by Liam Reese
Thuds and metallic clangs rang out across the Waravalian army as the mercenaries’ arrows bounced harmlessly from, or stuck into, the shields. Vetrulian waited until the man on top of the wall had managed to get them to stop wasting arrows before ordering another salvo.
While archers rained death down on the defenders within the walls, Vetrulian ordered the rolling tunnel forward. Long, wet logs had been fastened together and had large cart wheels attached. Filled with brave soldiers who would try and breach the wall, it was supposed to be protection from the horrific things that would be thrown at them from above.
Khaleen watched as the ungainly thing started forward, like a blind tortoise. The men inside shoved and pushed the heavy thing until it started rolling. They had it going at a good pace when Khaleen heard a thunderous boom from inside the camp. A deep hollow opened up in her chest when she remembered the last time she had heard that sound.
A flaming ball shot into the air, trailing fire behind it. Comet-like, it soared over the heads of the men on the wall in a low arc. Her eyes followed the thing until it hammered into the middle of the Waravalians, exploding and covering them in living flame.
Screams and cries erupted from the army as cheers started from the mercenaries. A second boom told Khaleen they had two of the catapults, at least. A boulder the size of a horse came flying over the wall this time, smashing men and their mounts as it hit the army. A red mist rose from the impact, and Khaleen felt the first stirrings of horror rising inside her.
“I have to go!” Collise said, before dashing off towards her husband.
Several men trotted after her, trying to keep up with their queen. Khaleen turned to one of the young men who had gathered beside her cart.
“Left flank, attack!” she told the runner. “Right flank, attack!” she told another lad, as the first sprinted off to alert the Gazluthians, who lay in wait with scaling ladders.
With a hollow thump, the rolling shield slammed into the main gates, iron spikes set into the front piercing the wood and helping to anchor it in place. Khaleen knew the men inside would be frantically chopping at the gates with axes, while others would be smashing the wheels and driving spikes into the ground to fix the thing in place.
Khaleen sent a prayer to any of the Gods when she saw a massive pot of boiling water being wrestled into place above where the soldiers worked. Screams rolled back from inside the tortoise as the water ran through the wood, scalding and burning the men inside as they toiled to breach the gates.
Burning oil followed, adding to the general confusion and terror. Khaleen saw the shield had been hastily constructed, and something had been missed, as liquid fire had flowed through and was killing everyone inside.
Screaming fireballs ran from inside, falling to the ground, where they thrashed for a few seconds before lying still. Khaleen knew the shield was lost, and that Vetrulian would have to pull his forces back or risk wasting lives for nothing.
A third hollow boom echoed from within the camp, and Khaleen’s heart skipped a beat when she saw the size of the missile that was sailing up and out. Twice the size of the previous projectiles and burning, it seemed, brighter than the sun, it soared almost vertically up and out, rising to an impressive height before dropping out of the sky.
Men scattered, running in all directions to get out from beneath the rain of death, but Khaleen knew they would never be fast enough, and watched as the burning orb fell onto the Waravalian army.
Incredibly, Khaleen saw the thing fly off towards the camp, as if batted away like a fly. It exploded against the top of the wall, half of whatever was inside raining down inside the camp, while the rest dripped down the wood, burning and blackening it.
Khaleen’s eyes searched the Waravalian ranks, lighting on the queen, who was bent at the waist and staring at the wall. An explosive scream reached Khaleen’s ears, and she knew it had come from Collise.
A cheer erupted from the Waravalians, soon becoming a chant of their queen’s name. “Col-lise! Col-lise!”
As Vetrulian shouted for men to protect his wife, she stood upright and held out one hand. A jet of white flame spewed from it, bathing the top of the wall above the gates in hot death. Khaleen recalled hearing about Collise when, in her youth, she had been forced to try and usurp the throne from Besmir, and had burned a number of people in the process.
The army carried on chanting her name as she put her hands on her hips and drew a breath in. Khaleen watched her bend at the waist, power rippling from somewhere inside her to swell her throat and burst out in another ear-shattering scream. Aimed at the gates this time, Khaleen gaped as the tree trunks that had formed the turtle flew up into the gate, smashing through it and throwing them open.
“Charge!” Vetrulian yelled.
Besmir approached the outer door of the dungeon, peering through a small hole that let light in where a knot in the wood had fallen out years ago. With such a poor vantage point, he could only make out the uniformed arm of a soldier on either side of the door. The outer yard stretched away from him, towards the main gate and freedom.
How am I supposed to get there without hurting anyone?
One plan presented itself to the king; he drew himself up, throwing the door open and marching outside into the warm sun.
“Halt!” one of the guards cried.
He looked nervous and uncertain, and Besmir knew he had to take advantage of that.
“Look, lad,” Besmir said, in a kind but firm voice. “I know you’ve been told I’ve done some horrific things, but it’s just not true. Queen Arteera really does sit on the throne back in Morantine, supported by my son, Prince Joranas.
“None of them are dead. Especially not by my hand.” He stared into the younger man’s eyes, watching the guard wanting to believe him.
“Commander Ronistar...”
“Has been manipulated by my daughter,” Besmir said with a little more force. “Tell me this, then: if I’m such a cold-blooded killer, why haven’t I burned you where you stand? Why, if I’m capable of killing my own wife and son, did I go to the lengths of trapping your comrades down there, rather than killing them?”
Besmir looked at the other guard there, an even younger man who looked as if he wanted to be anywhere else, and Besmir gestured to the door. “See for yourself,” he said, stepping to the side.
The younger man looked to his older counterpart, who nodded, before disappearing through the door and down into the bowels of the citadel.
“Lovely day,” Besmir said.
“Yes, Sire,” the guard said.
To his credit, the man did not lower his weapon, nor take his eyes off Besmir’s own, until his colleague returned with the two Besmir had locked up, looking sheepish and embarrassed.
“See?” Besmir spread his hands. “Now I need your help, lads, to save the kingdom!”
He looked at them in turn. “It’s Emmerlin who is the threat. She plans to take the throne from me, and it is she who is a threat to my family.”
“She did have Norris whipped to death,” one of the men said.
“I’m afraid there’s something badly wrong with my daughter,” Besmir said, almost to himself. Sorrow and guilt nagged at him any time he thought of Emmerlin, sorrow at what she had become, and guilt that he had somehow caused her to go this way.
“What do you want us to do, Majesty?”
Besmir clapped the man on the back. “First off, we need to get to Ronistar and undo whatever she’s done to him,” the king said. “Then I need to figure out where Emmerlin is.”
“I overheard her saying they were headed north, Sire,” the youngest of the guards said, reddening at speaking before his king.
Besmir’s stomach felt as if a boulder had been dropped inside it. Arteera! That could be the only reason for her going north — to go back and cause havoc in Morantine!
“How long ago did she leave?” he demanded.
“Th-three days, Sire!” the younger man squeaked in fright.
Bes
mir swore, stalking off towards the main building of the citadel, the four guards following him in a ragged, confused line.
Merdon felt the wind in his hair as Teghime loped along the road towards Port Vartula. The big cat carried both of them tirelessly, despite her age, and the prince revelled in the feeling of Lyeeta pressed against his back, arms wrapped tightly around his waist as they rode.
The sun hung high in the sky as Teghime ran down a hill into a small dip, the road lined with trees. Merdon’s attention was centered on the feeling of the guard’s warm body against his, so he was unprepared for the attack that dragged him from the back of the daasnu.
Something heavy but soft clamped around him, pulling him down to the ground and smashing the wind from his lungs. A scream rang out, and Teghime growled low in her throat.
“Hold!” a voice called out.
Merdon looked through the dust to see a scar-faced man holding Lyeeta by the throat, a dagger to her artery. The prince rose slowly, scanning the area for anyone else. He caught sight of a flash of metal from behind one of the trees lining the road. Someone else coughed from behind him, and he sneered.
Idiots!
“We’ll be taking any gold you have,” Scar-face growled. “Weapons, too.” He nodded to Merdon’s swords.
The prince reached back and drew both swords slowly.
“Come get them,” he said.
“I’ll kill her!” Scar-face shouted.
Merdon shrugged, as if unconcerned. “Plenty more where I got her,” he said casually.
He saw Scar-face’s eyes flick from his face to whoever had coughed behind him and spun, bringing his right-hand sword up. An arrow glanced from the blade, the shaft exploding inches from his face. The bowman gasped at the apparent feat, and Merdon covered his own shock at the luck as he turned back to Scar-face.
“Impossible!” the man growled.
Merdon shrugged again, glancing at Lyeeta, who was watching him with awe on her face. Even so, Merdon saw she had retained her wits enough to be slowly reaching for her sword.
“She’s not dead yet,” Merdon called, hoping to distract the man while Lyeeta armed herself.
“Reconsidered that. I’ll need some distraction later,” Scar-face said with a nasty grin.
Hope this works.
“Why not have her…” Merdon locked eyes with Lyeeta. “Now!”
Lyeeta drew her sword with her left hand, throwing herself backwards as she slashed the blade back and into Scar-face’s head. He yelled and fell back as she twisted from his grip and switched hands, carving into him with her deadly blade.
Merdon spun back to see the archer was drawing his bow again, and threw his right-hand sword at the man, following it as it flew. Piercing the man’s lower belly, the sword sank in deep.
The archer released the bowstring, the arrow whistling off into the air. Merdon reached him and wrenched his sword free, slashing his left-hand sword across the man’s throat in a bloody spray.
Screams of utter fright exploded from the bushes and undergrowth when Teghime leaped in, chasing anyone else hiding there. Merdon saw the trees shiver as she passed, branches snapping with her bulk. The prince scanned the area before him, but could not see anyone else on this side of the road.
He turned and sprinted back to where Lyeeta had her sword buried in Scar-face’s chest, panting hard and swallowing over and over again.
“Lyeeta?” he asked gently.
“I’m sorry,” she said in a half whisper. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
“What for?” Merdon wondered, laying his hand on her shoulder.
As if his touch unlocked something within her, the young guard let go of her sword and turned to him, her hands shaking violently. A loud scream from the trees told him Teghime had found another bandit, but he did not care at the moment. Lyeeta needed him. He took her hands, feeling them shake.
“I-I’ve n-never...n-never...” she tried to explain, glancing back at the man she had killed.
Merdon pulled her into him, wrapping her trembling body in his arms as she howled and begged for forgiveness. Teghime returned from the trees, blood covering her face and paws, to curl up in the dusty road and begin cleaning herself.
Merdon rocked Lyeeta as if she were a child, stroking her back and making soothing noises as she calmed down. “I didn’t mean any of what I said, by the way,” he explained when her breathing had returned to almost normal.
“I know,” she said in a small voice.
“It was just to...”
“I know,” she repeated, pulling back and looking up at him.
Merdon stared into her red eyes, eyes he had come to love over this insane trip they had been on, and saw the pain in them.
“He would have killed you,” he said gently. “Eventually.”
“I know,” she said, turning.
Merdon grabbed her chin and pulled it back so she faced him again. “Don’t look,” he said.
“I have to,” she said. “I killed him, and I need to face that.”
Reluctantly, Merdon released her and watched as she turned to look down at the man who had been alive and holding her not long ago. He had a fresh wound running up his forehead, beginning just above the bridge of his nose and running up and right. His skin had split, and his skull was clearly visible inside where she had lashed back with her sword. Lyeeta gingerly took hold of her sword handle, pulling it out of his chest.
“I could feel his heartbeat,” she said in a sick tone.
Merdon said nothing as she knelt beside the dead man and gently closed his eyes.
Arteera staggered back from whatever her daughter was hammering at her. Something in her chest snapped painfully, stabbing into her with every breath. Emmerlin and Senechul followed her into her sitting room, the big guard still choking Petrena, who flopped like a rag doll in his arms.
Arteera watched as he dumped her maid in a chair and stood by the door, unconcerned whether she was alive or dead. Petrena never moved, and the queen could not see if her chest rose and fell or not.
“Where are all the guards?” Emmerlin asked, running her finger down the side of a sculpture Arteera valued.
“Joined the army,” Arteera panted painfully. “In Waraval.”
“We’re at war with Waraval?” Emmerlin asked, with a little surprise. “What fun!”
“What happened to you, Emmerlin?” Arteera wheezed. “You used to be such a nice, polite young lady.”
“I discovered the joys of torture and murder, Mother,” Emmerlin replied with a chuckle. “It’s … liberating, squeezing the life from a man as he begs for it.” She glanced at the big guard. “Almost as fun as some other things I squeeze from a man.”
Surprise and shock chilled Arteera at her daughter’s casual admission. That she was a murderer, and that she was bedding her guard, showed she had fallen farther from grace than the queen had first thought.
Arteera struggled to her feet, holding her ribs with her left hand and leaning on a chair with her right. She seated herself in her favorite chair and fixed her daughter with a withering look.
“Pitiful,” she spat, filling her voice with contempt. “To think you came from within me, and now you spend your time cavorting with guards and murdering.”
Emmerlin laughed, a derisory sound that brought heat to Arteera’s cheeks. “Oh, Mother, how you amuse me,” Emmerlin said. “With your attempts to make me cross.
“What do you think will happen then?” she asked. “I’ll realize my life has been one huge mistake, and go back to living under your iron rule?”
“What ‘iron rule’?” Arteera demanded with wide eyes. “You could have had the world...”
“I will have the world, mother!” Emmerlin yelled. “On my terms, not as your slave!”
Arteera wondered at her daughter’s words. Had she and Besmir been too hard on the princess? Had his expectations been too high? Yet this business of her being their slave was confusing, and Arteera shook her head.
“I never saw you as a slave,” she muttered. “That’s utter madness.”
Emmerlin walked around to stand before her mother, a look of abject rage on her face. Arteera felt her throat close as if something heavy had been laid on it. Her lungs jerked, trying to take a breath, but there was no chance, and panic started to grip her.
Hold on! Don’t give her the satisfaction.
The queen felt her fingers begin to tingle as she struggled to breathe. Darkness started to creep in at the edges of her vision, and her chest and stomach ached with the effort of trying to draw air into her starved lungs.
“Emmerlin,” Senechul said from the door. “You wanted her alive, remember?”
“I’m not going to kill her yet,” her daughter said, releasing whatever power she had around her throat. “Not quite yet,” she added.
Stepping to Petrena, she slapped and shook the woman until she roused her from her stupor. “You! Fetch my brother and his family, now!”
Petrena rose on shaking legs and tottered towards the door as Arteera shook her head at the terrified woman. Simple and slow, Petrena dashed from the room, and Arteera felt her heart racing at the thought Joranas might become involved.
“You’ll regret this,” Arteera panted. “When your father gets home.”
“My father!” Emmerlin screamed. “The great and powerful King Besmir? What a joke! What’s he going to do, talk me into submission?”
Arteera had no idea where her husband was, what he was doing, or when he might arrive. What she did know, what she had just seen, written plain as day on her daughter’s face, was that Emmerlin was afraid of him.
16
Waravalian troops swarmed inside the gates their queen had shattered with her power. Khaleen stood up in the back of her cart to try and get a better look at their progress. Above the gates, men toiled to extinguish the flames Collise had raked the wall with.
From here, the Gazluthian general could barely see anything that was going on at such a distance, and frustration started to nag at her. Taking care not to pull her stitches, Khaleen stepped gently down from the back of the cart.