Firefly Island, an Epic Fantasy

by Daniel Arenson

  The gatekeeper was huge, maybe ten feet tall, with fat arms like pillars and a chest like a wagon. Seeing Roen, the brute’s pendulous lips opened in a slobbery grin. He scratched his belly.

  “’ello,” he said gleefully, drool dripping between his fangs.

  An ogre! Elorien had hired an ogre to guard her gates! Roen said, “I need to see the queen.”

  The ogre chortled. “Huh?”

  “I need to see Queen Elorien.”

  “Who?”

  Roen tapped his foot. He spoke slowly and clearly. “I need to see her majesty, Queen Elorien Purplerobe.”

  The gatekeeper clapped his huge hands together. “Oh! Grumbolt understand. You want see Urmajesty.”

  Not just an ogre, Roen thought, but a half-witted one. “Excuse me?”

  “Urmajesty. That her name. Urmajesty.” The ogre became wistful. “She Grumbolt’s true love.”

  “I see,” Roen said. “Well, I have urgent news for her. I must see her at once.”

  “Oh no, Urmajesty busy lady. You tell news to Grumbolt.”

  “No, look, I really need to see the quee—uh, Urmajesty.”

  Grumbolt chuckled. “You funny little man.”

  “Yes, and I must enter the palace. Now.”

  Roen tried to step around the ogre, but Grumbolt stopped him with his hand.

  “Oh no, don’t be naughty. Grumbolt not allowed let strangers in.”

  Roen stepped back quickly. The simpleton’s palm was big as a watermelon, and could no doubt crush Roen like an egg.

  “Look, Grumbolt, you must let me pass. Every man has the right to request audience with the queen.”

  “Huh?”

  “Everyone is allowed to see Urmajesty,” Roen said.

  “Ah...,” Grumbolt said cunningly. “You must wait till Urmajesty calls you.”

  “Well, will you tell her I’m waiting to see her?”

  “Tell who?”

  Roen clutched his head. “Urmajesty!”

  Grumbolt frowned. “And leave gate alone?”

  Roen felt his control slipping. He had no time for this pettifogging. “Please, Grumbolt! This is important, don’t you understand?”

  “Grumbolt understand very good. Grumbolt told you wait in garden until Urmajesty calls you.”

  “But you won’t even make the appointment!”

  Grumbolt shrugged. “Grumbolt busy guarding gates.”

  “Grumbolt! Listen to me. The Redforts will catch the Esiren Firechild if you don’t let me in, and if Hyan captures the Firechild, then Lale will conquer Heland, and if Lale conquers Heland, he will... kill Urmajesty.”

  Grumbolt frowned. “Kill Urmajesty?”

  “Yes, Grumbolt! If you don’t let me pass, Urmajesty is going to die!”

  Grumbolt scowled. “That bad thing to say. Urmajesty is Grumbolt’s true love.”

  “But it’s true! I must pass, or Urmajesty will be killed.”

  “That bad thing to say!” Grumbolt growled. “You go away. Grumbolt no like this game anymore.”

  Roen found himself close to tears. “Game? Is that all this has been to you—a game?”

  Grumbolt nodded hotly. “At first, game be fun. You say you want pass, Grumbolt say you can’t. Very fun. But now game no fun anymore. Now you say bad things about Grumbolt’s true love.”

  “But bad things are going to happen!” Roen said desperately. “This is crazy. You must let me pass.”

  Then Roen made the mistake of trying to walk past the ogre.

  Grumbolt grabbed him and tossed him like a rag doll. Roen flew off the path and hit the grass with a thud. The breath was knocked out of him. Groaning, he lay on his back beneath one of the statues. The marble monarch gazed down at him disapprovingly.

  “You go away and don’t come back!” Grumbolt rumbled. “You never pass gates now.”

  Roen remained lying, gazing up at the statue. His mind was racing. “This might work,” he mumbled. He rose to his feet and trudged away, between the rows of statues. “Yes, this might definitely work.”

  * * * * *

  A short while later, Roen paced back toward the palace, his cloak covering him. When he was close enough, he doffed the garment. Whitewash covered him, painting him a solid white.

  Roen stepped off the path and stood among the statues. Painted, he looked just like one of them. At least, Roen hoped he would to Grumbolt’s eyes. He crept forward and soon saw the huge gatekeeper standing before his gates. Roen froze. But if Grumbolt noticed an extra statue, he conveyed no sign of it.

  Roen began inching forward, moving only when Grumbolt looked away. Luckily, there were many birds, ants, and clouds for Grumbolt to gaze at, and soon Roen came very close. So close, he could hear the ogre’s breath, smell his sweat, see the veins on his arms. If he catches me now, Roen thought, he won’t just toss me away. He’ll crush my head. Slow as melting wax, Roen crept closer, till he stood in Grumbolt’s shadow.

  The ogre jerked his head around and stared right at Roen. Roen froze. Sweat ran down his back.

  “Duhh... Grumbolt don’t remember no statue here.” The gatekeeper scratched his head, then shrugged and turned away. “Must be new one.”

  When Roen’s pulse had slowed, he took another step. Grumbolt stared at him again, frowning.

  “This new statue very close....”

  Grumbolt paced forward and thrust his face close. His small eyes narrowed. His brow furrowed. His huge, round nose sniffed suspiciously. Roen remained still, breath held, belly knotted.

  “Hello!” Grumbolt demanded. “Hello!”

  Gingerly, the ogre touched Roen’s nose. He pulled back his hand as if bitten.

  “This statue soft...,” he mumbled. “Hello! Can you talk? Hello!”

  Roen’s lungs ached for air. Desperate prayers skittered through his mind.

  “Grumbolt don’t like this,” the ogre muttered, his face suffused with confusion. “Grumbolt think he smash this statue.”

  He pulled back a huge fist.

  Roen started moving. He whipped around the gatekeeper and bolted for the gates. He grabbed the handle as Grumbolt howled behind him. The gates swung open, and Roen shot onto the stairway, Grumbolt pursuing. The stairs seemed endless. Roen heard Grumbolt grunting behind. He glanced over his shoulder. The gatekeeper was gaining on him. Roen lowered his head and leapt three stairs at a time. But he couldn’t outrun Grumbolt’s huge stride.

  The ogre grabbed Roen’s shirt. The cloth ripped, leaving a clump in Grumbolt’s hand. Roen ran for his life, heart thrashing. Grumbolt reached out again, and his fingers grazed Roen’s back. Roen’s feet scarcely touched the stairs. Grumbolt’s snorting came closer, stirring Roen’s hair.

  But the gatekeeper’s breath was wheezing. He was tiring. He was lagging behind. Hope filled Roen. The palace doors were but paces ahead. He was going to make it!

  Then the palace doors opened, and the queen came stepping downstairs.

  Roen skidded to a stop, so not to crash into the woman. As soon as he stopped moving, Grumbolt’s arms wrapped around him.

  The ogre lifted him in a crushing hug. A beefy palm slammed over Roen’s face.

  “Who is this, Grumbolt?” the queen demanded.

  “A bad man, Urmajesty!” Grumbolt exclaimed. “He say bad things about you. He say Grumbolt let him pass gates, he say Urmajesty going to die!”

  The queen paled. “Dear Spirit, an assassin.”

  Roen tried to scream, but he couldn’t even breathe. Grumbolt’s palm covered his mouth and nose. Dots danced before his eyes.

  Grumbolt smirked. “Don’t worry, Urmajesty. Grumbolt take care of this ’sassin.”

  Ruffled, the queen nodded. “Yes, take him to the Redforts.”

  Grumbolt turned and began carrying Roen downstairs. The ogre chortled. “Grumbolt teach you a lesson, you ’sassin. Grumbolt cut off your tongue for saying bad things.”

  Roen’s lungs felt ready to burst. He struggled to open his mouth behind the fat fingers. Darkness fell
over him, blinding him. He had seconds to live, he knew. The muscles of his jaw strained. He managed to open his teeth and fit between them a fold of Grumbolt’s flesh. He bit down with all his strength.

  Grumbolt dropped Roen onto the stairs and burst into tears. The darkness lifted as Roen took grating breaths, like a rusty saw in oak.

  The queen knelt beside him. She wiped the paint off his face.

  “Roen, is it really you?”

  Roen stood up and managed a bow. “You know me, Your Majesty?”

  Before Elorien could reply, Grumbolt grabbed Roen again.

  “Now Grumbolt break your neck!” the ogre blubbered.

  “No, wait, Grumbolt. Let him go.”

  “Urmajesty?” Grumbolt asked, sniffing back tears.

  “I said let him go.”

  Grumbolt grunted and dropped Roen again.

  “Why did you come?” the queen asked, touching Roen’s hair.

  Roen rose to his feet. “A painter named Smerdin sent me, Your Majesty. He needs your help.”

  Elorien gripped Roen’s shoulders. “Where is he?”

  “He’s in an abandoned building on Cooper Corner. The door’s blocked, but the Redforts are trying to break in, and—”

  “But he’s fine, isn’t he? The Redforts don’t have him yet?”

  “Not the last time I was there, Your Majesty.”

  The queen began rushing down the stairs. “Then we must save him!” she said.

  * * * * *

  Roen and Elorien rushed around the palace to the barracks. The queen slammed the door open, revealing scores of armed soldiers with purple mantles thrown over their hauberks. This was the queen’s personal guard, Roen knew, rarely seen outside the palace. Seeing their queen, the men stood up and bowed. A tall, square-jawed knight stood among them, golden wings protruding from his helm. Roen recognized the man—Sir Grig Purplerobe, the Winged Knight, nephew to the queen and hero to every boy in Heland.

  “Sir Grig,” barked the queen, “come here please.”

  The tall knight stepped forward eagerly. “Yes, Your Majesty!”

  “The Redforts are besieging a building downhill. I want you to stop them, with swords if you must.” Elorien gestured at Roen. “Roen Painter here will show you the way. I will go alert the other guards.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty.” The knight bowed, and the queen hurried away. Sir Grig turned to face his soldiers. “Men, two lines!”

  The guards—there were about three scores—formed two orderly rows. They looked like a formidable force, and Roen just hoped they weren’t too late.

  “All right, painted boy,” Grig said, grinning. “Take it from here.”

  “Follow me,” Roen said and left the building. The soldiers marched after him, boots drumming. As Roen led them through the gardens, he glimpsed Elorien rushing about, whisking more guards out of their barracks. By the time Roen reached the gardens’ end, his force had doubled in size.

  They entered the city. Roen ran, his heart pumping. If they were too late, he’d never forgive himself. Behind him the soldiers clanked, a purple stream flowing through a wooden canyon. This time, the crowd parted before Roen, gazing curiously.

  When they reached the hideout, Roen cried out in dismay. The door and windows had been smashed open, and Roen saw Redforts crowding the room inside. They were too late. The Redforts had taken the building.

  Sir Grig stepped forward, coned his hands around his mouth and bellowed. “Clear out, by order of the queen!”

  The Redforts ignored him. Roen noticed they were engaged in something inside, flurrying and hacking. He heard thumping and booming and grunting. There was still fighting inside, Roen realized with renewed hope. Some outlaws still lived.

  “If you do not step outside,” bellowed Grig, “we will remove you by force.”

  The Redforts paid Grig Purplerobe not a second glance.

  “Right!” spat the Winged Knight. He faced his men. “We’re going to get those blasted reds out if we must chop them first to pieces. Squads one and two, you enter the door. Squad three, come in through the windows. Squad four, find any back entrances, you enter those. You, painted boy, help squad four. Squad five—you stay out here as reserve.” Grig drew his sword and flashed a wild grin. “Let’s go!”

  With a great roar, the soldiers rushed to their tasks. Roen ran with his group around the building to the back window. The Redfort archers were still there, covering the escalade of a dozen red soldiers. Roen glimpsed Esirens in the window, fighting off the reds.

  “Drop your weapons!” cried the Purplerobe squadron leader. The Redforts ignored him.

  “Attack!” cried the purple, and the soldiers stormed forth. The Redforts retreated from the window to defend themselves. Steel clanged. Blood splashed. Grunts and moans echoed in the alley.

  Roen was only an artist, not a warrior. But he refused to let fear wash over him. His father was in there, possibly still alive, and Roen had to help. He knelt by a wounded red soldier and wrenched free the man’s sword. It felt clumsy and heavy in his hand.

  Soon enough, a red soldier rushed at him. Roen waved his sword wildly. The soldier seemed surprised by such an unorthodox attack, and Roen’s blade severed one of the man’s fingers. The soldier screamed and swung his sword. Roen parried, only partially diverting the attack. His foe’s blade sliced Roen’s arm, and a flap of skin unfolded. Roen cried out and parried a second blow. His feet sloshed through his own blood. His head spun. Suddenly he knew he was going to die. His foe raised his sword for the final strike. The man was smiling when a bloody blade burst out of his chest.

  “You all right, lad?” asked Grig, wrenching his sword free.

  Roen nodded feebly. He gazed around him and saw the red soldiers lying dead in pools of blood. The pain then came, strong and burning. Roen flapped his wound shut, mustered his magic, and healed himself. The wound closed. The surrounding purple soldiers gasped.

  “That’s some healing, son,” said Grig. He whistled softly. “It would’ve taken most men an hour.”

  Roen shrugged. “Come, we must enter the window. They need help in there.”

  “Right,” said Grig, nodding. “Men, form a pyramid. We’re climbing in.”

  With the sounds of affray above, the purple soldiers heaped themselves together. Roen, the only man not wearing armor, climbed on top and entered the window first.

  A score of outlaws crowded the room, ashen and bleeding, holding the door. Thuds shook the wood as the Redforts pounded from outside. Roen breathed in relief, seeing Smerdin safe and whole. Ketya and Aeolia stood there, too. Aeolia bled from a gash to her forehead.

  “We’re coming to help,” Roen said as the purple soldiers came climbing in. “It’s going to be okay.”

  Aeolia gazed at him blankly. Her eyes were glazed, and beneath the soot and blood she was pale. “So many died...,” she said hollowly. “So many died for me.”

  “You’re bleeding,” Roen said. “Let me heal you.”

  He passed his palm over Aeolia’s forehead, closing her cut. He wiped her blood away.

  Meanwhile, the purple soldiers had opened the door and were driving the reds away. The fight gradually moved downstairs, leaving the upper room empty. Only Smerdin, Roen, and the two girls remained.

  Aeolia lowered her eyes. She said to Roen, “I was so afraid. I thought they would all be killed. I caused so many deaths....”

  “You caused no deaths,” Roen said. “Hyan Redfort did that.”

  Aeolia raised her eyes, and Roen saw in them a deep, determined blaze. “Where is Hyan?” she asked, her voice taut.

  “I saw him outside. He was heading toward the palace.”

  Aeolia nodded. She grabbed Ketya’s hand. “Ketya, you come with me. Show me the way.”

  “Right!” Ketya squeaked. “Follow me.”

  Ketya leading, the two girls climbed out the window onto the roof.

  Roen and Smerdin watched them leave. Smerdin sighed and put a hand on Roen’s shoulder.
<
br />   “I would go with them,” Smerdin said, “but my old legs can’t keep up. And, well, also I’m ashamed to see the queen. It was, of course, all my fault. We kept it secret so many years, Elorien and I, but I grew careless. I came to the palace too often, visiting my children or bringing Elorien portraits of you. Someone was bound to notice, and Hyan did....” Smerdin covered his eyes and fell silent.

  “What do you mean?” Roen asked. “What secret, Father? What children?”

  Smerdin smiled sadly. “Elorien and I have been lovers for decades.”

  For several long moments Roen could not speak. Finally he managed uttering, “So the princes’ real father... it’s you!”

  “Elorien raised most of our children,” Smerdin said quietly, gazing out the window. “I kept only the youngest.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Homecoming

  Aeolia and Ketya ran through Brownbury’s narrow streets. The entire city bustled around them. Red and purple soldiers marched in troops. Families scurried into their houses and barred the doors. The air smelled of fear and war. Aeolia bit her lip; she knew that smell too well. She tightened her grip on her bread knife.

  She was exhausted. Her head pounded and her arms shook with weakness. Chimney soot still covered her, sticking with sweat, and her rags were on the brink of collapse. Her mind felt scarcely sturdier. Now that she was free, she thought only of Talin imprisoned in Greenhill Castle. It was her fault, Aeolia knew. She had to save him, or she’d die of guilt and pining. And the only man who could save Talin now was Hyan Redfort.

  “Are you all right, Lia?” Ketya asked as they ran. “You look tired.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Want to lean on me as you run?”

  “No, I’m okay, Ketya, honestly.”

  “Are you sure? Do you want me to carry you?”

  Aeolia laughed. “I doubt you’d be able to. But thanks anyway.”

  Ketya opened her mouth to say more, but Aeolia silenced her with a smile. The young girl had been awestruck by the prison break, and hadn’t left Aeolia’s side since, serving her with religious devotion. It made Aeolia uncomfortable. After all, she was only a couple years older than Ketya, and never thought herself anyone inspiring.