The Web Rulers Weave: Ruins of Unity

by J Glen Percy

  “Where did you find a window to stick those in? That could have been your neck,” Ceres asked, gesturing to the miscreation’s separated head.

  “Kept my distance, highness, orders being what they were.” Allis returned the blades up his sleeves with a deliberate grin that had Ceres questioning the man’s credibility once more.

  The men were interrupted by sputtered gagging nearby. A middle-aged man, alive for the time, lay amongst the bodies littering the yard. No shortage of red stained his chest, numerous punctures bubbling like a mountain spring. Blood spilled from his mouth with every cough.

  Ceres stood over the man. “Anything to be done for him?” he asked Allis.

  “Not unless you’re looking to spread the plague. Every one of these ought to be burned,” Allis replied, surveying the carnage with a pinched face.

  “They’ll all come back?” Ceres asked.

  “Not likely, but that won’t stop a stray dog or bear from lapping at their fluids. And if they do come back-”

  Ceres let the tracker get no further. With a downward thrust, he planted Waxing Crescent through the dying man’s throat. Not dignified, but quick. “Burn them all,” he finished.

  “And this one, highness?” The gritty tracker nodded towards the large barn.

  Bat wings protruding from beneath a shaggy red crop and crowded eyes that made the child’s ears appear all the larger, running towards the men was the ugliest boy Ceres had ever seen. The boy’s ship-prow nose, reminiscent of old Jago’s, did no favors either. Tears carving channels down an otherwise filthy face, the boy dropped to his knees at the gored man’s side.

  Ceres gave no time for mourning. “What’s your name boy?”

  “I’ll have yours first,” the boy replied, looking up defiantly through moisture-filled eyes.

  “Do you know who I am?” the prince responded.

  The boy sniffled heavily, running a long sleeve under his nose. “I know your head’s emptier’n a drunkard’s flask if you think you can kill my pah, then make demands-”

  “You’re a crafty bastard,” Ceres interrupted. “The Feral killed your monger father. I gave him mercy.”

  “Mercy, huh? Is ‘at what you’re callin’ the flippin’ point of your blade?”

  No more than twelve and lippy as a lawyer. “Your name, boy,” Ceres said flatly.

  “I’m not a flippin’ boy,” came as flat of a response.

  Ceres was of half a mind to leave the boy’s head next to his-. Wait, what was that?

  “Allis, tell those rose-shaming louts to clean their soiled britches and pile the bodies.” Ceres considered the... girl with a wrinkled nose as he gave the orders. A girl? Uglier than a sweating sow, he feared insulting his sisters by using the term.

  “Allis? Ain’t ‘at a girl’s name?” the girl harried with another snort across the sleeve.

  It certainly was, Ceres agreed silently, though those who dared tease would find a dagger buried in their spine, no doubt. Truth stated, Allis and the girl could be kin by appearances. Perhaps by their cheekiness too. The tracker blinked his offense but made no reply.

  “You can give your name, monger, or your head. The choice is yours,” Ceres followed.

  The girl hesitated, taking one final look at her fallen father. “You ‘an call me Wart.”

  “Isn’t Wart a boy’s name?” Allis asked, a triumphant smirk revealing toothless gums.

  The girl stood, brushing past the two men on her way to the next body. “Ain’t never said ‘twas my name, Allis.” The mocking emphasis had the tracker gaping like a fish out of water, then raising a threatening hand. Ceres caught him at the wrist before he let loose.

  “Well Wart, you can be angry at us-”

  “You,” she corrected pointedly.

  “-but I did not release this monster.”

  Her back was to the men, indicating exactly how important they were to her. “Who did?”

  “The stars above for all I know. Does it matter?”

  “When I poke as many holes in ‘eir flippin’ skin as my pah ‘as in his, yes.” The response humored Ceres. The entire conversation, really. Allis on the other hand.... His weather-stained complexion had warmed nearly as red as the disheveled girl’s hair.

  Ceres let out a short laugh. “We’re headed to the provincial capital. I suspect you’ll find more answers there than you will in this hopeless hovel, if you care to join.”

  “Highness, I do not think it a good-” Allis began to protest. Wart talked right over him.

  “And more people like you and Allis, harpin’ like a sack of flippin’ seagulls with nothin’ to say.” Sadness all but vanished, faint, eye-swelling redness was all that remained.

  “That’s far enough girl,” Ceres warned. She was resilient and bold, he’d give her that, but there was a blade’s hair between boldness and downright insult. A moon blade’s hair.

  “Ain’t quite; you’re still here. Now, if you’ll be excusin’ me.” Eyes dry as the Drablands, she paid her remaining respects without so much as an acknowledgement for the prince and his tracker. Soon, she disappeared into the small stone house.

  The homely girl dug further into Ceres’ head as he returned up the hillside. While he distractedly mapped his next steps, the Rosemarked soldiers lit a fire, adding bodies unceremoniously to the pyre. Most important for Cairanthem’s future – his kingdom’s future - was arriving some place where he could send notice to his father. A living Feral was grave news – not to mention his deeds here - graver than punishing cowardly guardsmen. Certainly graver than an insolent runt of a girl. Pillar of black churning and blooming towards the heavens behind, Ceres pushed back onto the road with renewed pace.

  Ceres was working to pry the grimling girl from his mind when the clop of hooves moving up the column met his ears. Turning, he was met by the very image he was working to banish. A saddleless plough mare with more years than teeth for carriage, the disagreeable girl sat proud as a pampered pussycat despite her laughable mount.

  “I have never seen anyone bridle an old cow before,” Ceres quipped, the girl slowing at his side. The rotund mare had permanent harness lines worn into her hide, though Ceres doubted she had ever carried a rider before.

  “Never met anyone ain’t tell cow from draft horse before,” she countered. “Toss your gutless men on a sled and Bruno’d ‘aul the ‘ole flippin’ lot to Shorefeld.”

  Blessed light, nailing her tongue to a tree might be the only way to assure civility. As much horseman as tracker, the remark earned a thoughtful nod from Allis. Begrudged, but thoughtful. “Decide to tag along, then?” Ceres asked.

  “You offed my pah, ain’t you forgot?” Wart replied evenly. The lack of emotion was pointed. Notable. “And if’n you speak the truth, could be others need reckoning too.”

  “So you intend to poke me full of holes?” Ceres braced for the response. Disrespect could only be suffered so long for humor’s sake. Before today, Ceres had never suffered disrespect for any sake.

  “Two kinds of people’d threaten a prince to his face, fools and loonies. I ain’t either, Your Grace. Allis here, I ain’t vouch’n for.”

  Ceres smiled despite himself. She did know who he was. Unsightly and as pert as they come, the girl called Wart wasn’t a complete fool.

  CHAPTER 17

  Gabryel would have words with his sister. He hadn’t wanted to come. He knew staying inside, taking Mykel’s predictable route, was the right one. Why couldn’t he be more like his twin? Sure, he would have half the fun, but he’d also reap half the trouble. A fair trade given the current predicament. Yes, when Aryella woke, he was going to have words. If she woke.

  What would she say were it he that dragged her out here, he that sprawled limp like a discarded puppet? Piss and pony pinch this and helping of horse heap that, no doubt.

  “Well you can flaming well keep your manure-mangled adventures to yourself!” he shouted, cradling her head in his lap. A cavernous rumble rising from the gaping doorway in th
e hillside, as if the very earth was breathing, silenced the boy. “If this isn’t your last, it most certainly is mine,” he added softly, sweeping loose hair from her face.

  As had occurred repeatedly throughout the endless day, the caring gesture quelled his anger. Aryella’s sleeplike condition was distressing enough without the raised impression marring her forehead. This morning it had been a red mark, as if she had knocked her head against a solid doorpost. Now, the same pattern adorning the large iron door – itself hanging open and swallowing every spec of light that managed to penetrate the stifling forest canopy - stamped itself clearly. Five circles arranged in a circle of their own, the sides of a five-point star linking each.

  Staring into the black, worry morphed to fear. What had they seen? What had he seen? Aryella’s eyes shuttered when her knees buckled and hadn’t opened since. The creature, straight from a spook story, had not returned. Neither had any followed after. He knew, because as long as today had been, it was not half as long as the night.

  Horses gone, he had tried dragging his sister’s lifeless body, making it all of a foot through the dense undergrowth before giving up. She wasn’t large, but neither was he. The remainder of the night had been spent peering into the darkness as he was now, shivering the fear-filled seconds away.

  The afternoon growing long, he was less than anxious to spend another night near the monster-harboring hole. Unfortunately, nobody knew their whereabouts, and he’d sooner face that Feral than arrive home without his sister. Breccyn would be mad. Null’s backside, Father would be livid! And Mother.... Her fury didn’t bear thinking about. One horse was all he needed. Ha. He’d sooner roll a carpenter’s puzzle down the heights of Stallion Spine and find it solved than he would the horses. Fear turned to anger and the cycle began once more.

  A rustle in the forest had his head whipping round. He stood slowly, knocking an arrow to his bowstring. His heart raced, the Feral’s vacant eyes and pawing hands fresh in his memory. Another rustle. He drew the string to his cheek. The disturbance swelled to the full-on rush of a beast moving through woods. In the instant before he loosed, Poet, then Rudder, came trotting into the open. Both horses pushed past Gabryel, coming to a stop at Aryella’s side. It was as if she had a fresh bag of oats and a few fat carrots calling them over. It was as if they were possessed.

  “Null’s backside indeed,” he cursed merrily. Like his father, Gabryel did not believe that the Five could answer prayers. But someone clearly had. The boy wasted no time loading his sister and making for home.

  Beneath a sky bursting with stars, Gabryel was guiding the horses down a wide draw when campfire smoke met his nostrils. He knew enough of brigands to avoid wilderness-roving strangers and turned the horses up the gully wall. It was too late. Three mounted silhouettes sat motionlessly on the rim, blanking the stars beyond.

  “My sister needs help,” Gabryel shouted, reaching for mercy if they were brigands and genuinely seeking aid if not. Their response sunk his hopes.

  “She won’t be the only one if you open your mouth again, boy,” a faceless voice barked. Then turning to one of his companions, “Put them with the girl for now.”

  Fleeing wasn’t an option. Feeling his unstrung bow strapped to Rudder’s saddle, neither was fighting. In short order, the three shadows were pushing Gabryel and Aryella further down the draw like wayward sheep. Rounding a bend, the scent-producing flames came into view. Another half dozen men were there, the mentioned girl sitting knees-to-chin a ways off.

  Aryella was thrown to the earth like a sack of turnips while Gabryel booted hands away, dismounting on his own terms. He attended the Old Ward regularly; he wasn’t about to be intimidated by a band of ruffians just because they were in the wild and not bellied-up to a bar table. And if that wasn’t enough, he had faced a Feral the night before.

  Oddly, Poet and Rudder resisted being led to the horse line where the other mounts were tied, throwing heads and stamping agitatedly. The scene that followed – three capable horsemen wrestling with a couple of uncooperative ponies and finding themselves on the hot end of the poker – received no shortage of laughter from the campfire bunch. Horses finally secured and one man favoring the site of a well-landed kick, the men joined the others, leaving the Starling children alone with the stranger.

  “Mykel? Gabryel?”

  The boy’s eyes widened to match those of the hitherto unknown captive. Riding hood hiding her flowing locks, it was Princess Cecily Romerian huddled next to the sage clump.

  “What are you doing here? What’s wrong with Ary?” the princess managed.

  Like misfortune, it seemed surprises were never-ending on this trip. Gabryel recovered swiftly, turning his head from the girl. He knew the princess well of course, their fathers’ relationship had assured as close an upbringing as hundreds of leagues would allow. Her relationship with Breccyn made them all the closer. Gabryel was no longer sitting with a childhood friend or future kin, though. He hadn’t forgotten the attack on his brother.

  “They can’t hear us,” Cecily continued in a whisper. “What happened. Please don’t ignore me.” The last came as a plea. “It is you, Gabryel.”

  He turned back to the princess, eyes narrowing. “What are you doing here?”

  “I was on my way to see your brother.”

  “Alone?” Gabryel responded skeptically.

  “My father’s chief advisor would see Breccyn killed. I came to warn him.”

  “With the point of another dagger, I’m sure.”

  Cecily’s confusion was plain despite the darkness. “What are you talking about?”

  “Your brother. The assassin.” Gabryel’s tone was as blank as his expression.

  “Assassin? Is everyone alright?”

  “You really don’t know?” Gabryel probed, suspicion curling his words. Honesty or a convincing act, it was frustrating either way. “Ceres sent an assassin to carry out Preeminence.”

  “How do you know?” Cecily asked, concern rising above confusion for the moment.

  “Because the worm-rotting Grayskin is making camp in our dungeon!” Gabryel lowered his voice abruptly, glancing towards the campfire. The men there were beyond involved in their own revelry, leading Gabryel to believe that others watched the night - and more importantly to one hoping for escape - the prisoners themselves.

  “How do you know it was Ceres?” Cecily clarified.

  Not entirely convinced of her ignorance, Gabryel relayed the story. Her features gave nothing away other than genuine relief upon hearing Breccyn remained unharmed.

  “He misplaced that dagger some time ago, just before leaving for Somerset,” Cecily added as Gabryel’s tale came to a close. “I know because he was something furious, turning the citadel over in his thief-hunt.”

  “Or he gifted it to an assassin and put on a show for everyone.”

  “That was months ago,” the princess measured. “Ceres can be cruel but he’s no sneak.” She didn’t mention that if a soft spot existed in Ceres’ heart – and that was a positive if – it was for his sisters. Cecily’s love for Breccyn alone might be enough to stay any ill action on her brother’s part, if only just. “And unless you are the magistrate weighing the case, we can argue all the evidence in the world and will still be sitting in this gulch for it.”

  Gabryel folded arms across chest obstinately. It had been easy to forget who he was talking to, sitting in the dirt as joint hostages. Cecily was all composed now, every bit the poised royal. If this... ordeal ever came to a close and the world was set right, he would worry about decorum and apologies then. Until that time, the circumstances that were, were.

  The princess sighed her frustration, moving closer to Aryella’s inert form. “What’s wrong with her?”

  “I don’t know. She’s alive, but not. I need to get her home. If only I had my bow-”

  “You would simply turn a dozen men into pincushions?” Cecily interrupted doubtfully.

  “Unless you have a better idea,” Gabryel
retorted.

  Weighing Aryella’s marked forehead with concern, the princess did not release her skepticism. “Well, it will take more than arrows for that one.”

  A head taller than his men, there was no question whom Cecily was referring to. The man radiated authority, forcing Gabryel to reconsider his position on Ferals, ruffians, and intimidation. The irregular orange glow illuminated a bald head covered in scars. A freshly acquired gash merited more attention from the boy than it did the man wearing it.

  “That one’s called Kadin. He’s a monster,” Cecily stated without removing her focus from Gabryel’s sister.

  “He’s as big as one,” Gabryel agreed. “Did you do that?” Gabryel traced a solitary finger over his cheekbone. Provided the man’s immense frame – and the current friction between the two captives - the question was purely jest.

  “I meant to kill him,” Cecily admitted levelly. “The Five themselves will have a tough time with that one.”

  Gabryel blinked heavily. “The Five won’t have to muster that kind of courage.” His response was impressed. Grudging, but impressed.

  “No more courage than a cornered fox.”

  “Do you know these men?”

  “I do not. They’re Rosemarked.”

  “How surprising.” Gabryel’s tone was drier than a desert in drought.

  “What is that supposed to mean?” Cecily asked, indignation blossoming in that desert.

  Gabryel did not forget who he was talking to this time, or what she was capable of with a blade in hand – flaming Furmen above, but that man should be writhing in agony! - and drove his feelings deep. “They’re the only smooth-skinned idlers that think they can get away with anything. Snatching Your Royal Highness included.”

  “We earned our right. The mongers-” she began.