The Star Of Saree

by A. J. STRICKLER

  The aged archbishop laid his worn copy of the Holy Tome aside and pushed himself up from his comfortable chair. He winced as his knees creaked like the snapping of rotten wood. He wouldn’t give the young men too much trouble for their stupidity, since he was short of priests after the dark swordsman’s attack and didn’t need any of them running off to their mothers claiming he was too harsh.

  Shuffling across the room, Volos reached for the door just as it crashed in. The impact knocked the old priest down and sent him sliding across the cold stone floor. A scream burst from his throat as a sharp pain lanced through his buttocks and leg. Volos saw his left leg was peculiarly twisted to the outside. He knew the sign: his hip was broken.

  Looking up through his watery eyes, he saw a brute of a woman standing over him. She regarded him through the steel eye guards of some barbaric helmet, untamed dark hair spilling out from beneath the dreadful helm giving her a savage appearance.

  “Cromwell, in here,” she called out.

  The large sword in her hand was stained with blood, as was the chainmail she wore.

  “Please, I have done nothing,” he squealed.

  The dark-haired woman kicked his feet. “Shut your lying mouth.” Her boot made him cry out, the kick sending waves of hot agony racing through his leg.

  A giant of a man darkened the shattered doorway, clearly a pagan, a wild Toran by his look.

  He reached down and jerked Volos to his feet, unconcerned about his broken bones. The archbishop screamed like a frightened young girl and feebly pushed at the massive warrior, more out of instinct than anything else. The back of the barbarian’s hand silenced his shrieks and ended his meager resistance. Warm salty blood filled his mouth, and his tongue instinctively found the large cut in his lip.

  Volos howled again as the merciless giant dragged him from his chambers. He could feel the bones in his leg grinding against one another as he was mercilessly jerked down the hallway, his ruined leg flopping along behind him. Dragged down a set of stairs and into the sanctuary, the archbishop nearly lost consciousness as he was thrown in front of the cathedral’s large altar.

  His young priests lay all around the holy nave, hacked and broken, slaughtered to the man. The sanctuary’s main aisle and pews were splashed with their innocent blood. Only the Beast’s demons would do such a thing on hallowed ground.

  Men in heavy cloaks and armor piled the wood that had been intended for his fire place before the altar.

  “I found two buckets of pitch, Cromwell. It should do,” one of the cold-eyed men said.

  “Hurry and get it started, we have little time,” the woman in the helmet commanded.

  The dark-skinned warrior dumped the pitch on to the wood and set it ablaze with one of the church’s prayer candles. The flaming pitch caused the sanctuary to quickly fill with black smoke. Volos watched helplessly as the beautiful hand-carved altar he had delivered so many sermons from burst into flame.

  “The cathedral will burn to the ground,” he heard himself blurt out.

  “Aye and you with it,” the Toran promised, bending down and taking a hold of the ankle of his good leg. Bringing his full weight to bear, the barbarian stomped down just above his knee. There was a loud pop and it felt as if his leg had exploded. Volos tried to scream, but nothing came out. He could see the large bone in his leg erupt through the skin on the back of his thigh.

  “Now you won’t get away,” the big man said.

  “Why do you do this?” Volos whimpered.

  “You and your pigs killed his wife and tried to burn our children,” the woman said, handing the terrible warrior a second bucket of pitch.

  The Toran upended it, covering him with the stinking black tar.

  “I only did God’s work; you can’t blame me for what he asks. I am an archbishop of all Trimenia. I can’t be treated like this; your soul will be damned to Hell if you kill me.”

  The Toran pulled one of the burning pieces of wood from the fire consuming the altar. “Then let it be damned,” the warrior said, tossing the crude torch onto his chest.

  The pitch blazed and his robes caught fire. Volos writhed in agony as flaming pitch covered his hands when he slapped at his fiery mantle of office. He screamed wildly when he heard his skin sizzle and he smelled the stench of his own burning flesh.

  “Call on your God now, holy man. See if he will piss the flames out for you,” the Toran mocked.

  The archbishop sat up and tried to scream as his beard caught fire, but the smoke had stolen his breath. Collapsing back to the floor, the priest ceased to move.

  “Her name was Morgana,” the Toran said, spitting on the archbishop’s crackling corpse.

  “The smoke is getting too heavy in here, Cromwell. We should go,” Endra said, moving to the door.

  The Toran looked around the fiery church and nodded with satisfaction. “Aye, Kian will most likely need us.” Cromwell followed the others mercenaries out into the howling storm without looking back.

  * * *

  The north wind’s bite had driven the guardsmen inside the walls, with none even standing watch on the parapets. There was no reason for them to expect an attack in this blizzard, because only a great fool would even be out in this storm, and Ashlyn agreed. The snow was coming down so hard, a person could hardly see, and it was getting colder. The men charged with guarding the palace had most likely gone in to eat breakfast or to find a place where they could warm themselves. Standing in this blow would be awful.

  Snow had drifted against the northern wall high enough to make gaining entrance to the palace grounds effortless. Beck tied a rope to one of the wall’s merlons and left it coiled at the top, covering it with a few handfuls of snow. The mercenary had attached a thin piece of thread to the rope’s end and let it hang down on the inside of the wall so it could be pulled down easily. It would leave them a hasty exit if need be. Ashlyn thought Beck may have done a bit of thieving before he joined K’xarr’s band, the man was full of nasty tricks.

  Two large barracks sat to the west of the palace. The majority of the soldiers and mercenaries stationed at the palace would be in there. Visibility was terrible and the air near frozen. Those men would only come out if ordered to.

  They hadn’t planned on getting this close without bloodshed; it was just blind luck the storm had hit when it did. Still, trying to free Prince Dimitri from the royal dungeon was suicidal. Getting to the imprisoned heir of Trimenia was one thing, getting out and back to the rebel camp would be another.

  Her death would be of little consequence anyway. Gallio was all but gone, the circus was destroyed, and the two men she had loved the most in this world were dead. When Ergan and Lucan died, she had ceased to care about life.

  The Sons were nothing like the circus, though she had grown fond of Endra and Cromwell. If not for their kindness, she would have slit her wrists and joined Lucan in the afterlife. No longer did she live to perform for the adulation of an afternoon crowd. Now her life was about killing.

  At first, Ashlyn thought it would be hard taking another person’s life for pay. She had wanted it to be hard, but it hadn’t been. The part of her that cared about others was gone. She had wept for its passing the night the horrible realization struck her. The following day, she had thrown her virginity to the wind and took up drinking as a pastime. The Falcon had become nothing more than a drunken whore who used her talents to kill. If she died, what would be the loss?

  They moved quickly across the snow-covered ground, passing the royal stable. Its doors were closed to protect the horses from the storm’s white tide. The princess had told them that on the east side of the palace, there was a door to the kitchens.

  Her two companions kept pace with her. Their faces tucked inside their heavy hoods, they moved with ease. At least the Slayer and Beck could keep up with her. There were few men among the Sons that could match her endurance.

  Two guards stood outside the kitchen’s delivery entrance, their faces tucked inside their heavy clo
aks. Without hesitation, Ashlyn pulled two daggers from her boots and flung both one-handed. The flashing steel disappeared into the hoods of the guardsmen and both fell on to the powdered ground with a quiet thud. The Slayer patted her on the back and moved ahead. Dragging the bodies away from the door, he and Beck covered them with snow to conceal the killing. She kicked the bloody snow around until it was mixed in with the rest.

  Sliding inside, her skin tingled as the warmth of the kitchen washed over her. Ashlyn hadn’t realized how cold her face had gotten. The staff continued with their duties, mistaking them for the soldiers coming in from outside.

  There were three serving women and two cooks. It was early and the stoves were just being lit to prepare the morning meal. Kian and Beck moved quickly, rounding up the servants pushing them into the far corner of the kitchen. “Nobody tries for the doors or makes a sound, and I might not slit your gizzards,” Beck threatened.

  Kian peered out of the door. “There is no one in the hall yet. How soon till you serve the breakfast?”

  “An hour, maybe less,” one of the cooks answered, staring into the Slayer’s golden eyes. Ashlyn found the Slayer’s eyes frightening, as did many others. She would never understand how Endra could lay with such a man.

  Kian stepped closer to the cook. “Do the soldiers eat in the hall?”

  “No,” the man stammered. “Food is delivered to the barracks, but some of the royal guards take their meals in the hall.”

  “It doesn’t seem the palace has been roused as of yet,” Kian said, glancing at her and Beck. “It will give us more time to get to the lower levels before we are seen.”

  “I think I have a better idea than all three of us tramping down there,” Ashlyn said, pulling off her cloak.

  Looking over the serving maids, she moved to one that was near her size. “Strip your clothes off,” Ashlyn ordered, dropping her weapons and pulling her chainmail over her head.

  Beck grinned watching her strip down to her small clothes. “You are as fine as they come, Ash. When this is over, I might pay you a visit.”

  “Piss off, Beck.”

  The woman was reluctant to disrobe so Ashlyn helped her along. Quickly slipping into the servant’s attire, Ashlyn pulled her long hair back into a ponytail. She stuck two of her knifes in her apron and with Kian’s help, strapped her short sword to the outside of her thigh. The skirt hid the weapon well, though the strap on her leg was a little tight.

  “Well, how do I look?” she asked, trying to strike a proper pose.

  “You should pass for a servant if no one questions you,” Kian said.

  “I’m not worried about questions; I once had plans to become an actress,” Ashlyn said, batting her eyes. “I will be fine.”

  “What is your plan, if I may ask?” the swordsman inquired.

  “I’m going to go down to the dungeon and get the prince, and try to bring him back here with as little fuss as I can manage.”

  Kian looked at Beck. The mercenary only shrugged.

  “It is a risky plan, but I think it is better than the one I had,” Kian said.

  Ashlyn didn’t need to ask what the swordsman’s strategy was. If what Cromwell had told her was true, then it would be fight their way down, get the prince, and fight back out again. It was a good thing the Toran wasn’t there, since Cromwell’s tactics were little different than Kian’s.

  “Beck and I will wait here. If you can get the prince back with stealth, so much the better. Time is not our friend, so you must hurry and get back before any of the staff comes for their morning meal,” Kian said.

  Ashlyn took a deep breath. “I’ll do my best. If you hear a ruckus, come running.”

  The Slayer nodded as she slipped out the kitchen’s door and into the great hall. Princess Pepca’s instructions had been very detailed and accurate. The young woman had described the palace’s interior perfectly. Without them, they could have wandered around inside the palace for hours and still not found the prince.

  Ashlyn quickly found one of the entrances to the palace’s lower levels. She passed a few servants as they headed to their duties, but none spoke to her. Traversing a winding stairway down two floors, she came to the area Pepca had told them about. The princess had maintained that this was the entrance to the king’s prison. The two guards standing at the heavy ironbound door ahead gave credence to the young woman’s directions.

  Ashlyn stepped back up a couple of stairs and unbuttoned her blouse a bit. She was far from heavy-chested, but hopefully what she had would do the trick. Smiling seductively, she walked down the stairs swinging her hips. The two men eyed her hungrily as she moved towards them.

  “Well now, what is a sweet thing like you doing all the way down here?” the taller of the two guardsmen asked.

  She giggled and moved closer, twirling a loose strand of hair hanging by her ear. “They sent me to see if there is enough food for the prisoners?”

  “Who cares?” the other man said, reaching out and caressing her cheek. “I haven’t seen you before.”

  “I am new to the palace.”

  “What is your name?”

  “Ashlyn.”

  “You are far too beautiful to be a servant, Ashlyn. You’re young and with those looks, I’m sure you could find a less taxing way to earn your coin.”

  Putting her hand on his chest, she tilted her head to the side and bit her lip enticingly. “This isn’t my chosen profession.”

  Ashlyn casually reached into her apron. Pulling her dagger free, she plunged it behind the guardsman’s ear. The taller man’s eyes widened as his companion fell to the stone floor. The remaining guardsman reached for his sword, but he was too slow. Ashlyn had yanked the dagger from the other man’s head and drove it up under the guard’s jawline before he could draw his steel. Brains leaked from his socket, for the dagger had ruined the dead man’s eye before sliding up into his skull. The former circus performer wrinkled her nose at the gore and let her victim’s body drop.

  Both men had died with little fuss. She was getting better at this. Perhaps there was an art to killing after all. It was just unfortunate there was not always an audience to applaud the deed.

  Stepping over the dead men, she pulled the shortsword from beneath her skirt and entered the royal prison. The steps were wet and the stench from the foul hallway of cells burned her nose. Urine and feces coupled with the damp rot turned her stomach. Emerging into the main hall, Ashlyn saw a large man moving towards her. He looked confused by both her presence and the shortsword in her hand.

  Without hesitation, Ashlyn flew at the large jailer. Fumbling with the wooden club in his belt, the man had little chance against the small woman. She swung her blade with deadly accuracy, slicing open his throat then rapidly sinking the blade into his ample belly three times.

  The large man fell to the ground, clutching at his exposed intestines. He gurgled a few moments then lay still. Taking the keys hanging from his belt, Ashlyn moved through the dank row of cells quietly calling for the prince.

  Near the end of the hall, she heard a weak reply. Opening the heavy door, she stepped into the rancid cell. The prisoner inside was chained to the wall by a pair of heavy manacles. He had been stripped to the waist and it was clear, even in the dim light, that he had been tortured. Strips of flesh hung loose on his chest and there were places on his neck and arms were hot irons had been used. His head hung down, and she thought him too weak to lift it. “Are you Prince Dimitri?”

  “I am,” he muttered.

  “I am here to get you out.” Ashlyn unlocked the manacles and the man fell into her arms, nearly knocking her to the piss-covered floor. Dragging him into the torch lit hallway, Ashlyn gasped when she got a better look at the prince. The bastards had put out his eyes.

  “Fuck the gods,” she cursed.

  It took several moments to get him to realize what was happening. It was a pathetic sight to behold, watching the prince crawl around on the floor trying to figure out where he was. It mi
ght be more prudent to just leave the man there. It would be a mercy to slit his throat and be done with it, she thought. After all, what good would he be to them like this anyway?

  Ashlyn sighed and looked down at the blind prince as he reached out helplessly from his darkness. She had fallen far, but not to the bottom. “You will have to stand and walk. I can’t carry you, Highness.”

  “Kill me and leave. I am not worth saving.”

  “That may be, but we have gone to a great deal of trouble already. Besides, your sister is expecting you. I don’t think she would care much for me leaving you here to rot.”

  “Danika?” he asked, looking up with his empty sockets.

  “No, the younger one,” she said

  “Pepca lives?”

  “Yes, and she is waiting for you. Now get off your ass and I will try to lead you out. If you care about your sister and your country, you’ll walk out of here. They both need you.”

  She managed to stand him up and put his arm over her shoulder. Wobbling terribly, she got him down the hall and up the stairs. The dead men had not been discovered as of yet so up she went with her staggering burden.

  The main floor would be the trick; the palace was awake by now. Someone was bound to notice her leading a reeling blind man down the halls that smelled like a pig sty. If they didn’t see him, they would surely smell him.

  “You have to be quiet and if I tell you to do something, you must obey as best you can,” she ordered.

  “Who are you?” he asked, feeling for her face.

  “My name is Ashlyn Sweet. Now come along as quick as you can and put your hand down.”

  She could tell he was trying his best. Holding his hand out in front of him, the prince staggered along quickly, nearly knocking her over with his unbalanced weight. Despite her size, Ashlyn was strong, but she was still starting to wear out from lugging half the man’s weight through the palace. With fate’s blessing, they moved through the dimly lit corridors without running across anyone, but their luck ran out as the entered the dinning hall.