by Jon Kiln
Guardian
by Jon Kiln
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2015.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in book reviews.
1
Men were dying in the valley below, and Ganry sat on this stone-screened balcony sipping fruit juice. The juice was sweet and cool, fetched up from the chill undercellar of the fortified castle keep, and served over ice. It was wonderful. He hated it.
Ganry shifted his weight on the elegant chair with a grunt. Glancing over at the two young people seated at the table, he reminded himself why he was not down on the battlefield. He was sworn to protect the princess, Myriam. And Hendon, of course. Ganry was still not entirely clear on the exact details, but Hendon was somehow related to Myriam and her grandmother, the Duchess D’Anjue. That meant the lad had to be protected as well, but it was the kind-hearted blonde girl that Ganry cared for most. In the months since they had first met, introduced by her tutor Leonidavus at Castle Villeroy, he had come to care for her very much.
“You wish you were down there, don’t you?”
Ganry started, realizing that his gaze had lingered and become a stare. Myriam had noticed. She set down her own glass of chilled fruit juice and smiled sadly at him. Beside her at the table, Hendon frowned. They had met the boy seemingly by chance, deep in the Cefinon Forest. Ganry thought he must be Myriam’s cousin, or maybe some long-lost half-brother. He was pretty sure Myriam did not know, either, and there was no way he was asking the Duchess. Hendon was a trifle strange, but he had proven himself a good lad in Ganry’s eyes. Though ultimately it didn’t matter. Myriam cared about Hendon. That was enough for Ganry.
It had been a long road indeed which led Ganry de Rosenthorn from his father’s house in Llandaff, on the Mirnee Plains, halfway across the world to ancient Castle Locke, at the head of the Berghein Valley. He’d been a soldier once, a knight in the service of an empire. But that was so long ago and far away, it seemed like a memory of some other man’s life. So much had changed, so much had been taken from him. His father… his wife… his darling Ruby, his baby girl. All gone, along with that long-ago life.
But Ganry was still a warrior. He had been a mercenary, selling his swordarm to those with the coin to pay. He’d been an adventurer, and he had seen more of the world than he had ever expected. But ten years of sleeping rough and guarding other men’s treasures had taken their toll on him. Then he met Myriam. His Ruby would have been just that age, if she had lived. Ganry knew the princess was not his daughter; in truth, Ruby likely would have been nothing like Myriam. Nevertheless, the heiress to the Palaran throne had claimed a piece of the old soldier’s heart that he had thought long dead.
“I do,” he said, answering Myriam’s question after a long hesitation. Hendon’s frown deepened, but the princess just nodded her head. Ganry shrugged. “I feel useless here.”
The balcony projected from a common sitting room at the center of the suite they all shared in the central keep. Scroll-worked stone enclosed the balcony, allowing them to see out but providing protective cover from the elements. Beyond that was the inner bailey of Castle Locke, a courtyard itself surrounded by stone walls high and thick, and more than a thousand years old. And there was another wall beyond that, newer built but just as strong. Ganry felt as though he were a thousand miles from the battle, rather than three or four.
“You’d have to be insane,” said Hendon, shaking his head, “wanting to be out there. It’s a massacre!”
“It’s not a massacre,” countered Myriam sharply.
Ganry bit his tongue. It was not a massacre exactly, but the situation in the valley was dire. The Berghein Valley was protected from the east by sheer cliffs. There were narrow paths here and there, and the entire rock face was riddled with caves, but there was no easy way for an army to enter the valley from that side. That alone had held the Palarans at bay, delaying their march by more than a month while they sought an alternate route into the valley.
Now that they were here, however, it was only a matter of time before Duke Harald’s soldiers overwhelmed Castle Locke’s defenders. The Duchess was a formidable woman, but she was not magical. Her people were loyal to the point of fanaticism, but her realm was small and not very populous. She had been able to muster barely over two thousand soldiers to stand against the might of Palara, the greatest military power south of the Damatine Sea. Everyone knew it was a lost cause, but Ganry could not help but feel that he could make a difference if only he was down on the field.
“You’d have to be insane,” Hendon said again.
Ganry was about to point out that he could do a lot more good down there than he was sitting here sipping juice, but just then there was a commotion inside the suite of rooms. The mercenary-turned-bodyguard exploded from his chair, his delicate crystal juice glass forgotten. It shattered against the tile of the floor as Ganry charged inside. He drew up short and almost laughed when he saw who it was.
“Ganry?” Myriam had come to the door behind him, and Hendon was also peering over her shoulder. Shaking his head, Ganry stepped to one side so they could see.
“It’s just Linz.” Ganry waved the armored guardsman away dismissively. He did not much care for the men the Duchess had assigned to watch their door. For one thing, there wasn’t likely to be much threat to the princess here in the heart of Castle Locke. For another, Ganry never left Myriam’s side. There were three guardsmen, working in shifts, but he could have taken them on all at once without breaking a sweat. Soft they might be, but he had to admit they made up for it in vigilance.
“He’s all right,” Ganry barked at the armsman. “He’s just a kid, anyway.”
“Can’t be too careful, sir,” the man answered. He sounded resentful.
“Of course not.” Ganry refrained, barely, from rolling his eyes. “But it’s all right. You can go stand in the hall again now.”
Ganry thought he caught a sneer twisting the guard’s lips as he turned. Then the man was gone, and Myriam was offering Linz a glass of juice. The boy, who would be the chieftain of the Lake Men one day, cut her off with a headlong rush of words that tumbled so rapidly from his lips that none could follow.
“Whoa, Linz, slow down!” Myriam shook her head. “I can’t understand a word you’re saying!”
Linz trailed off, chest heaving. His eyes were wide and glistening. He looked stricken. Myriam took him by the arm and led him over to a chair, pushing him down into it. Linz was younger than the princess by a couple of years, and scrawny, but he was a brave kid. He’d proven that when he helped Myriam escape from Halawa, the Lake Men’s secret city.
“There, now,” said Myriam, kneeling down in front of the boy once he was seated. “Take a few deep breaths. Hendon, get Linz some of that juice. Relax, Linz. Start at the beginning.” She quickly held up a finger before Linz could launch into another whirlwind of words. “And say it slowly, so we can hear you.”
“It’s the Duchess,” he said, taking care to speak slow and enunciate, despite his obvious, nervous excitement. “She sent me to fetch you, Myriam. And you too, Hendon. And Ganry here as well, I’m pretty sure. She wants you to come to her right away, Myriam, because she says the Palarans will breach the outer walls soon and the castle is no longer safe.”
“What!” Ganry, who had just lowered himself onto a comfortable sofa near one wall, surged back to his feet. His hand flew instinctively to grab W
indstorm’s hilt, but the great broadsword hung in its scabbard beside the door. It was this damned room with its damned chilled fruit juice, he thought. Much longer in this place and he’d be as soft as those door guards. Well, it looked like he wouldn’t have to worry about that after all.
“What do you mean?” Ganry crossed the room and grabbed his father’s sword down from the wall, strapping the scabbard to his back where it belonged.
“That’s all she said, sir,” Linz responded. “Please, you’ve all got to hurry. The Duchess wants to see you right away!”
2
Artas loosed another arrow. The shaft flew straight and true and found its mark in the throat of a charging Palaran soldier far below. Elsewhere on the wall, armored men clambered up siege ladders where they had been propped against the ancient stone of Castle Locke. The defenders fought to beat them back, but they would soon be overwhelmed. Reaching for another arrow - his last, he noted - Artas swept his eyes up and down the length of the wall.
In a matter of minutes, he realized, the Palarans would be over the wall. The defenders had kept them at bay for an impressive number of days, but sheer numbers would carry this day. Thirty yards away, a Palaran knight reached the top of the ladder he was climbing and leaped onto the walkway atop the outer wall. Unleashing his sword, the invader swung it in a mighty two-handed grip. Those who stood in his way were knocked aside or torn asunder.
Artas placed his final arrow to his bowstring and drew. In the same swift motion he released. Almost before the arrow flew, Artas had turned and run. There was no need for him to watch his arrow’s flight; Artas never missed a shot. As he reached the nearest stairway leading down into the outer bailey, somewhere behind him a Palaran knight died when the arrow buried itself in his unarmored side.
Taking the steps two at a time, Artas raced to the courtyard. The situation was the same all along the wall. Palaran soldiers poured up the ladders, sweeping aside the outnumbered castle defenders like so many unarmed children. Soon the fighting would spill into the bailey, and then onto the inner wall.
The castle was lost.
Oh, the battle wasn’t over. The fighting would last the rest of this day, at least. The Palarans might not reach the Keep before dawn. But they would reach the Keep, and that would be the end of Castle Locke and an independent Berghein Valley. It would all be annexed by the Kingdom of Palara.
There was still a chance to get the princess out, however. Artas raced across the bailey, teeth clenched tight. There was still time to get the princess away. He did not know where they could go now, of course. Castle Locke had seemed the safest place in the world, once. Artas supposed they would be back on the road, in the wilderness. Ganry would know what to do, surely.
Putting his trust in the big warrior, Artas hurried through a gate in the inner wall. He was about to start across the inner courtyard when he heard a voice calling his name. Spinning on one foot, he caught sight of a tall, dark-haired man hurrying toward him. It was Zander, the Duchess D’Anjue’s chief counselor and most trusted warrior.
“Artas, there you are!” Zander slowed to a stop when he reached the young nobleman. Sweat shone at his temples, but he showed no other outward sign of exertion. Artas was impressed. He knew Zander had not slept in days, maintaining a constant vigil as he organized and commanded the castle defenses. He’d seen his share of the fighting as well, leading two sorties just yesterday. Artas didn’t know how the man was still standing.
“What is it, Zander?”
“You have to come with me, right away,” answered Zander. “The Duchess has given us a mission.”
“Mission?” Artas shook his head, not understanding. “But the castle is under siege. They’ll breach the inner wall within hours, Zander. We have to get Princess Myriam and the Duchess out of here before it’s too late.”
“Duchess D’Anjue has seen to that already,” Zander assured him, placing a hand on the younger man’s shoulder. “Ganry will see to it. You and I have another task. Our mission is every bit as vital as protecting the princess, Artas. Can I count on you?”
Artas blinked, still uncertain. Where was Myriam? He cast his eyes about the inner courtyard as if he might find the princess amidst the turmoil of rushing soldiers. But that was silly. She would be in the Keep… unless Ganry had spirited her away already. Best if that were the case, thought Artas, though he still felt a pang of disappointment.
Though he was older by a number of years, Artas and Myriam had been playmates when they were both children. Before he encountered her with Ganry in that roadside hostel a few weeks ago, Artas had not seen the princess in many years. Nevertheless, he still harbored intense affection for her. He wanted to stay by Myriam’s side, to make sure she was safe.
“What is this mission?” asked Artas. Zander had said it was vital, but what could be more important than Myriam’s life?
“I cannot tell you now.” Zander waved a hand to stifle any protest. “Listen to me, Artas, there’s no time. I will explain everything, but first we have to get moving. Now. Are you with me?”
Artas hesitated, glancing up at the thick, stone walls of the innermost keep. Was Myriam still within that ancient structure, or had she and her grandmother fled the castle already? He hoped they had, that they were somewhere safe and far from here. He looked back at Zander. This was the Duchess’s most trusted man. Artas sighed.
“I’m with you,” he said.
3
They followed Linz deeper and deeper into the bowels of the Keep. Myriam thought they must have passed the level of the ground outside by now, entering some subterranean portion of the castle she had never visited before. She wondered where Linz was taking them, and why her grandmother had chosen to meet them all the way down here.
“How much further?”
“Nearly there,” mumbled Linz in answer. He turned his head slightly, but did not meet Myriam’s eye. He was a shy young man, despite the fact that his uncle, Clay, was the current chief of the Lake Men. Clay had never married, but his sister Lisl had; one day, Linz would take Clay’s place as the leader of their fabled tribe.
Myriam herself had been guided for leadership all her life. Her royal parents had done everything they could to teach her what she would need to know in order to follow in their footsteps. Her instruction had included lessons in diplomacy and statecraft, but another major facet of her education had been poise and self-assurance. A princess, Queen Alissia had often told her, must always hold up her head and present a confident demeanor.
But the Lake Men, with their hidden society on the water deep within the Cefinon Forest, had different customs from the royal court of Palara. They had no contact with the world beyond their lake. If Myriam and her protectors had not stumbled into that watery domain, Linz might never have met a stranger in all his life.
“This is it,” said Linz.
Myriam saw that they had reached the bottom of the gently spiraling stair they had been descending for the past several minutes. The stairwell opened out onto a tiny room with walls of bare, unworked stone. A low doorway was set into the wall facing the steps, blocked with a heavy, wooden door reinforced with iron bands. Torches burned in sconces to either side of the door, and oily black smoke curled up to stain the ceiling.
As they approached, the door opened inward and Myriam saw her grandmother standing in the middle of a long, narrow corridor holding a flickering lamp in one hand. The Duchess was an imposing, formidable woman but she seemed to have aged three decades in the past three weeks. She stood now stoop-shouldered, with a weary expression on her age-lined face. There were bags beneath her eyes, and the sallow cast to her skin was not merely a trick of the lantern light.
“There you are at last,” she said. “Thank you for fetching them, Linz. Now, all of you, come with me.”
The Duchess turned and started walking down the corridor. Myriam, Ganry, Hendon, and Linz followed. The hallway appeared to be hewn into the bedrock beneath Castle Locke. The walls were rough and dam
p to the touch. They glistened darkly in the dancing light.
“My castle will soon fall. There is nothing more I can do to stop it. Harald’s soldiers will storm the keep, but they won’t find you there, my dear. No, they will not.” The Duchess glanced at Myriam as she spoke, and the young woman saw a deep sorrow in her grandmother’s eyes. She opened her mouth to speak, but the Duchess spoke first. “You have Harkan? Your knife, you have it with you?”
Myriam touched the hilt of the ornate dagger, sheathed at her hip. It had been a gift from the Duchess on the occasion of her twelfth birthday. Its blade was milk-white, the hilt elaborately decorated with gemstones. “I have it.”
“Good.” The Duchess nodded her head as she walked. Abruptly, she stopped. Turning to face them all, the Duchess offered her lantern to Ganry. The big man took it wordlessly. “This is where I must leave you,” she told them. “Follow the corridor to the end. Take the second exit on the left from the chamber beyond. Keep them safe, Ganry.”
“I will, m’lady.”
“Leave us?” Myriam shook her head. “Grandmother, what are you talking about?”
“I must return to the castle.”
“But-”
“I must,” repeated the Duchess firmly. “Hush, child. Don’t fret about me. It’s your death Harald seeks, not mine. I’m no threat to his ambitions. I was never in line for that ridiculous, eagle-backed chair he covets so. My lineage is far older, and far more powerful. As is your own, Myriam. Remember that.”
The old woman stepped closer and drew forth her own dagger, the twin of Myriam’s Harkan. She held it up to the light, running her tired eyes along the milk white blade a final time. Then, her lips set in a firm line, the Duchess held out the dagger to Hendon. “Take it, boy.”
Hendon reached out hesitantly and took the knife. The blade glowed with an inner light that intensified as the lad took hold of it, matching the burning fire which had appeared in the milk-white stone of his ring. Hendon held the blade reverently, as if it were the holiest of relics.