by J Glen Percy
Intermixing with the bustle of King’s Fork, hood concealing her brown curls and sharp Romerian features, she held a snowman-in-Somerset’s hope of finding him here. Dawnglow threw her head impatiently, giving a jump to those squeezing past.
“How does this one look?” Cecily asked, guiding the mare towards one of the more reputable looking inns. Lanterns alight and merriment spilling from open windows, the Royal Bull was marked by a crown-adorned bovine dangling above the inviting entry. Recalling all the previous inns, reputable extended to the journey as a whole, and not merely this lively boomtown.
First impressions quickly vanished. Communicating with the hired muscle leaning outside the establishment was as difficult as picking through the shoulder-scrubbing crowd, and not solely for the general clamor. She did not doubt the man’s effectiveness; he looked to have participated in a fair number of scraps over the years and come out on top in every single one. Service, however, was not in his blunt vocabulary. Was nothing simple in the provinces?
“And my horse?” she asked expectantly.
“Around back,” he nodded, apparently too busy doing nothing at all to be bothered. No stableman to receive her mount? Perhaps they were short on help.
She was debating whether to seek different lodgings as she arrived around back. No less than ten men stood outside the barn, leaning against whatever structure would support their idleness. The Royal Bull wasn’t short on help after all. Or warm bodies, anyway.
“She requires your finest grains and an airy stall.” Cecily approached the man nearest the door, handing over the reins. Reaching forward, the man’s cuff slid up his wrist, revealing the capital’s floral brand. Even within the capital, most laborers lacked the rose. Why was a Rosemarked working here of all places?
“Aren’t you a pretty one.”
Spinning about, the intimidating doorman towered over her. “Excuse me?” she swallowed heavily, straightaway grasping that these were no employees. Beauty was currency, her mother had instructed. It bestowed power, enabled privilege. Carry too much though, and degenerates crawled from the pinch-pile asking their share. In beauty’s case, they more often took than asked. Cecily’s elevated pulse immediately reflected the latter thought.
The other men standing around the small courtyard tightened the circle, their leader’s words fortifying Cecily’s fears. “Do as I say and these men won’t touch you. Yell, squeal, or otherwise pull eyes in your direction, and they’ll touch whatever they want with my earnest blessing. Understood? We’ll be leaving now.”
In addition to teaching her daughter the profits and perils of beauty, Queen Willa had also educated on dealing with the blunt creatures that gave the tool its duel-edge. With men, it was working your wiles when profitable and your wits when perilous. For an instant, Cecily thought of her mother, the bravest woman she had ever known, and her three younger sisters. She thought of her father and protective older brother, and the things they would do to these Rosemarked men. She thought of Breccyn. The fear that had her hands trembling subsided.
Pulling a dagger from beneath her cloak, Cecily slashed at the hulking man’s face. She did not wait for his bellowed curses to finish to jump into Dawnglow’s saddle. She slashed once more, this time at the reins controlling the mare’s hackamore. A strong dig with her heels and Dawnglow heaved through the villain left holding the severed end of the leather straps.
The back alleyways bore little resemblance to the main streets’ suffocation, allowing for a brisker, if still cautious pace. Behind newly raised terraces, stores, and inns, sharp heels had Dawnglow churning earth wherever the narrow corridors allowed and snorting frustration where they did not. More than once, the mare’s agility was all that prevented a trampled bystander. It was Cecily’s skill that prevented a thrown rider. A handful of shouted profanities and an upended serving tray later, and they were charging across the open countryside.
Hills and miles passed beneath, and tears streamed freely. Fear, anxiety, regret; emotions as varied as the sunset’s orange-purple hues fed each droplet in turn. She never looked back, but neither did she fear pursuit. Men like these favored easy prey, likely resetting their snare for the next unsuspecting set of eyelashes that came along. Tears of shame and anger surfaced anew.
“Who needs rest anyway?” Cecily sniffled a short time later. “Tomorrow, girl.” Cecily leaned over Dawnglow’s neck, embracing the horse with still quivering arms. The mare’s final energy stores were spent and Cecily allowed a grazing walk. It was the least she could offer. Tomorrow they would reach Shorefeld. Tomorrow they could rest.
No sooner had the thought materialized than Dawnglow buckled, front legs folding under her weight. Cecily thought it an awkward step, a varmint’s hole perhaps, until a second thud ran through the animal. A breathless whinny conveyed Dawnglow’s distress, then Cecily was picking herself up off the ground.
Through the fall-induced fuzziness enveloping her head, Cecily crawled to her struggling mare. Dawnglow lay on one side, two arrows buried fletching-deep protruding from the other. Cecily had no more tears to give. She rested across the animal’s neck, running fingers through her friend’s silver mane until Dawnglow’s heaving ribcage went still. Moments later, the drum of hooves advanced from every direction.
Footsteps approached. Cecily’s head jerked back violently, and squatting before her with meaty fingers tangled through her hair was the hulking assailant from the inn. Blood oozed in river-like quantities from his face, a spongy canyon of reds running from eye to chin.
“Perhaps I wasn’t clear,” the man growled. His unoccupied hand moved slowly beneath Cecily’s cloak, cruel eyes daring her to defy him. Her entire frame trembled with terror, an eternity passing under his unbearable intentions. Suddenly, and without disturbing anything more than clothing, his hand withdrew. It was small relief. In his palm was her blood-stained blade. “Crude men have insatiable appetites, young miss. No better than a rutting rodent. These here,” he said, gesturing to the encircling men, “these are the crudest.” He pressed the knife against her cheek, mimicking the gruesome fissure on his own. “Pull something like that again, and I will cut on you so thoroughly as to permanently fix their appetites elsewhere. Am I clear?”
Several men released eager chuckles. The muscular man turned his head, leaving the blade against Cecily’s skin. “Examine the girl crosswise and I will personally feed your manhood to a Feral,” he grated. The laughter halted abruptly.
Cecily nodded her terrified consent and the man stood without a spit of acknowledgement further. “Set camp here, we’ll move again at daylight.” He looked down at Dawnglow’s motionless bulk, his harsh gaze beaming. “While we’re considering appetites, it appears that meat is on tonight’s menu.” With that, he turned to leave.
Sneers returned to the men’s faces. Had she anything in her stomach, it surely would have made its way up. He was a callous man, a special kind of evil set deep within his bones.
“Who sent you?” she cried, looking purposefully away from her dead companion.
“You did a fine job traveling amongst the right number of people,” the man replied, instead of answering her directly. “Too few or too many and nobody notices a sudden disappearance. Unfortunately for you, the King’s Fork stood between you and your destination.”
“You followed me?” Her tone was more accusation than question. “How did you know which inn I would choose?”
“Only so many places a princess would lay her pretty little head.”
Cecily’s expression betrayed her astonishment. These men were from the capital. They had followed her across Cairanthem. They knew who she was. “Who sent you?” she repeated.
The hulking man turned over-shoulder, revealing the future scar she had added to his collection. “The future king.”
* * *
“What do you mean the assassination failed, whiteface?” The gray-chested bear had shifted from complacent to inconsolably irritable over the news out of the west. It was parti
cularly concerning given that his ill-tempered eyes were fixed on Ogden.
“The Starling boy lives, but-”
“And the assassin?”
Ogden sat atop Fleet, walking side by side with the forerunner along the River Ash. The added height did not make him feel any safer. “Taken captive, dead; the message did not say.”
The bear had been lapping at Ogden’s plan like a cat at a cow’s pail. A perceived failure like this could ruin everything.
“How could this happen? The water thief’s son was to die.”
“The important thing is-”
“The important thing is to answer my question,” Rav’k rumbled.
“I do not know. The king and his steward are at each other’s throats nonetheless. Our plans for the princess will divide them even further, you have my word.”
Pausing at the crest of a sandy bluff, both men looked upon the preparations being made. The first of Ogden’s ships had arrived, constructed plainly so as not to reveal their origin. Who was aiding the Grayskin invasion would gnaw at King Erick as surely as the strife between the king and the West, or the impending disappearance of his daughter.
“Manalla’s Children do not need your word, they need the promised outcome. And I need to know what happened to the assassin.” The forerunner fumed beneath the surface.
If a bear charged, it was said to stand your ground, enlarging your appearance if possible. Ogden swallowed the rising lump of uncertainty and straightened in the saddle. “I promised a destabilized Cairanthem, which you have. Perhaps you should question the tool and not the architect.”
Rav’k turned on him, flames erupting behind cold eyes. “No one questions this child!”
Playing dead was the final recourse, which Ogden doubted would work on the untamable man. “Forgive me. I was unaware of the assassin’s significance.” The chieftain had sent countless children to their death, what did he care for a single soul?
Startlingly, Rav’k sighed. It was the closest thing to resignation Ogden had seen from the man. “My daughter rests in enemy hands on the eve of invasion, if not eternally with the Five. What could be of more significance?”
CHAPTER 16
After more than a week in the saddle, Ceres Romerian and his host of guards were a mere two days from their destination. Two days, a straightforward demand, and he could finally forsake the provincial foulness beyond Rosemount’s walls. Nobody mentioned the unpleasant facets of prince-hood; exercising his influence over these rats as a meager errand boy was surely amongst the worst.
Securing stone from Orthander Stellen, the bumbling old mole of Somerset, he now pursued horseflesh for transport here in the West. What he truly sought was some understanding, some agreement, with his father’s plans for his future kingdom. He was beginning to believe he would never find that.
Meaningless or not – joining the ancient lookout towers with defensible ramparts was indisputably the former to Ceres mind - the future king should not be scurrying town to town, palms elevated, like a groveling monger. His talents were better suited for... negotiating with the capital’s mulish politicians and magistrates anyhow. Once again, his father had selected the wrong tool for the job.
Passing a small farmstead that he supposed many Rosemarked travelers would regard as quaint, Ceres scowled. Cobbled walls, thatched roof, chickens scratching and pecking just inside the matching stone hedge; dozens of paintings in dozens of fountain markets depicted just this. He spat. The scene was a penny above squalor, not worth the canvas it was painted upon. Yet another rose-less monger taking from Unity’s bread bowl without offering anything in return.
Come to think on it, the same could be said of the provinces as a whole. Rose-less mongers taking twice as much as they gave. Had he been king, following the Ferals to extinction would have been the old monarchies themselves. The Stellens, Fairfields, Redmonds, and Humfreys; every last one of them rounded up and executed, their lands turned over to the crown. His grandfather was a visionary, yet too lenient to realize the full potential of his dreams. His father was simply too lenient, a criticism that Ceres himself would never be found guilty of.
Ryecard Starling was not the worst appointment, but like his father, was too soft. The aqueduct was certainly a marvelous feat that would serve Ceres’ empire well, perhaps well enough to allow the Stallion to keep his position as lord steward. If the law prevailed with the man’s arrogant whelp, that was. Ceres spat once more. It was his father’s softness again, familial bonds delaying obvious judgment and jeopardizing Ceres’ inheritance in the process. Give Ceres his moon blade and Breccyn Starling’s neck and the kingdom would be finished with this farce.
Then again, perhaps an axe was more fitting. More predictable, certainly. Waxing Crescent began glowing for a time last night, and Ceres nearly cast it aside right there. The blade certainly bestowed prestige – intimidation, as he more often used it – but it also brought nagging questions, near treasonous questions, of his worthiness to carry the thing. Last night’s ethereal glow and hackle-raising uneasiness was yet another dilemma. He would ask his mother who believed in such incantations before losing the relic to a rubble heap, but to be clear, Ceres Romerian did not need the sword any more than a scholar needed children’s books.
“By the Five, highness!” came Allis’ call from the front of the line. The man was tough as weathered barn wood and twice as rough. Not easily disturbed. The fact made his startled cries all the more disturbing.
“What is it?” Ceres shouted as the wiry man came galloping back. Teeth matching his figure - only slightly more plentiful than hair on his head - Allis’ appearance was more fitting of a monger than the rose on his wrist spoke to. He wasn’t a member of the King’s Lance either, and lacked the black leather armor and crimson-under-sided cloaks that the column of men wore in perfect uniformity. It mattered not. The man could track a falcon through a snowstorm and run it down on a one-legged pony besides.
“The Five’s cursed creation or worse. Something to be seen for yourself.” The man was superstitious too, like Ceres own mother, a trait the prince didn’t quite trust. Trust wasn’t always necessary, though. Competence was.
The prince spurred Baron past his halted line of men and banners, murmurs growing louder the farther up he rode. Another farm came into view over a small rise, but where the last was calm and disputably charming, this was the very picture of chaos.
Though Ceres was too young to have witnessed the terrors of the pre-unified world personally, any uneducated monger would recognize the malformed beast. Body of a man and antlered head of a deer, its skin made the full moon seem colorful. It happened to be a family of uneducated mongers the Feral was devouring, the gut of one motionless corpse its current feast. Other bodies – women, children, and unfortunate livestock mostly – lay scattered about, dead or rapidly on their way. A few men remained upright, farm tools prodding the creature with all the effect of blunted toothpicks.
“Grayskin’s Blight,” Allis muttered at his side.
First a glowing sword, then a nonexistent creature brought to life? Ceres grimaced. He considered passing the messy scene by, but Ceres was never one to run from a fight. Besides, this was a forum worthy of song and story. A forum worthy of a king.
“Form ranks and keep your distance!” he shouted. “Tale has it a mere scratch from the bugger will have you looking much the same within a score.”
“Truth, highness,” Allis modified firmly. “Truth has it.”
Gargoyles perched on horseback, the words fell on petrified ears. Most, like Ceres, were too young to know Ferals by anything other than tale. Aside from Allis, the red-cloaks old enough to have fought in the war sat frozen by long-buried recollections. Horrific recollections. Ceres cursed them all equally. Not a one of them had the backbone to move? Ceres knew fear to be a great tool, but like ale, too large a dose was more debilitating than motivating.
“Curse my father, a monger should never have been appointed Lord Captain.”
> “He is a Fellsword,” Allis commented thoughtfully.
“He’s a monger! Slothful creatures, they would watch the world burn just to avoid picking up a bucket.” Ceres took another look at his paralyzed men. “Look at them. Their monger leader’s impotence has infected every one of them. Ozias Stellen will answer for this.”
The men charged with protecting the prince charged nowhere, and Ceres galloped down the long drive with only Allis at his side. He waited to the last moment before dropping from the saddle. Waxing Crescent was in hand before boots hit the ground. He knew the public – including his own men – questioned his obtaining the mythic blade. Receiving the moon blade as a gift from his grandfather, the First King, violated a millennium of bloodletting tradition. Well so did Unity. Men could question the gifting of the blade, but no one questioned the prince’s ownership. When men who knew hilt from handle praised Ceres Romerian’s skills, it wasn’t some philanthropist’s kindness; it was the truth.
The remaining farmers were down by the time Ceres reached the scene. Dropping fresh innards from its stained snout, the deer-man captured the prince in its blank gaze. Black fluid, thick as tree sap, seeped from several gashes and punctures. If the wounds slowed the beast, it was not apparent. Ceres met the white-eyed creature head on.
Three joints existed between weapon and core. Slashes and checks from the shoulder, thrusts from the elbow, parries and refinement from the wrist; each movement orchestrated in seamless harmony with the others. His legs behaved likewise, dancing a choreographed routine without so much as a toe out of place. Antlers plunged and flailed, a splintered rake handle aiding the beast from its human arms. Ceres answered every move and replied in kind.
Waxing Crescent was not glowing – that had ceased the night before – but was gleaming nevertheless. Flashing in an arc then flickering in a twist, around the encounter it glided. An ill-timed charge met with a nimble sidestep set the Feral off balance. Ceres twirled, blade reinforced with a second hand, and the creature’s head was liberated from its torso. It was only when Allis retrieved two daggers from the twitching carcass that Ceres realized he hadn’t been alone in the fight.