by Jon Kiln
The dragon was almost upon the castle, and he knew a hail of arrows from below would skewer him before any would even scratch the monster’s impervious hide. He had to get himself free.
With another desperate lunge, ignoring the sharp pain in his gut, Artas reached for the chain linking the spear. This time his fingers curled around the rusted metal. His fingers bled as he pulled his weight up against the chain. Whipping out his dagger with his other hand, he began striking the chain link on the spear butt. Sparks flew out over his face, but he continued relentlessly. The dragon swooped down over the castle walls, and the first few arrows whizzed past the back of Artas’ head.
“For the princess!” Artas roared, and struck at the chain with all his might.
The metal gave in, shattering in a hail of sparks. Suddenly, Artas was free, and he began to slide down the dragon’s leg. The fall from that height would surely kill him. The slim archer desperately clung to the dragon’s hot scaly skin, fingers bleeding, waiting for the right time to jump off. It came within moments.
The dragon banked suddenly in mid-flight, almost dislodging him. It dived down fast, as if it intended to bore its way into the earth below. The ground came rushing up at breathtaking speed, and Artas knew this was the moment. He would either be saved, or die.
The dragon opened its huge maw, sending a jet stream of billowing red flame down on the panic stricken soldiers of Palara. Just as it seemed inevitable that it would hit the ground nose first, the dragon jerked up and streaked along parallel to the blazing ground.
This was his chance, and Artas took it. Using all his remaining strength, he hurled himself away from the speeding behemoth as it banked over the stream that entered the castle walls from the valley.
Artas hit the soft, muddy bank hard, with the breath leaving his body. His head felt like it was split open, and stars filled his vision. The screams of burning and dying men echoed all around him as the gently lapping waters of the stream roused him.
He groggily got to his feet, and climbed out of the water. Before him, the giant structure of Castle Locke was in flames, every part of it. Men were screaming and running, some on horses, most on foot.
A small herd of panicked horses almost ran over him as he made his way toward the castle. He dived at the last horse as it raced past, his sore fingers clinging to its flowing mane, he let himself get dragged along, desperately trying to throw his leg across the fleeing animal’s back as it thundered toward the Palaran border.
38
“Would you like another poached egg, your highness?” Loren fawned over her as she blushed. “It’s not every day I get to serve breakfast to the Queen of Palara, you know.”
“Thank you, Loren,” Myriam smiled at the kind old man.
This was the best home cooked meal she had eaten in days. She glanced across at Ganry and Hendon, who were as happy as she was, wolfing down on the large portions of ham and eggs, toasted rye and cheese, and large mugs of fruit juice.
She hadn’t really expected this kind of a reception as they traveled through the farmlands of her kingdom. It seemed Ganry was right to wonder if the people were loyal to Harald, or to her. Most, if not all, the regions to the south they had traveled through over the last five days, hated Harald’s oppressive rule and his taxes. They feared he would destroy the peace and prosperity that King Ludwig had dedicated his life to.
Ival Hold was a magnificent farmland, and ruled for generations by Lord Parsival’s family. She had met him briefly when her father was still the king. He was a handsome young noble, very decent and well-mannered.
She feared for him, knowing that he was at attendance at Harald’s court. As she sat in the large but simple dining area of his mansion, enjoying Loren and Lysa’s adoring care, Myriam’s hopes of regaining her country soared.
The people of Ulmet Bay, where she had first made a claim of her birthright, displaying her royal seal, ring and dagger, were more than ready to follow her. It seemed the rule of the new regent threatened to affect their lives the most. From then on it was easier, as they went to Crandall Estate and then to the sea-faring region of Ogden. And it was the same here at Parsival’s Ival Hold.
“I must say,” Ganry patted his full belly, “the southern farmlands are quite prosperous.”
“Much gratitude, warrior.” Bertrand, the steely eyed captain of Ulmet Bay, who had accompanied them with his men to Ival Hold, nodded. “But it may not be so for long.”
Loren waved his serving spoon. “Not if we do something about it.”
“And we will.” Marston, the tallest man there, and commander of the forces at the Crandall Estate, said with a grim smile on his thin lips. “For we have gathered here for that very reason.”
Hagar, captain at Ival Hold stood up. “We have pledged our allegiance to you, Queen Myriam, as we had done to your sire, King Ludwig, before you.”
“And I am glad,” Myriam gushed, almost teary eyed. “Glad to know that my people, the strength of my kingdom, will not side with an unjust cruel man. I am forever grateful for this act of selfless support, dear sirs.”
Myriam looked at the faces of the hardened men seated around the simple kitchen table. The four men facing her were commanders, having served in the armies of the Lords and Ladies of Palara for decades. They had each earned their place, and were loyal to their respective regions. She was certain that they would extend that loyalty to her in this hour of need.
“This is all well and good.” Ganry pushed his empty plate away. “Now tell us, captains, how soon before you are ready to take on an entire army?”
Hagar eyed Ganry closely. “We are ready now, depending on the plan.”
“I have some suggestions.” Ganry smiled respectfully, rubbing his wrist in his huge hand.
Bertrand spoke up. “Yes, well, our garrison at Ulmet Bay are ready to fight on a day’s notice. But I must know what you have in mind.”
“Right, Ganry, let us hear what a mercenary of your skills can tell us about organizing a war.” The tall Marston smirked, rubbing his temples.
“Before I begin telling of my strategies, I must inform you that I had a life before I became a sellsword.” The huge man looked each of them in the eyes. “I was commander of Emperor Fontelroy’s armies.”
Hagar looked amused. “Not Fontleroy the Mad.”
“Yes, indeed. Yet he wasn’t always mad.”
“I have faith in you, Ganry,” Myriam said loudly for all to hear. “I trust you with my life. Let me assure you, kind sirs, that I believe this man can help save our kingdom. He will help lead our army and overthrow the usurper once and for all.”
“Your word is as good as King Ludwig’s for me, my Queen.” Bertrand bowed his head. “I will be glad to have sir Ganry's assistance. We will fight to the gates of hell, if need be.”
“As would I.” Hagar nodded.
“And I.” Marston said solemnly.
“So will the House of Ogden.” The fourth man, grim faced and with a scar running down the left side of his cheek, spoke for the first time.
“Hell is the last place I intend to lead us, if I can help it,” Ganry laughed. “But I do have a plan that may bring hell right to us.”
The great table creaked as the captains leaned forward, facing the large warrior. He looked at each of the expectant faces somberly. They listened closely, and curiously.
***
“It all sounds great,” Hagar said, “but I see a flaw in your plan, Ganry, perhaps an oversight.”
“Pray tell,” Ganry growled. The few hours he spent explaining the elaborate plan of first harrying and raiding Harald’s many border outposts, and then drawing the main army into a trap, had left him weary and irritable. The princess and Hendon had long retired for the night, but he stayed up with the four commanders who had many questions and doubts for him to satisfy.
“When you say we will have them surrounded from the south and west, pushing them up towards Cifenon Forest, how again will we be cornering them against a
forest with many paths through it?”
“Yes, they will be cornered, forced back by our companions hidden within Cifenon,” Ganry replied, trying to be patient.
“The mysterious Lake Men you mentioned.” Bertrand looked skeptical. “Except no one has ever seen one. And you say their chief, a mere boy, shows allegiance to Queen Myriam.”
“Yes, precisely.” Ganry’s exasperation could tear the wooden board off the table with his bare hands.
“And what of the men fighting in the regent’s army?” Hagar scratched his chin. “Many of them have families in the farmlands.”
“We will give them a chance to defect and join our just cause,” the tall Marston said, almost disinterestedly.
“Yes, and we will require complete loyalty and commitment for the Queen from everyone.” Ganry rapped his knuckles on the table. “And what have you to say about this, Lord Ogden?”
“The house of Ogden sees merit to your plan, sir Ganry.” The scarred man, the only noble among them, nodded slowly as the first streaks of dawn burst over the horizon outside the window. “We will ride with you.”
39
“Parsival, hurry. Qutaybah’s men have drawn all the guards’ away from their posts,” Leonie hissed, keeping to the shadows under the eastern wall of the castle.
“I am, I am,” the young man whispered. “Where are the others?”
“They will join us from the other side. We have to enter from different directions.”
“And that foreigner?” Parsival eyed the dagger she held, its sharp edge laced with poison. The same as he had. There wasn’t going to be a second chance at this.
“Qutaybah? Yes, he is there.” Leonie crept up the inner stairway. “Now keep your voice down. Let’s do this.”
The chaos outside allowed them to move through the dark halls and corridors of Castle Villeroy undetected. It was easy to sneak out of the nobles’ enclosure. All those guards were easy to bribe. But the ones guarding the regent’s private bedchamber were better trained and loyal to Harald.
Parsival felt his own heartbeat pounding in his ears as he followed the gutsy Leonie. They stopped at the corridor that led to the regent’s bed chamber. Braziers hanging from chains overhead lit up the passage, and there was no way of creeping through it unseen. Three heavily armed elite guards kept vigil outside the huge gilt-edged door.
“Now what?” Parsival whispered.
“This is good,” Leonie whispered back. “Usually about a dozen guards patrol these corridors. We have only three to contend with, thanks to the riot outside.”
“Only three? I admire your courage, woman.” Parsival sighed. “Only three of the best killers of Palara.”
“Oh, look.” Leonie squeezed his arm, indicating across the corridor at a young man, and a large warrior. “It’s them. The outlander.”
Silent as panthers, the two men ran down the corridor from the other side, weapons drawn and faces grim with determination. The three guards turned toward them, leaving the door unattended. One of them reached up for the rope that would ring a bell.
A well aimed dagger slamming into his chest stopped that from happening. In a blur of movement, the huge Vandemlander had killed all three guards, and stood wiping his broadsword on a regal tapestry.
“The door, it’s free,” Leonie whispered. “Move. Now.”
Parsival didn’t answer. Instead he ran up to the door and pushed it open. The room inside was large and dim, and in the pale light he could make out another doorway to an inner chamber. Harald’s bedroom. He rushed in, throwing caution to the wind, with Leonie hot on his tail.
“There he sleeps,” she hissed. “Do it now.”
Parsival moved as if in a daze. He knew what he was doing, but it felt like he was watching someone else do it. He grabbed at the sleeping man’s shoulder, turning him around onto his back. With a swift stroke, he ran the dagger across Harald’s throat. There was no cry from the regent. His eyes didn’t even open in pain or surprise.
Leonie pushed Parsival aside and slammed her dagger into Harald's chest, right to the hilt. The bed groaned but the man on it remained motionless.
“What manner of-” Parsival began, grabbing a dim torch off the wall and holding it over the body.
“This isn’t Harald,” Leonie screeched. “It’s a decoy. A dead body of someone else.”
“We should have known…”
Footsteps running up made them turn around. The young man accompanying the outlander parted the curtains and peered in. “Is it done?”
Before either of them could answer, the young man’s eyes went wide, and blood erupted from his chest, followed by the flat blade of a Palaran infantryman. A large hand grabbed the dying man’s neck and hurled him aside. Harald stepped into the bedchamber, bloody blade in hand. His eyes gleamed with hatred as more guards followed him in, carrying blazing torches.
“Assassins in my own home,” the regent said coldly. “Surrender, or die.”
Parsival dropped his dagger and placed his hands above his head. Leonie looked at him in disbelief and then glared at Harald. He regarded her as if she was rack of lamb ready for the cookhouse. She sighed and dropped her dagger, casting a last glance at the body of the man on the bed, wondering who that hapless victim might have been.
“Take them away,” Harald growled. “And I want the fourth man found. Scour the castle and the grounds, or its all of your heads.”
Qutaybah had escaped, Parsival realized, his respect for the stranger suddenly going up a few notches. The huge foreigner could tell of this to the others. Maybe there was still a chance to end this madman’s rampage, even if he himself would not see another sunrise.
***
“They are coming, milady, to set us free,” the little man said, peering through the bars of the cell. “Everything is falling into place as I had foreseen.”
“Placing such power into the hands of a butchering madman is something I will never condone.” The Duchess D’Anjue shook her head. “Whoever you are, this is a grave mistake you are making.”
“In time, all will make sense.” The monk smiled, drawing his hood back over his head. “Here they come.”
The flickering light of bright torches cast eerie dancing shadows across the dungeon walls. The Duchess could hear Harald’s hateful voice gloating over some other victim he had brought down with him. Cell doors creaked open, the sound of bodies being roughly hurled inside followed, and then the doors clanged shut with rusted keys squeaking in protest as they turned the locks into place.
The torchlight grew brighter as the regent and his jailer approached her cell. Harald stood outside, glaring at her. The jailer opened the door and the little monk stood up.
“You did well, warning me of this attempt on my life, little man,” Harald told him. “Now keep up the other end of our bargain and then I will set the Duchess free.”
“You will let the Duchess come with me now, Harald, regent of Palara, or you will never be king.”
“What consequence is she to you?” the regent snarled, stepping away from the cell door as the monk walked through it.
“None.” He smiled. “I don’t like to see old people suffer.”
“What a waste of effort. Now come, you can have a room in my castle until I get this dragon sword you spoke of.”
“How kind of you, sire.” The monk bowed and then took the Duchess’ hand, leading her out. “Come, milady. You have suffered this indignity enough.”
She took his hand and followed him out of the dank cell, her head held up proudly.
“Duchess?” She heard a weak voice come from one of the cells as she walked past.
It was one of the new prisoners, a young man, bleeding from several cuts and sporting a swollen lip and a black eye. A half naked woman lay by his side, sobbing into the dirt laden floor. She had never seen them before.
40
“Artas!” Myriam’s eyes lit up. “What’s happened to him?”
“He’s hurt,” Ganry said, loo
king down at the sleeping noble. “His left ankle is swollen, possibly broken, and he’s been pierced by an arrow though the shoulder. Let him rest.”
“Will he be alright?” Hendon was almost in tears. “Where did you find him?”
“A few miles south of the Berghein Valley border. He had ridden his horse almost to death,” Hagar said grimly, standing beside Lord Ogden. “He said he has grave news for the princess, before he fainted.”
“What news?” Myriam asked apprehensively, as Hendon walked over to where a horse was tethered, lazily munching grain.
“We’ll have to wait until he wakes,” Ganry said, “though he did say one word before he passed out.”
The young girl looked up at Ganry. “What was that?”
“Dragon.”
“What? Dragon?” She searched the faces of the three men standing beside her. “What does that mean?”
“That he was delirious with pain and exhaustion, or we’re in more trouble than we can ever fathom,” Ganry replied sourly, turning away.
The last three days, his plan had worked flawlessly. The armsmen, in their hundreds from the four southern nobilities, were well trained and followed his orders to the letter. They were successful in subduing all of the army outposts by sheer weight of numbers.
The two Palaran patrols they had encountered on the road towards the Berghein Valley were also dealt with efficiently, with minor losses to life and limb. Most of the Palaran soldiers agreed to the chance of joining the uprising, as their families populated the southern farms. The few that did not, foolishly standing by the usurper, were slain or imprisoned in the dungeons of various castles around the southern countryside.
But something was wrong, Ganry felt. As they marched onward to the west, instead of finding more of Harald’s men, they found less. The closer they got to the Berghein Valley, the lesser the resistance became. His plan to push the Palaran army back toward Cifenon Forest and entrap them between his forces and the Lake Men seemed less likely with every passing moment.