“Step forward young Prince.” She called over the mutters of the soldiers assembled in front of Tristan.
He started forward, only to find a restraining hand on his arm. Euri looked up at him, her hands covered in blood and tears gathered in her eyes. He nodded reassuringly at her; she gulped in reply, a single tear falling from her eye. Knight-Captain Robertson turned and cast the young Prince a warning glare.
“No Captain.” The Prince merely replied, shaking his head.
The young Prince stepped around the wall of shields as the soldiers closest to the edge moved in together to allow him to pass. The woman smiled widely, revealing startling white teeth contrasted by her deeply tanned and scared face. He did his best to walk confidently forward, though in truth he was terrified. He always was when he was about to fight, though his nerve and refusal to submit tended to cause his troubled mind to become clear and calm in battle; even as he approached pending bloodshed.
Eyeing the surrounding buildings uneasily he kept his shield out in front of himself to the woman’s obvious amusement.
“Don’t worry young man. I want the honor of the kill for myself.” She chuckled.
“That makes me feel so much better.” He replied sarcastically.
Behind him on the walls the Metao soldiers began gathering along the battlements. He heard the telltale tension of bowstrings being drawn back and a cold calculating thought entered his mind. If he was about to die, he would take this woman and all of her men with him. Tristan breathed in deeply, trying to clear his mind and calm himself as he shook his arms and craned his head to either side cracking his neck and loosening up the muscles.
The woman laughed as she began bouncing lightly on the balls of her feet and flexing her powerfully muscled arms. Tristan chuckled darkly in spite of his situation. Of all the men, monsters and creatures he’d faced in his nightmare and the last year of war, tragedy and blood, he was most nervous in fighting this large woman.
He readied himself, establishing his fighting stance and balancing his weight equally between both legs. Tristan held his shield in front of himself with his sword resting on his shoulder, ready to lash out when she came at him with her long narrow sword. The pommel of her blade was damn near the length of his blade and glinted in the sunlight as she held her sword aloft effortlessly. Her men cheered their leader and jeered the Prince as she prepared to strike.
“I am Master Dragon Slayer, Amanda Eberts.” She announced.
“Ya, ya, you and all your Bane cronies are the same.” Tristan shot back. “You’re all so convinced you know what you’re doing and why.”
“I’ll see the end of you and your kind, dragon scum.” She spat.
“Well then you’ll either be out of work or dead.” Tristan shot back sarcastically. “A noble goal.”
Confusion crossed her face briefly, though it was quickly replaced by a dangerous scowl which formed on her otherwise attractive face. She hissed as she leapt forward bringing her sword crashing down from above. Tristan smiled as he slid the shield onto his arm and let it continue until it was practically on his back. He leaned forward to catch the sword blow on his shield and pulled his dagger. As she collided with his shield, he lashed out with the dagger in his off hand and sliced along her exposed midriff. She pulled away gasping in pain. Her hand shot down to the wound and came up red as her eyes narrowed again.
“Temper, temper.” Tristan teased while he re-sheathed his dagger and allowed his shield to slide down his arm and into his hand once again.
Eberts shouted as she rushed forward and began a viscous offensive pattern. She swiped wildly over Tristans head, forcing him to duck only to find the sword coming in low forcing him to leap back. While he was off balance used her shield to bash him backwards and drove her sword point towards his chest. Tristan sidestepped the blow and brought his shield up as his sword came crashing down.
Her sword shattered into three pieces as he caught it between his sword blade and his shield. Eberts momentum carried her through and as she over balanced. She spun in place, pulling a dagger from her boot. Tristan stepped into her path and kicked the small blade out of her hand. Eberts straightened up, pulling another dagger from a sheath on her back. Tristan stepped forward and brought his elbow up, connecting with her chin. Her head snapped back and blood spurted out of her mouth. As she fell backwards, Tristan’s instincts took over. He spun in place and ducked behind his shield. Two arrows struck his shield as a score of others stuck the drawbridge around him.
Three of the arrows that missed his shield caught his cloak, pinning it to the thick oak bridge. Tristan unfastened his cloak from his neck as the defenders on the wall loosed score of arrows into the nearby building. Two archers tumbled out of their windows before Tristan turned his attention back to the dragon slayer.
He smiled as Eberts looked down at what was left of her long sword and swore. She threw it at Tristan who simply raised his shield as the pommel and remaining piece of blade bounced harmlessly off of it.
The Dragon Slayer tossed aside the shield and drew two short swords. She screamed a primitive battle cry and leapt forward. Her fighting style changed dramatically. Eberts had much more control over the short blades and used them to good effect. Tristan slid his shield up his arm again, allowing it to rest on his back as he drew the dagger Eurydice had given him. Amanda lashed out with her right hand. Tristan knew it to be her off hand so he turned sideways, so that his back caught the blow on his shield. She had expected him to repost her blow giving her momentum for the real strike.
When she came around with the second strike it was weak. Even so, he felt the blow all the way down to his elbow as he caught her sword on his blade. He pushed her sword back, sheathing his dagger and shook his shield off of his back and onto his left arm. She didn’t hesitate and was instantly back on the attack.
She thrust with her left sword, forcing Tristan to parry and then slashed with her right sword, trying to open his stomach. Tristan danced backwards and the blow went wide, carrying her off balance.
He thrust out again giving her another shallow cut, this time along her ribs. She gasped as she looked down at the flesh wound.
Glowering at him dangerously, she came at him growling like a wounded wolf. She swung her left arm up and the blade came crashing down as Tristan flipped the shield up and used his back and shoulder to take the blow. Her right came crashing down next. Tristan spun on the ball of his left foot, completely avoiding the second strike.
The young Prince reversed the grip on his sword and stepped back towards Amanda, driving the tip of his sword deep into her stomach. Ebert’s eyes went wide as Tristan looked over his right shoulder. He yanked his blade free, spun and knelt back behind his shield as four arrows stuck it. The bowmen on the walls answered by firing into four windows taking the last of her bowmen down as they all tumbled through open windows to the cobbled street below.
Tristan rose as Eberts lurched forward, a crazed look on her face. She slashed wildly with a dagger, missed and stumbled forward. Tristan backed up, preparing for another blind slash. The Dragon Slayer raised the dagger high over her head; her eyes open wide in naked rage. Tristan didn’t hesitate. He stepped forward and brought his blade up, still reversed in his grip and sliced open her torso all the way up to her neck. The blow sent her flying upwards and back and she landed with a sickening thud on the road in front of the drawbridge.
There was a brief pause as all of the assembled slayers looked wide eyed between the body of their leader and Tristan. The first shout went up and then the assembled men all drew swords and ran at the young Prince. Tristan felt a strong callused hand grab a hold of the neck of his armor and then he was in the air as he was unceremoniously tossed over the soldiers behind him. He landed painfully on the drawbridge behind them as they rushed forward. The impact of his landing forced the air out of his lungs as he landed. He could hear bow strings snapping, soldiers yelling and feet stomping around him as the Metao soldiers rushed in to engage the slayers. He t
ried to stand, but he landed hard and it felt as though someone had punched him in the stomach with a battering ram.
Eventually Tristan, shaky though he was, got to his feet and tried to push himself to the front of the soldiers. Small arms wrapped themselves around his stomach and a small voice screamed for him to stop. He looked under his arm to see Euri holding tight to him, refusing to let go with surprising strength.
“Stop please.” She begged.
Tristan stopped trying to move forward to join the battle. It was already a decided thing at any rate. The slayers were throwing themselves at the Metao soldiers, who carved them up as they carelessly leapt over their fallen comrades. Tristan tried to shout for a captive, but he was still in pain from the landing. William walked up beside him and bellowed over the shouts and grunts of the fighting men for captives.
Then Tristan passed out.
~
Knight-Captain Lance Robertson looked on with fierce pride as young Prince Tristan took the fight to the more experienced slayer. He watched as the boy moved with uncanny speed and ability, far more than he had just a year ago when he’d led them into the hills surrounding Kenting and Irudin.
“Hold!” Robertson shouted.
The men were getting restless; some of them were getting sloppy and lowering their shields so they could watch the fight. Not that Robertson could blame them; the boy was like a man possessed in battle. None of his self-doubt seemed to nag at him while he was concentrating on staying alive.
Tristan spun in spot and used a dangerous move where he put his shield over his shoulder. This time it paid off as the slayer’s sword hit the shield. Robertson watched as Tristan thrust his sword backwards and the woman’s eyes went wide as he plunged his sword into her gut.
When he pulled his sword free Robertson drew his, knowing that her men wouldn’t accept defeat so easily. He began shouting orders for his men to form up as the boy’s final stroke knocked the woman backwards. Her men stood in shock, looking from their leader to the Prince and back again.
“NOW!” Robertson shouted.
The men ran across the bridge, but the Knight-Captain was well ahead of them. He slid to a stop right behind the dazed boy, grabbed a hold of the back of his armor and launched him as far as he could. Bow strings sang from the battlements knocking the last of the archers out of their perches. The soldiers caught up the Knight-Captain and paused briefly at his side.
“Make them pay!” He shouted and roared a loud war cry.
They were easily outnumbered, but the 7th had been outnumbered before and still survived. Robertson was filled with energy as he began slicing down the fools who came too close to him. He took a spear in the shield and tossed it away. He drew his second short-sword and moved forward, hacking and slashing his way through the press of slayers.
Before him a slayer stood, his mighty twin bladed axe heaving with his labored breathing. He swung high and Robertson ducked, slicing the back of his knee out from under him. The slayer dropped to his knees as Robertson reversed his grip on both swords and screamed as he drove them into either side of the man’s’ shoulders. The blades plunged deep into his torso as Robertson let out an animalistic yell of triumph.
He pulled his blades free, kicked the dying slayer in the chest and turned to face the next motherless fool. A pinching pain struck his chest. Robertson looked down to see a spear point protruding from his breastplate, drenched in his own blood. He dropped to his knees as the spear was unceremoniously ripped back out.
Knight-Captain Robertson’s last thoughts were of Tristan. He said a silent prayer with his last dying breath, a simple one, taught to him years ago while he sat on his mother’s lap, for he’d never had a child of his own to teach the prayer to.
“Gods, protect my boy. Tell him I will be with him, even in his darkest hour.”
~
“Mistress.” Antonius Rossi whispered.
She looked up from the ever-present tome she was reading. Antonius had a disheveled look about him today; no doubt he brought news of another defeat at the hands of that half-breed bastard. The minor servants simply refused to bring her news of failure lest they be the next one enveloped in a ball of mystic fire. She narrowed her eyes, preparing for another disappointing report.
“Yes?” She replied dryly.
He cleared his throat, oh how she hated the spineless sorcerer. His manipulation of the prophecy had created this whole mess. All of her careful planning had been on the basis of a ridiculous mistake. Since then he had proved himself useful in a hundred ways. Yet the sting of his failure tainted his deeds.
“Master Slayer Eberts is dead.” He muttered.
Memories of a simpler time flooded in on her unbidden. When she and Amanda had been lovers, Draconis’ Bane had been created by her father for his own misguided reasons. The two of them had deposed him and created a powerful network of assassins, magicians and soldiers. Danica’s desire to learn the full extent of the prophecy had created a rift between them and finally Amanda had left shortly after the slayers had disposed of the last dragons they could find.
Eberts had returned shortly after the dragon spawn scum had overcome the spell Antonius had cast on him. Eternal Nightmare was an involved spell needing a powerful bit of magic behind it and an intense loathing for the target. Coincidentally, Rossi had created the very situation he needed to cast this black spell on the young Vallious Prince.
Anger festered in the consul’s soul; she blamed Antonius Rossi for the failure, for her alienation from her love and now, for Amanda’s death. She gathered her strength, shaking as she employed more power than she had ever used before. The air in the room crackled and hissed as she unleashed a purple ball of fire at him.
Antonius merely smiled; raising his staff above his head. He spun the staff and slammed the end down onto the floor in front of him. Bricks cracked at the impact and a faint hue gathered around him as the ball of fire struck the protective field he’d erected. The fireball fizzled and melted off the barrier as he continued to smile. When the last heat from the spell had dissipated, Consul Danica Rhodes looked on in shock.
“My turn.” Antonius Rossi said as he smiled sadistically.
~
Groggily, Tristan woke in his old room. The black four post bed, matching wardrobe and desk were illuminated by a fire crackling merrily in the fireplace. He groaned as he put his hand to his head, feeling a cloth bandage wrapped around it.
“Took a nasty bump.” Dion grunted.
Tristan’s eye shot open, which he immediately regretted as his vision swam. He groaned again, trying to keep the bile down in his throat as the nausea rose up inside him. Slowly he rolled over and sat up on the bed. He rubbed his eyes as the nausea died down, finally allowing him to get his bearings. He opened his eyes slowly. His father was the only one in the room; he was sitting in one of the black chairs.
“How are you feeling son?” He asked.
“Ill-used.” Tristan replied. His throat was very dry so he poured himself a glass of water from his bedside table. After he’d finished the third glass he looked up at his father.
“What happened?” He asked in a clearer voice.
Dion sighed, composing his thoughts. He stared at the fire for a long time, obviously trying to word something in such a way as to not harm Tristan. All it served to do was make the young Prince nervous and irritated. His mind began to race with images of Eurydice, William, Knight-Captain Robertson, Lesariu, Socolis and his mother lying in a pool of their own blood, their bodies broken and abused. The images themselves made him angry. Sensing his sons growing anxiety Dion cleared his throat.
“Knight-Captain Robertson and Corporal Kincade are dead.” He said quietly.
Tristan swallowed hard. His memories of the blunt old war veteran and his young brave corporal invaded his thoughts. His friends, the last of his Shroud, the last of those that had watched his back uncountable times in impossible situations, all of them dead and gone.
The callused ha
nd that had launched him over the soldiers on the drawbridge, it had to have been Lance. He was dead now. The empty feeling returned; a profound loneliness. He tried to imagine their dying moments and the courage they’d always displayed. His relationship with Robertson had always been tumultuous but he’d grown fond of the old war dog.
Tristan felt helpless, as though he should have fought harder to get back into the fight, stand beside his friend and die with him if he must. Sadness, such as Tristan hadn’t felt since his loneliest hours in his nightmare, gripped him and he felt as though he should like to crawl into a hole somewhere and cry himself dry.
“We need to talk.” The King said quietly, interrupting his son’s introspective self-loathing.
“About what exactly.” Tristan whispered his voice hoarse and heavy with emotion.
“I’m sending an envoy to Delhi. To bolster defenses there for the boy.” He replied.
“You know?” Tristan asked, shocked at the depth of his father’s knowledge.
Dion turned and looked his son in the eyes.
“I know.” He said.
“That doesn’t matter right now though.” The King said dismissively.
“What does?” Tristan asked bitterly, his emotions still running free.
“From what my agents have gathered you have but one Bane Captain left to kill.” Dion began calmly.
“Your agents?” Tristan interrupted. The Prince’s eyes narrowed, unsure of what he was about to hear.
“Yes, no one inside your Shroud mind you. Not that it matters at this point since the last of them are dead.” The King replied.
“Even if I told you their names and described them you wouldn’t remember them. That’s what I pay them for.” He chuckled.
“Should I assume you know everything I know?” Tristan accused.
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