

  The child turned at the enfeebled knight's approach and his head rose, his shoulders falling back, "My name is Bonaventure Aldrin, second son to Good King Elric, and, if you get me to the top of the tower, I will be your King."

  Albrant looked through the face, sprinkled with the first patches of facial hair, dirt in grubby patches throughout the pale skin, and the seemingly never ending spots of adolescence. But it was the eyes, haunted and shrouded with a pain pushed to the side as the crystal sharp edge of dedication overtook it all. The Lord fell to his knee and whispered, "Your Highness."

  Aldrin placed his hand against the man's shoulder trying to keep him from tumbling forward and said, "No, not yet. But, thanks anyway."

  "Why do you need to get to the tower's top?" Albrant asked, his head rising to stare up at the boy King.

  Aldrin looked over at Isa, who was trying to blend in as much as a glowing witch from beyond the sea could. Her eyes caught his and she turned her head to acknowledge him 'Time's almost up.' "I require an artifact the Emperor stole from me. It is of grave importance that we stop him from using it."

  Albrant turned to his other Knig
hts, barely able to swing a sword much less take back the Keep. They tried to look enthused but mostly came off as scared pissless. How were they to do this?

  "A diversion," Taban's voice cut through the thick air. Every head turned to the dark man that uneased them more than Ciara holding a sword against their Lord. He smiled against the scrutiny and a few shifted back out of the light. "You know this Keep, I assume. Pull and block the Empire's men to one side of the tower, we shall take the stairs up the other side."

  Albrant nodded slowly, trying to stagger to his feet. Sir Raltie grabbed his forearm and took most of the weight. Together the old friends rose together, and Albrant looked upon Taban fully for the first time. "We will require weapons and armor."

  "There's an entire stash of blades in the other cells," Bralda interrupted, her first civil words to the man who'd let her husband die. The snowless grey eyes turned upon her and slowly nodded his thanks. She in turn crossed her arms and glared back. As far as she was concerned they could all go get themselves killed. Arming themselves would make it go faster.

  "I cannot ask anyone to come with me," Aldrin said, looking across those who'd risked so much at his side and finally landed on Ciara. She'd been quiet, mulling something over. He feared to say anything to her and break the emotional wall she was building.

  "I've kept you alive so far, what's a few more stories," Taban said cheerfully, leaning back casually.

  Isa looked up to the boy, "You shall not be rid of me that easily."

  "I never dreamed," Aldrin said smiling grimly, knowing the witch was as much a liability as an asset.

  "Wait, is this when we pledge things?" Kynton asked excitedly. Dropping down to a knee, he picked up Aldrin's limp hand saying, "And you may have my...uh, um...brains!"

  "Assuming he ever finds them," Isa muttered as Kynton rose gleefully to his feet, full of purpose. He lightly poked the witch in the arm, getting a shock.

  Slowly Aldrin turned to Ciara. She didn't look at him, she didn't look at anything. "You don't need to come," he whispered to her, "you have your mother and...and there's no need to risk your life anymore for me."

  Her fingers worked around the grip of her sword, reminding herself it was still there as she weighed her options. Then her head rose with purpose. For the first time she looked in Aldrin's eyes and picked up his hand, squeezing the fingers tight, "I won't let go."

  A small part of him wanted to argue, to tell her to remain behind, to stay safe. But the rest that was grateful to know she'd be beside him to the end, told that part to piss off. Aldrin nodded slowly and squeezed back. The Knights did their best to not notice the tender moment that could be a problem down the road.

  "What?" Bralda flew into her daughter's face, trying to turn her away from the boy King, "You cannot be serious. Cia! I forbid it!"

  "Mother," Ciara said, her heart poured into those two syllables. It could be the very last time she said them, "it was Father that ordered me to keep him safe."

  Bralda's hands fell from Ciara's turned face, and she stepped back, looking upon her child. "You are far too much like him," she mumbled, thinking upon all the times Asim ran head first into danger because he'd made a promise.

  "I know," Ciara nodded along, "it's who I am."

  Her mother smiled wanly, and looked at Albrant, "If you men plan to survive, you won't be taking the main staircase. I know the back servant passages, they'll get you in and out of the main sections of the Tower mostly undetected."

  Albrant bowed graciously, trying to bandage the irreparable wound between one of his oldest friends. But Bralda turned away from him to the boy still brazenly holding her daughter's hand, "And you, you promise you will do all within your power to keep my daughter safe."

  Aldrin looked at Ciara who rolled her eyes at her mother and felt a small smile curl upon his lips. It fell immediately as the overpowering Bralda advanced upon him, in no mood for jocularity. Reining in his humor, Aldrin swore, "Upon my life, she will survive."

  "Right. Good. Grab your things, boys. We're heading out," Bralda said. She took one more glance at Ciara, who shrugged her shoulders and then, grabbing the torch out of Taban's hands, led the free men to battle.

  A few cheers rang out through what passed for a dining hall in this drafty Keep on the edge of the world. Some of his men were trying to toss an old chunk of bread into one of the bear heads hanging off the wall, while the others placed bets. Betting was ruled a sin by Argur and could be punished severely if Vasska discovered it, but Marciano didn't have the heart to take this rare moment from them. The past months had been a challenge but...

  His thought floundered as his eyes drifted towards the window overlooking the battlements. A few ebony backsides twisted back and forth in what was either a panic or a poorly choreographed folk dance. The General rose from the seat of near honor, his plate mostly untouched. Food was ash after taking the medicinal potions the priests insisted upon.

  A few of the gamblers caught sight of Marciano and tried to rise quickly, but he waved them off. "No need on my account," he smiled through the pain as his rising caused the dagger's blade to bite into his side once again. It was a pain that would take more than a few empty words and a night's rest to heal. Needlessly tucking in his chair, Marciano limped towards the door to the "breakfast nook" as one of the chattier servants called it. "Lone table for the guard stuck outside in the cold" was what Marciano dubbed it.

  His hand, colder than he remembered, landed upon the latch that lifted with little fuss. It was commanding it to push that brought the searing pain again. He gritted his teeth and fought through the hot lead in his side, pulling open the door to a cluster of black chickens running about as if a fox got in the hen house.

  Winds whipped and tore at the few Empire banners some melodramatic sot hung from the flagpoles. Most likely one of the priests on orders from the man who refused to exit the Tower's crest. Vasska decreed all his cabinet follow him and vanished hours ago, saying he was not to be disturbed, cradling that boy's blade like a child. Marciano gripped the door rattling against the winds, and slammed it shut. This brought the chickens attention away from whatever startled them, and his guards fell back into line, a few saluting as their leader rose up to inspect them.

  "Men. What seems to be the trouble?"

  One of the younger ones, shit, they were all younger ones weren't they anymore, turned white as the Ostero snow and looked cautiously over his shoulder to the ground below, then snapped back to the General. Another, steadier than his companion, babbled something in a tongue Marciano was certain he'd conquered over five years ago.

  "Right," the general said. Limping through them, he parted the guards too terrified to make sense and pierced the red land illuminated by the final steps of the sun. Shadows shifted against the stark land, like grass in a small windstorm. Man sized grass that slowly inched closer to the gates.

  "The Queen's army," he cursed, questioning why he put any trust in Vasska's assessment they were crippled.

  "Sir," the more coherent of the two guards tapped Marciano on the shoulder and handed a spyglass to him.

  The General nodded at him, and raised the piece to his eye. At first, he got nothing but a face full of stone wall. Whipping it about fast enough to make anyone queasy, he settled upon a pair of the shadows so near they banged upon the closed gate. Their bodies rattled the metal of the portcullis, shaking it soundly. As a tactic, it made about as much sense as ramming your own soldiers upon the enemy's sword in the hope it'd get too heavy and slip from his hand.

  Then a torch flared in the winds and illuminated the body of the lead man banging into the gate. It would have shown his face if he'd had one. The body, just the body, no head at all, took a few steps back and then ran forward.

  "What trickery is this?!" Marciano cursed, dropping the spyglass from his eye.

  "Sir, it is worse than that," the guard pointed to another body a few feet behind the main line, stumbling with the rest. Marciano raised his scope to it and bit hi
s tongue in rage at the ebony armor marching limply beside the bodies of the rebels they slew less than a week earlier.

  "I know what they is," the pale guard muttered, his fingers slipping over a set of beads dangling off his belt. "Can't you see it. Them eyes, never movin'. They're unblinkers."

  "There's no such thing as unblinkers," is what the General should have said, but a disgusting fear strangled his tongue. Instead he muttered to himself, "Even if they gather enough force it'll be days before they get through the gate."

  But the unblinkers were ahead of the General; as more approached the line, their limbs grew certain. They began to climb over top their fellows, constructing a ladder out of corpses. "Sweet merciful Argur!" Marciano muttered, "Hey!" he called down to the few guards ambling about the courtyard, "Hey!"

  They looked up at their General and waved back cheerfully, just as the first body tumbled over the gate wall. It smashed to the ground like a wet sack of flour. The courtyard guards jumped at the sound and rushed over to the man who committed suicide jumping off the wall.

  Then the broken body started to lift, the entire back sat up straight and the guards jumped away, trying to wave their swords at the invader who survived the deadly fall. One leg, then another, pulled under the body, struggling to lift it. A guard inched closer, trying to see what the broken man wanted, when a limp hand snaked forward and caught him about the throat.

  It squeezed with all the force a human hand could manage, as the second guard swung upon the enemy with his sword, hacking into meat that had no give. Still the hand squeezed, the guard in his grasp choked and struggled but could find no relief. As his vision swam before him in the last gasp of oxygen, his final sight was the dead man's head lolling upon him, the eyes staring far into the future.

  "Hey! Soldier!" Marciano shouted to the man still attacking the corpse with all his might. Somehow his General's commands broke through the terror of the strangling dead crowding upon his brain. His head snapped up to the man upon the balcony, "Run!"