Guardian

by Jon Kiln

  “The regent must be removed.”

  Parsival closed his eyes and took a deep breath, letting it out slow. It was no more than he had expected, of course. But hearing the words, spoken aloud, changed everything. This was no longer hypothetical. It was as real as life and death. He opened his eyes and forced himself to nod in agreement.

  “I’m with you,” he said softly. “The man is mad. The way he’s been going, it’ll be a wonder if there’s even a court left by the end of the year. But how can we oppose him? Harald-”

  Leonie hissed through her teeth. “Careful!” she snapped. Parsival blinked in confusion. “No names,” she instructed, staring wildly around the room again. “No specifics. I don’t think anyone is listening, but we can’t be too careful.”

  “All right, then.” Parsival took another breath and started again. “He controls the army. He controls the navy. He controls the palace guard. What do we have? I have four loyal armsmen in the castle. I doubt you, or any of our other friends, have more. He would never allow that.”

  “At Ival?”

  Parsival blinked. “A few hundred,” he said, shaking his head. “But that does us no good, even if I could be sure of a messenger reaching them.”

  “I’ve near a thousand at Ulmet Bay,” Leonie said, then shrugged. “But you’re right. An army at my own castle does us no good here in the capital.”

  Parsival nodded. “Even if all the nobles at court, and somehow I doubt you’ve recruited them all to our cause, but even then…”

  It was Leonie’s turn to nod, her face taking on a dejected cast. “You’re right. There can’t be more than a hundred armsmen in the castle who aren’t loyal to Harald directly.”

  “So what do you plan to do, then?” Parsival shook his head.

  Leonie bit her lip. Her eyes searched him. For a moment, Parsival was taken aback. She had come this far. They had both said more than enough to have their heads off if the wrong person heard, so what could make her hesitate now? He was suddenly not sure he wanted to know.

  “Excuse me, friends,” said a new voice.

  Parsival and Leonie each recoiled from the table as if a venomous serpent had sprouted from the the center of the wood. Leonie’s bench tipped over backward as she leaped to her feet, one hand disappearing inside her cloak as if grabbing for a dagger. Parsival managed not to overturn his own stool, but he too got to his feet and put a hand to his blade. He stopped himself just short of drawing.

  The man in the heavy brown cloak had approached their table without either of them noticing. By now, however, they had drawn every eye in the tavern with their startled reaction. Parsival considered the situation. Leonie, for her part, made to leave. The big man was blocking her path.

  “Move aside,” she commanded, her tone regal.

  The big man chuckled.

  Parsival narrowed his eyes suspiciously. He peered into the shadowy hood of the man’s cloak, trying to catch a glimpse of the stranger’s features. He was sure already this was no Palaran footsoldier, and most certainly it was no sailor. Who the man was, Parsival couldn’t guess. But he doubted the stranger was an agent of the Mad Regent.

  “Easy, Leonie,” he said. “We’re causing a spectacle.”

  “I said no names,” she hissed at him angrily.

  “Apologies my lady, my lord.” The man smiled. Light flashed off even, white teeth. Parsival could still not make out his features. “But your friend is quite correct, my lady. We are drawing attention. Perhaps if we were to step out to the street, we might continue this conversation away from prying eyes.”

  “I’ve nothing to say to you, stranger.” Leonie drew herself up haughtily. “Now let me pass.”

  “Leonie,” said Parsival, his voice low. “I think we should do what he says.”

  She glared daggers at him, but only for a moment.

  Then she saw the miniature crossbow in the stranger’s hand.

  31

  Zander fought against the grogginess, struggling to remain conscious. Voices shouted nearby, raised in fear and alarm. He didn’t recognize those voices. Friends or foes? He couldn’t remember for a moment. He’d taken a blow to the head. His thoughts were sluggish.

  But his hands were bound. He saw a familiar form on the floor not far from where he lay. The archer. Artas was out cold. The front of the young man’s shirt was singed as if by fire. Fire. That tickled a memory.

  Zander sat up and it all came flooding back.

  Not the floor, he thought, inanely. The deck.

  They were in the ancient shipwreck in the desert. Druids had got the drop on him, knocked him out. There were three of them now, standing at the edge of the broken deck in front of a roaring fire. The men held their hands aloft. They were the ones shouting. The words were strange, unfamiliar. Zander did not know what language they spoke, but there was no mistaking the tone.

  The druids were terrified.

  Zander tore his eyes from the druids and their fire. Artas lay nearby. Dristan was at his side. Where the hell was Ector? For a moment, he allowed himself hope that the final member of their party was still free. With the druids distracted, Ector could slip in and free them all…

  But no, he realized. Artas had been atop the dune. If he was here, then that meant…

  Zander cursed under his breath. He worked his arms against each other, straining against the rope binding his wrists. It felt loose. Frayed. He kept at it, casting his eyes about. There. A dagger. Zander scooted over the decking until the dagger was behind his back. His questing fingers found the hilt, and he tilted it up. Balancing the knife as best he could, Zander dragged his bonds against the edge. In moments, his hands were free.

  Seizing the dagger, he went to work on his legs. In less than a minute he was up. Crouching over Dristan, he freed the other man. Dristan was still out. Zander turned to Artas. The younger man groaned and opened his eyes.

  “What happened?”

  Artas shook his head weakly. “Hit me with… something…” He shook his head again. “Fire, but cold.”

  Zander frowned. Artas was clearly dazed. It didn’t matter. They could put the pieces together later, once they had escaped. Firelight glinted on metal. His sword. Zander grabbed it up and spun around. The druids still ignored them, focused on their fire. Their upraised hands were clasped, fingers intertwined. Their three voices chanted as one, speaking arcane words in frightened unison.

  And something moved in the flames.

  “What the hell?”

  Artas grabbed his arm, pulling him around. The archer’s eyes were clearer, but he was still unsteady on his feet. The sharp slant of the deck wasn’t helping. Artas shook him. “We should go,” he said. “Get out of here.”

  “You don’t have to tell me twice.” Zander turned to look down at Dristan. “Help me with him.”

  A new sound rose above the crackle of flames. A trumpeting blast of sound, high and sharp, ear piercing. Zander winced but did his best to block it out as he took hold of Dristan’s shoulder. Artas took the other arm, and together they heaved the dead weight up. Zander led the way, and they shuffled toward the hatch leading out. The trumpeting roar came again.

  At the edge of the hatch, Zander glanced back. His eyes bulged wide in disbelief.

  “What is it?” Artas started to turn and look.

  “Move!” Zander rushed through the hatch, dragging the limp form of Dristan behind him. Artas had no choice but to follow, or drop his share of the load. He followed.

  Zander’s foot slipped, sliding on loose sand. He wheeled his free arm in the air for balance, to no avail. Losing his footing, Zander fell and slid all the way down to the far bulkhead. He slammed against it with a jarring impact. Artas had lost hold of Dristan, and the unconscious man came tumbling after. Zander had half a second to see him coming, then the dead weight slammed into him.

  “Ooof!”

  “Are you all right?” Artas scrambled down after them, barely keeping his own footing. He held out a hand and pulled Zan
der up.

  “I’m fine. Keep moving!”

  “What the hell’s happening?”

  “I said move!”

  Together, they picked up Dristan again and climbed back toward the hull breach that would let them out. The treacherous footing grew easier as they climbed the sand drift beneath the hole. They reached the breach and shoved Dristan through. He fell to the ground outside and rolled a ways down the sand face. Zander pushed Artas through and then leaped out after him. He hit the sand and rolled, digging his fingers into the ground for purchase, and squeezing his eyes shut against the stinging grit.

  There was only one thought in Zander’s mind. Get away. Get away now. Put as much distance as they could between them and what he had seen before…

  That trumpeting blast of sound tore the air once more. Zander shivered, and it had nothing to do with the bracing cold of night in the deep desert. That horrid sound chilled his blood. Scrambling to his feet in the loose sand, he grabbed at Dristan. Artas was nearby, picking himself up.

  “Zander.” The archer broke off, coughing. Must have swallowed some sand. He shook himself, spitting twice before he tried again. “What-”

  “Get moving.” Zander pointed to the moonlit dunes. “Just go.”

  Without waiting to see if Artas obeyed or not, Zander dropped to his knees beside Dristan. He shook the man gently. No good. Reluctantly, he drew back his arm and slapped Dristan hard across the face. Then he did it again. Finally, Dristan opened his eyes and jerked away. The soldier threw up his arms to ward off another blow, but none came. Zander was already back on his feet.

  “Come on.” He grabbed Dristan’s hand to haul him up.

  “Zander, what’s going on?” Artas was still there. He hadn’t run, hadn’t listened. He was pointing up the small slope toward the broken hull. “My bow-”

  “Damn your bow!” Zander realized he was shouting, verging on panic. “We have to leave-”

  It was too late. He had known it was too late already, somehow. Down inside, down deep, he had known. His guts had known, twisting and sinking and roiling inside him. Of course it was already too late.

  There was one last ear-splitting trumpet blast, and then a column of fire burst forth from the ancient, ruined ship. Climbing into the sky, it tore open the night and brought unscheduled day with its brilliance.

  A heartbeat later, the entire shipwreck went up in an enormous explosion.

  32

  Myriam sat on top of a barrel at the end of the dock, watching the sun rise.

  She was still exhausted, but she could not sleep. She had tried, for an hour or two, but the celebration in Halawa had gone on all night. The drums beat constantly. There was music. Voices raised in joy. The Rooggaru was slain, and would never trouble the Lake Men again. Their new chieftain, barely more than a child, had defeated the monster. This festival might last all week.

  “Princess.”

  She did not turn around, but she did smile.

  “You should be resting, Ganry.”

  “You should be resting,” he countered.

  Myriam shook her head, the smile turning wry and rueful. “You don’t need rest?” she asked in a teasing tone. “The mighty warrior from the east!”

  Shaking her head, Myriam scooted around on the barrel top to face Ganry. He stood a few paces away with his shoulders bowed and his head lowered, peering out from under his brows at her with a grin that, if she didn’t know better, Myriam would have called sheepish.

  “You’ve been through a lot,” she told him.

  “We’ve all been through a lot,” answered Ganry. “Doesn’t change the fact that we still have a job to do.”

  “Is that right?” Myriam raised an eyebrow.

  “You know it is, princess.” He stood up a bit straighter, and his expression turned serious.

  “Your job was to keep me safe, wasn’t it? Keep me safe and see to it that I reached Castle Locke and the protection of my grandmother. That is what you were hired to do, isn’t it?”

  Ganry didn’t answer her, but his frown spoke volumes. He looked away for a moment, turning his eyes toward the rising sun. Other than the distant sounds of the ongoing revelry, there was silence and the gentle lap of the water against the pilings. Ganry sighed heavily and looked back at Myriam.

  “You need me,” he said.

  “Yes,” Myriam agreed. “I do.”

  “Is that why you risked yourself to come after me?”

  “No. It’s not. Is it why you’ve risked yourself, sticking by my side even though you delivered me to Castle Locke weeks ago?”

  “No.”

  Myriam smiled. “I know.”

  Ganry grunted but said nothing. The silence stretched out between them again. The grizzled warrior had an awkward look on his face, like he was uncomfortable. He lifted one foot and scuffed it against the dock, for all the world like a nervous little boy. Myriam almost laughed, but managed to hold it back.

  “So,” she said. “What’s our next step?”

  “Take back your throne.”

  This time she couldn’t help but laugh. “You make it sound so simple.”

  Ganry shrugged. “I didn’t say it would be easy. But just because it’s… complicated… doesn’t mean it isn’t simple. You are the rightful queen of Palara. Your uncle stole your throne, and you have a duty to reclaim it. I will be at your side. The rest is only detail.”

  Myriam thought about that, nodding slowly. He was right. It was that simple, in a way. What needed to be done was simple. Accomplishing it would not be. It was her turn to sigh, and she turned back toward the dawn. “Detail,” she echoed. “I envy you your way of seeing the world sometimes. You’re a soldier at heart. Mercenary, bodyguard, warrior… a man with a sword. I’m the one who has to figure out those details.”

  “Would you rather walk away from it?” asked Ganry. His tone made it clear he would never judge her for it if she did. He would go with her, remain by her side, no matter what Myriam decided. She appreciated that, but there was never any question of it. There was only one answer she could give.

  “Never.”

  “Never?”

  “My uncle is a murderer.” She spat, as though there was a foul taste in her mouth. “And a usurper.”

  “Doesn’t sound like a man fit to rule a kingdom,” mused Ganry.

  “No. That he is not.”

  “I have not spent much time in the kingdom of Palara,” Ganry said. “My first visit to your realm was when I came to spirit you out of the Castle Villeroy. I do not know your kingdom, highness. I don’t know its people. But I have been many places, known many peoples. And I know you, Myriam. You give me an idea. Tell me. Does your country enjoy Harald’s rule?”

  “Absolutely not.” She realized what he was getting at. Turning back to him, she grinned. “The nobles will side with me. Harald controls the army, but if I had the armsmen of every noble at my back… No. No, it won’t work. Harald will keep the court close, and their retainers at a distance. The nobles are likely all penned up in the castle, while their armsmen languish in the countryside at holdfast and villa.”

  “Then we’ll just have to gather them up, won’t we?” Ganry spread his hands. “You are their queen.”

  “You’re damn right, I’m the queen,” said Myriam, still grinning.

  She had not seen Linz approach, but the young chief was suddenly there at Ganry’s side. “My people are with you, Myriam,” he pledged.

  33

  Artas ran toward the burgeoning glow of sunrise. Each ragged breath burned in his chest. Sweat poured down the sides of his face despite the lingering chill of night. Soon it would be hot, burning hot. He didn’t know what he would do then, how he would keep running. He only knew that he would.

  The broken ship was gone. It must have rested there on the burning sand for hundreds of years, preserved in the arid climate, but now there was nothing left but ash and fire. Zander and Dristan were dead. Zander had been lucky - a spear of wooden shrapnel ha
d impaled him, killing him instantly. Hunks of burning wreckage rained down out of the sky. Dristan had been trapped beneath one, his legs crushed. Artas had been able to hear his screams for over ten minutes.

  He’d been running by that point, of course. Because he had seen the thing that was born in the druid’s flames. The creature summoned forth somehow by the ritual. The first sight of it, rising on the billowing thermal updrafts of the explosion, had filled him with blind, screaming terror.

  Dragon.

  It couldn’t be. He knew there were no dragons. Maybe there had been once upon a time, but if so they had died out or been wiped out long ago. Except now he knew that wasn’t true. Or it was, but the Marawi druids had found a way to bring them back. This was what Ector had died for; to resurrect a dragon.

  And now the monster was chasing Artas across the desert.

  ***

  Naavos of the Rock Eagle clan peered over the horizon, his dark eyes narrowed to discern any movement. Two of his men huddled on the shifting sand beside him, four more crouched further below. Hiding at their vantage point, half a mile from the settlement, they had seen the huge explosion where that strange ancient structure stood.

  The rising sun behind them pushed the fleeing wisps of darkness further away, giving rise to an early morning mist. It was a strange thing to behold, for mist had never before formed over the harsh sand dunes of their arid homeland.

  “Brace yourselves, my brothers,” Naavos cautioned. “I fear our new friends did rankle the ghosts further, instead of quelling them.”

  “What are we to do, Naavos,” one of the men, Tolemaas, ventured, “…now that the accursed place appears to have vanished?”

  “We wait, we watch,” Naavos replied, running his fingers over his bearded chin.

  “Look there,” Draagos cried, his sharp eyes detecting movement in the swirling miasma of dust, smoke, and heat waves.

  “Yes, I see him. It is a man,” Naavos whispered through gritted teeth. “One of our new friends.”

  “But where are the others? Have the ghosts-”