The Gryphon Highlord

by Connie Ward

  The bailey was strewn with Royalists struggling to pick themselves up, all anxious to collect Valleri's reward for capturing me and slaying my companions. But I wasn't about to lay down arms and surrender. I dragged Saxton back onto his feet and pushed him in the direction of the wall. We didn't get far before soldiers clad in Urharde's colours flew out from the barracks into our path, weapons drawn. We had no choice but to stand and do battle.

  A handful of Crusaders had caught up to us and now fought at our side. I threw myself into the melee, exchanging fast and furious blows with a Royalist swordsman. “No, highness!” Saxton shouted over the clash of blades. “Seek cover! Run!"

  I despatched my opponent with a thrust to his shoulder, my steel biting through his leather padding into flesh and bone beneath. As he reeled away, another Royalist took his place, looking to disarm me with a pike. I slid aside, just under his charge, whacking my blade into his torso and knocking him to the ground. “I'm staying!” I yelled back. I was accustomed to fighting, whether my enemy be Crusader or Royalist. I was fed up with running.

  I sought out my next adversary; a second Royalist approached Saxton from behind. I stepped in, deflecting a blow that would have hewn the captain in half. Winding up a mighty two-handed swing, I drove my steel into the soldier's hip. He let out a howl of pain and staggered away, falling to the blood-slicked cobbles.

  Almost before I could recover, another Royalist blade hammered into mine. I thrust and parried furiously, dispatching foe after foe. Their numbers seemed endless, and we lost two of our own beneath their relentless assault. Saxton and I fought back-to-back, slowly wearing away at the enemy. All around us confusion and chaos reigned, the bailey aswarm with embattled knots of soldiers clad in an assortment of uniforms.

  Finally, there came a decline in the amount of Royalists pressing us. As he cut down the last, Saxton bellowed out an order. “Retreat! To the gatehouse!"

  Blades still in hand, we turned and ran into the square between the barracks and the keep. Legs churning, arms pumping, we pounded down the stones, bound for the north wall. But rounding the corner I stopped dead, my men skidding to a halt behind me. I had forgotten Tock. He and half his legion emerged from the square's nether end, blocking our way. I was close enough to the Royalist commander that I could see my expression of astonishment reflected in the polished surface of his breastplate. He let out a shout of triumph and punched aloft his sword, red with the blood of Uncle's Halberdiers.

  I motioned the others to go back but as I turned to follow, Serasteffan and his men entered the square behind us. We were trapped.

  Before we could react, the Butcher stood among us. One of his spiked gauntlets reached out and swatted the sword from my hand while the other tore off my helm and yanked away my coif. “Traitor-slut,” he grinned.

  Saxton ran to my defence. “Release the princess, you whoreson!"

  Restraining me with an elbow across my throat, my captor laughed and swung me around so I faced my troops, all seven of them. His deep, gravelly voice made each word end in a rasp. I suppressed a chill at the sound of it.

  "Put away the blade, boy.” He even smiled, so confident was he in his brute strength and ability to intimidate.

  Brave and loyal Saxton didn't waver. “Let her go."

  "Foolish whelp.” Serasteffan's grin widened. I heard the creak of his leather jerkin as he shifted his suffocating hold on me. “How did this happen, Saxton? You were Valleri's pet. His chosen. Do you not know the riches, the rewards, he would have heaped at your feet had you remained faithful? Gold. Women. Lands. Now it shall all belong to me. How did she lure you to her side, or need I ask? She is young, soft, and so very fetching."

  Where the hell was Arial? Was he still with Ginger or had Stef carved him up for Shouda vittles? If it were the latter, Saxton and I had waded into deep waters indeed.

  Saxton uttered a low threat as Serasteffan proceeded to grope me, there in front of his Royal. “No,” I managed from his stranglehold. “Don't listen to his taunts. Don't let him provoke you."

  Serasteffan chuckled. I struggled feebly, more to escape his fetid breath than his steel-clad fingers. He was uncommonly strong. I felt the power of his coiled muscles, the tension of his body poised to attack ... and more; anger and violence stirred inside him, barely restrained. His petty words and crude behaviour conveyed the extent of his resentment towards Saxton, this man who'd been Valleri's favourite.

  Naturally, Serasteffan would take exception to the youth's elevation to so lofty a perch. After all, Saxton had not earned his master's favour by usurping his captain as Serasteffan had. The Butcher nursed a deadly grudge against the young officer. Now he baited him, hoping Saxton would lose his temper and do something foolish.

  "This has gone far enough,” Tock announced, striding among us. He was an older man, with streaks of grey interrupting his golden beard and hair. Though average of height and build, he wore his scarlet uniform with such a bold air of command that he appeared a giant.

  At his tone of authority, Saxton and Serasteffan unlocked their glowers to look at him. Calmly, Tock said, “Saxton, throw down your weapon."

  To my surprise Saxton did, gesturing for his men to do the same. Such ready submission indicated Saxton's great respect for this man.

  "Insolent pup,” Tock snarled as he backhanded Saxton, making him stagger. Fury and disappointment showed in the Royalist's expression, and something else, which might be grief. His voice shook with it as he demanded, “Don't you realize Valleri will have you drawn and quartered for this treachery? And don't you know he'll make the rest of us watch?"

  Saxton did not defend his actions. He averted his glance, unable to meet Tock's gaze. I understood his position all too well. It was not easy to betray people you'd come to love, despite your best efforts to see them as your enemy.

  "Tock, please,” Saxton said, his voice tight with the effort of controlling his anger. “Tell him to release the princess. Whichever side we stand on does not give him the right to manhandle her."

  Tock turned his smouldering glare on Serasteffan. “Let her be, Stef. I'll take her to Valleri myself."

  Serasteffan balked, reluctant to surrender his prize. His hand slid over the mound of my breast and squeezed it roughly, although my mail shirt protected me from his touch. He defied Tock as a toddler would challenge his father, just to see if he could get away with it. “Now, Tock. Tsk, tsk. Why should you have all the fun?"

  Serasteffan grinned at Tock's red-faced indignation. But Saxton did not find the situation at all amusing, outraged more by the insult to Tock than the offence done my royal bosom. With a cry of murder, he lunged.

  Serasteffan was ready. He pivoted, placing himself in front of me. His fist catapulted into Saxton's face. I flinched at the sickening crunch of bone. The impact dropped Saxton to the ground.

  Tock crouched at Saxton's side, helping him to his feet. “Stef, have you lost your wits entirely?” he hissed.

  The Butcher's only reply was a wild gust of laughter.

  Then a new voice cut in above Serasteffan's mirth. “Stef, unhand the princess."

  I wilted with relief. Arial! He'd sure taken his damned sweet time. He stood swaying a little, sword held so loose in his grip it looked as if he might drop it. His helm was lost; a sword-cut to his chin leaked steadily, and sweat plastered his hair to his face, now a sickly grey colour. But his voice was steady, calm, his green eyes clear and focussed. Bloodied and bruised, with his surcoat hanging in tatters and the smoke of sporadic fires rising behind him Arial looked like some vengeful demon coughed up from Hell's own throat, exuding defiance and a hint of madness.

  "You?” Shocked as he was to see his former captain, Serasteffan seemed more amused than threatened. “Ho, ho! And if I don't?"

  Arial pointed to the barracks roof, where half a dozen snipers from the Twelfth crouched, their crossbows trained on Serasteffan's back. The Butcher snorted. “You're bluffing. You won't risk striking the princess."

&nb
sp; "Serasteffan, you oaf,” I wheezed, “I'll give the order myself."

  I felt his chest begin to vibrate with yet another burst of maniacal laughter when the whine of a missile in flight sliced the air and he flinched suddenly. Shrieking, he shoved me to the cobbles while he crouched to pull free the bolt lodged in his mailed shoulder. It did no real damage to his flesh, but it had served its purpose. I scrambled towards Saxton, who hauled me to my feet.

  I turned back to observe the contest. Serasteffan tossed the arrow away and drew his sword, his malevolent gaze sighting on Arial, who responded with a grin of challenge. Arial stepped sideways, began a slow circle, waved him on. “Let's go, Stef. Just you and me. I know you want it."

  Taking the bait Serasteffan charged in with all the restraint of a bull, lashing out with his blade. Arial countered the stroke and retaliated with a thrust to the Butcher's flank. Blocking it, Serasteffan swerved and rained a lightning-swift volley of blows down upon the head of his former captain, which Arial easily parried.

  Thus it went, each combatant parrying and thrusting, lunging and evading, while the rest of us observed the contest, entranced. Despite his pain and weakness incurred by previous injuries, my fierce captain fought with remarkable agility and stamina, wielding his experience and speed with greater efficiency than his stronger and younger opponent. In fact, I got the impression he exercised considerable restraint. Had it been his wont, Arial could have made minced meat of Stef.

  Arial let the Butcher vent his spleen and with it his endurance, then dealt him a solid smack to his ribs, propelling him to the ground. Next he neatly disarmed his fallen adversary, then held his sword tip to Serasteffan's jugular.

  Pinned immovable by the blade, Serasteffan spat curses at Tock, who had just stood there and watched his defeat at Arial's hands, smart enough to know that this was not his fight.

  Breathing hard, dripping blood and sweat onto the Butcher as he leaned over him, Arial hissed, “You stole my command, you perverted my men. You came down into the dungeons and danced a jig on my face while I stood with my hands chained to the wall. There is a price to pay for that, Stef. Your life is mine, and your soul belongs to Hell."

  His hand jerked forward, driving the sword through Serasteffan with such violence, the tip of it scraped the cobbles beneath him.

  As Arial bent over the Butcher's body, straining to get air into his spent lungs, the men of the Eighth threw their weapons to the ground in a display of submission, and maybe, a plea for forgiveness.

  Arial freed his blade, planted a foot on either side of Serasteffan's body, and addressed his former troops. “You ingrates!” he snarled over their bent heads. “You traitors. Only cowards follow a coward. But if you follow me you need courage. You need honour. On second thought, I don't want you. I don't need you. You're dirt beneath my boots. If you want me back, you're going to have to earn me."

  I watched, with a surge of pride, as Arial shamed his men into picking up their swords and falling in behind him. Together, they approached Tock.

  Tock held his ground, said without rancour, “Who are you to speak of traitors, Arial?"

  "I'll tell you. Valleri discarded me. Bertrand abandoned me. Stef betrayed me. All this happened, while you just stood aside. You ignored it. You ignored me. Then Kathedra rescued me. To whom do you think I owe allegiance?"

  "Don't delude yourself. Kathedra sprung you because she needs you. She hasn't any more honour than the rest of us."

  Though I strenuously objected to the latter, I could not refute the former. On the other hand, I was not naïve enough to believe that Arial's loyalty had been bought by a single night on a soggy battlefield outside the town of Storn. Betrayed, imprisoned, abused, we each had suffered and survived. If we owed allegiance, it was only to the other.

  "Don't try to talk me out of this, Tock. My mind is made up."

  "Maybe so, but you're crazy if you think that you, the princess and a pocketful of Crusaders can stand against Valleri."

  Arial looked around. “We seem to be doing all right so far."

  Saxton stepped in then, cupping his shattered cheekbone. I wondered he could speak at all, but he told Tock, “There are more Crusaders on the way, due here any minute. The smartest thing you can do is lay down your arms."

  The captain's eyes narrowed as his gaze swung to Saxton. “You traitor dog. I won't let you usurp the Regent."

  "Valleri is the usurper. Can't you see that? In every way but name.

  I liked you, Tock. You were always decent to me. More than a mentor, you were halfway a friend. Please, I beg you to step aside."

  "Yes, step aside, Tock, as you have always done.” Arial motioned to Saxton with his sword. Obeying, Saxton retrieved his fallen blade and began to back away, taking me with him.

  "Regardless of what you think,” Arial continued, “I don't want to kill you. And I don't think you want to kill me."

  "Don't be so sure of yourself.” Tock shifted his grip on his blade, began motioning to his men, fanning out behind him, weapons at the ready.

  "If you do this, you're only helping Valleri,” Arial reminded him. “You're not helping Bertrand."

  "We'll see."

  As Saxton and I slipped past Arial, I paused, wanting to say something to him but the words escaped me. Thank you seemed inadequate a thing when I thought I probably wouldn't see him again. I touched his arm, began, “Arial, I know—"

  "Just go, princess,” he told me harshly, his gaze never leaving Tock's. “Just go."

  Tock barked out a command to his men. Saxton grabbed my hand and led me through the ranks of Arial's men, parting to grant us passage, then closing again to cover our retreat. Behind me I heard Arial's roar of encouragement as he led his Royal against Tock's, and the discordant clash of steel as the two forces met.

  We ran into the bailey, where all was pandemonium. Valleri's Twelfth still struggled to contain Uncle's Halberdiers. Fires still burned unchecked throughout the yard, greedily devouring wood and thatch. Squinting against the sting of smoke, I strained for a glimpse of Ginger and spied instead a clutch of Roche's mercs skulking from the main keep, on the very edge of the commotion. The mercenaries had not waited for opportunity to knock twice. Taking advantage of the chaos, they had raided the treasury and other areas of the castle, their loot bundled up in sacks of stolen bedding.

  With a yelp of outrage at seeing the family silver lugged off as spoils, I drew my dagger, prepared to give chase. But Saxton had hold of my arm, refusing to let us become separated again. “Forget them. It's not worth your life."

  Reluctantly I permitted him to pull me in the opposite direction, my stomach in revolt at the plunder of my home. A glance over my shoulder saw the thieves pounding on the gate alongside a handful of Halberdiers, all bellowing at Ginger's men on the wall to raise the portcullis. The Crusaders ignored them, busy battling Urharde's Royal for control of the gate.

  There was no place to run, the bailey clogged with fighting soldiers and maddened horses escaped from their burning stables. A gang of Halberdiers broke free to storm the gatehouse. Veering from their path, we tried to make it to the nearest wall—the south, virtually ignored in the fray—but Urharde spotted us and dispatched a crew to harry our escape. The Royalists intercepted us at the stairs. I had only Saxton's dagger for protection and lost it almost immediately when I drove it deep into a soldier's groin as he made a grab for me. He stumbled away, taking the blade with him.

  "Hurry, highness! Hurry!” Saxton cried, pushing me up the stairs ahead of him as he turned to defend my back. Halfway up I tripped and fell, the jagged stone scoring the flesh of my belly. Saxton backed onto me, nearly crushing me beneath him and the press of soldiers behind but for one hand braced on a step. Trapped, I let him fend off our attackers, his sword arm working feverishly.

  Finally, help came from above as the Crusaders on the wall arrived to beat back the Royalists with arrows and blades. Saxton dragged me to my feet and shoved me up the narrow flight to safety. Gaspin
g for breath, we crouched on the battlements, protected by Crusader arrow fire as we watched the fracas below.Then somebody sounded the alarm on the north wall. A great, thunderous knock came from the gate. We had company. Friend or foe, I would not hazard a guess.

  "Oh, now who the hell is that?” Saxton groaned to no one in particular, as if he feared nothing more but the advent of an uninvited guest.

  To my horror, I saw the portcullis lift but it was impossible to tell whether Crusaders or Royalists, still waging sporadic skirmishes on the battlements, had engaged it. A cheer went up from the mercenaries and Halberdiers below; as one happy crowd they surged past the iron gate to freedom. A heartbeat later, they streamed back inside, trampling my good crockery underfoot, prodded by the lance tips of an invading army.

  I held my breath at the sight of the unfamiliar banner. “Saxton?” I whispered. “Who's that?"

  Though he, too, stared in amazement, a name slipped past his lips. “Gregaris.” Then louder, he said, “By damn! It's Gregaris.” Pumping his fist in the air, he yelled to his men, “Gregaris!"

  A triumphant roar from the Crusaders reverberated along the walls. Saxton clutched my sleeve and in near drunken glee, exclaimed, “Look who's with him!” Following the point of his outstretched finger I saw Naren at the end of it.

  Astride a golden stallion, the man I assumed to be Gregaris entered at the head of the large and boisterous procession, bearing a lance crowned by Fleurry's severed head. My eyes nearly popped from their sockets at the sight of him. A huge, brawny man, he had biceps as meaty as hams and legs as thick as tree trunks. His filthy, carrot-coloured mane and beard flowed in the breeze. Despite his dishevelment, his armour shone like brass. The gaze of a single topaz eye swept the bailey with the glint of a conqueror.