Stolen Crown

by Shawn Wickersheim

  So, with little to do but pass on orders, Gylfalen watched the rioters advance. Their intention was to march straight through the Gyunwarian district, wiping out all the foreigners they found along the way before regrouping back at the warehouse in Motre-liare’. Phase Two of Lord Ragget’s plans would include an attack on the Belyne Military Academy and once that was under Yordician control the Loyalists would continue westward butchering the fleeing Gyunwarians as they made their way across the country to the border.

  Gylfalen looked forward to the purging. It would mean a week or two of convalescing while doing little more than sailing the skies in his airship and acting as a scout. The chest wound Captain Caleachey had inflicted on him had continued to ooze, in part he feared because the captain’s sword had pierced his magical handkerchief before penetrating his body. The unfortunate strike had somehow linked the handkerchief to his wound and now instead of expanding into a rug and carrying tons of stolen goods for him, the handkerchief seemed only interested in holding one thing. His blood.

  Hopefully the week or two of rest would be enough time for him to restore his strength and allow him to try to sever the connection. If that didn’t work, he might be forced to sail home and seek the aid of his family.

  The mere thought of that made him sweat.

  Deciding to push forward and not dwell on the prospects of a family reunion, Gylfalen checked the location of the sun. Soon it would be noon and Ian’s execution would begin. He wished he could watch the ambassador’s final moments; after spying on him for the past few months, it seemed only fitting for him to watch his ending too, but Lord Ragget’s orders were to be obeyed.

  For a little while longer, at least.

  The rioters gained the center of the district. It was a square, tree-lined park and on the weekends, it would fill with musicians and jugglers and entertainers of all kinds. It was empty of joy now. As the square filled with bloody-faced butchers, the row of businesses behind them began to burn. The fire spread quickly and soon a wall of heat drove the rioters forward.

  Except this time, a line of buildings directly ahead of them burst into flames too. Gylfalen sat up straight and winced. Had one of those crazy fire mages down there gotten a bit ahead of himself? He shook his head at the lack of discipline on display. Idiots! He had no patience for stupid mages. Especially stupid fire mages. All they want to do was watch things burn. Often, it seemed, they forgot that not everyone was immune to fire!

  The mob swung east looking to flank the fire. Another line of flames erupted directly in front of them and forced them other way. “Run!” Gylfalen shouted down to them, realizing what was happening. “Run for your lives!”

  A few of the smarter ones figured it out too, but by then, it was too late. Homes and businesses along the western side of the Square exploded too. Rioters nearest the blast were thrown off their feet.

  Gylfalen looked down at the great ring of fire encircling the Ragget Loyalists and the detail of royal wardens. Dammit! He jumped to his feet and winced. The chest wound was not just oozing, it was throbbing too. Dammit, what was causing this additional pain?

  He summoned a breeze, but after a moment’s thought, he dismissed it. He could probably fly in and spirit a few of the rioters away, but the rest would still be trapped and if he weren’t careful, his winds would only fan the flames and make matters worse. Or if too many grabbed onto his sleeves, he wouldn’t be able to create enough lift and he’d be trapped down there with them too.

  Gylfalen sneered. He would NOT die by fire today!

  Scores of brown-haired Gyunwarians filed out of the buildings outside the ring of fire. They didn’t shout for joy, or toss off congratulatory statements, or even taunt the trapped Yordicians. They simply formed up into lines and loosed volley after volley of arrows into the lot of them.

  Through the hazy curtain of smoke rising from the Square, Gylfalen watched the Yordicians die by the hundreds. Perhaps he could have summoned the winds and blown the arrows off target, but to what purpose? The men inside the ring were doomed either way. It was more merciful to allow the Gyunwarians their swift victory. Those Yordicians who weren’t killed by arrows would suffer a more painful death once the hungry fires found them.

  With the rioters lost, Gylfalen diverted his attention to the Annachie River. The dead Gyunwarian sewer rats ought to be floating downstream anytime now. He put a hand to his feverishly hot brow and shielded his eyes from the sun. There was something out there in the water . . .

  More than just one thing. Many things. Bodies. Dozens of them. Hundreds of them.

  And most of them had yellow hair!

  If not for the building pain radiating from his chest, up his neck and down his left arm, Gylfalen would have laughed. Lord Ragget’s great plans were falling apart, fraying at the edges. The pompous lord had always been so sure of his success, so positive his schemes would work flawlessly, and when they didn’t, he always assigned blame to someone else.

  No doubt, he’d try to pin this fiasco on Captain Straegar . . . or Amarias . . . or . . .

  Gylfalen clutched at his oozing chest wound as his line of thinking turned to . . . him. Would Lord Ragget somehow blame him for this failure? With the communication discs gone, the passing of orders and requests and messages all went through him. His injury and continued pain had limited his abilities. Had he missed an important summons? Had he overlooked a crucial message?

  Did it matter? Lord Ragget would assign blame wherever he could and Gylfalen feared he would be targeted next.

  A horn blast intruded on his grim thoughts and sent another sharp stabbing pain through his chest. Gylfalen gnashed his pointy teeth. The Gyunwarians below gathered on the west side of the ring of fire and proceeded to quick march north toward Tower Square. It was nearly noon. They would have to hurry if they had any hopes of saving their ambassador.

  Gylfalen wiped the thick sheen of sweat from his brow and blinked away the dark spots in front of his eyes. He needed to rest, but there was no time. He summoned a carrying wind and impatiently waited for it to gather around him. Should he fly to Lord Ragget’s side and warn him about this new development or hang back and let the Yordician lord handle it on his own? Gylfalen grimaced. Neither scenario would play out well for him.

  He spread his arms wide. His entire left side felt like it was on fire. “Come . . .” Gods! His heart felt like it was on fire too. And then there was that overpowering stench, like . . . like . . . manure and rotting vegetation. Gods! It smelled like some perverted earthen magic at work. He sniffed. Was that horrid odor coming from him?

  “Come . . . to me . . .” he slurred.

  Gylfalen leapt off the roof and fell like a stone.

  chapter 25

  Lumist waited until after Kylpin, Josephine, Philson and Garett had left to gather weapons and a carriage before he climbed slowly to his feet and shuffled toward the door.

  “Where are you going?” Theodora called after him.

  “I can’t stay. Ian needs me.”

  “You were on death’s door yesterday-”

  “I owe him my life.”

  “You owe me dinner and dancing.”

  “I know, my sweet savior . . . but this is something I must do first.”

  “There’s nothing you can do that those others can’t try.”

  “Actually . . .” He blew her a kiss goodbye. “I think there is.”

  chapter 26

  When the carillon bells sounded across the city, Arthyr Bailey, the unofficial mayor of Lower Ryerton and his force of five hundred Gyunwarian men and women were still a couple of miles from Tower Square. He had hoped for half that distance and twice that number, but many were lost in last night’s two battles; one above ground in Little Ryerton and one below ground in Lower Ryerton. The Yordician militia had thought to catch them unaware, but Mort the Scout had given them just enough of an advanced warning for them to set their ambush. Once the battle in the sewers had finished, Arthyr and his survivors had come topside
just in time to help turn the tide in Little Ryerton.

  The slaughter in the square had been a real morale boost for the above-grounders. They had sustained heavy losses early on what with the rioters firing the entire northern half of their district. As an under-grounder, Arthyr understood what that kind of loss felt like. Poor bastards.

  His counter-part from the above-grounder’s force, a thin fellow by the name of Kipper, had lost three fingers during the night’s fight. A raggedy bandage had been hastily wrapped around his left hand and he was chewing on something green. Probably Campornil. Even the under-grounders knew about the pain-soother. Some had lost everything just chasing after their next chew. In his opinion, the weed tasted like crap.

  “Is this it?” Arthyr asked Kipper as the under and over-grounders met on the west side of the burning square.

  “Most of the old, young and sick fled the city yesterday after the verdict came down,” Kipper said.

  “Sham of a verdict,” Arthyr snarled. “Damn bastards.”

  “Damn bastards,” Kipper agreed. “Your man William said you have a ship waiting?”

  “Yeah. It’s my brother, Mick’s ship. Mick One-Hand Bailey. You heard of him?”

  Kipper nodded.

  “After we hit Tower Square and rescue the Ambassador we make for the docks. Pier twenty-one. Once the Ambassador is safe on board, Mick’s leaving Belyne for good. Don’t be late.”

  Kipper poked Arthyr in the belly. “Speak for yourself.”

  As the bells tolled, Arthyr broke into a jog. Before losing everything and becoming an under-grounder, he had been a very fat man. Only the largest horses could carry him, and he’d needed a special crane just to get him in the saddle. Now, after a year of living below ground, he was still big, but for the first time in years, he could see his pecker when he pissed.

  And he could move faster than a waddle.

  The five hundred Gyunwarians fell into step behind him. Kipper on his left. Mort the Scout and William on his right. With each block, the bells sounded louder and then they stopped tolling and were replaced by the noise of a roaring crowd. Adrenaline surged through him and his pace quickened. Dead ahead now stood the bell tower and the screaming Yordicians and a hastily constructed checkpoint.

  Six large wooden barrels blocked half the road and a dozen royal wardens manning a wooden barricade obstructed the other half. Confident his five hundred would easily overwhelm the twelve; Arthyr raised his scavenged iron bar over his head and swung it forward. “To the Ambassador!” he shouted.

  The five hundred charged. The twelve wardens stood their ground. It made no sense.

  The six barrels burst open. Wood debris scattered across the road. Arthyr’s steps faltered. Where the six barrels had been now stood six . . . Arthyr’s brain faltered along with his feet. In the momentary blankness that followed, the word ‘monster’ was the only one that surfaced.

  The monsters unfurled and straightened and grew in height until they stood nearly nine feet tall. Beneath their black metal visors glowed two murky-white orbs. When one of the monsters turned its helmeted head and stared in his general direction, Arthyr’s knees weakened further. He was going to fall . . . and if he did, he feared he’d be trampled by his own men!

  The six monsters leapt forward, landing lightly on their powerful hind legs. Great steel claws tore into the cobblestone street. More steel claws extended from their outstretched hands. Arthyr fought to keep his balance, to keep his feet beneath him. His hands were suddenly sweaty. His bladder felt so full!

  A cry erupted from the crowd behind the monsters. For a split second, Arthyr’s attention was pulled toward the raised platform at the far end of the square. A dark-haired man in chains hung from a pair of wooden posts. Another dark-haired man approached him from behind. Sunlight reflected on a knife in his hands.

  Were they too late?

  From somewhere deep inside, Arthyr felt a primal urge well up. He opened his mouth and an old battle-cry spewed out. “GY-WA!”

  It was echoed by five hundred frenzied voices behind him.

  And then the blood took him, and he ran headlong toward the wall of keening monsters screaming like a mad man.

  One simple order.

  Kill brown-hairs.

  Claws slashed through flesh. Brown-hairs bled. Slashed again. Brown-hairs fell. More brown-hairs identified. More brown-hairs all around.

  One simple order.

  Kill brown-hairs.

  Spinning maneuver. Claws extended. Mists of blood. Flesh parted. Bones broke. Screams. Endless screams. Always moving. Seeking. Finding brown-hairs. Killing brown-hairs.

  Pain.

  Remembered pain.

  Born in pain.

  Find source of pain.

  Turn around. Pain remained behind.

  Turn again. More pain.

  Brown-hairs screamed. Angry screams.

  One simple order.

  Kill brown-hairs.

  Using the iron bar protruding from the monster’s back as a perch, Arthyr Bailey reached up, hooked his fingers under the metal visor and with a mighty yell, pulled. The monster keened sharply and swatted a bloody claw at him. Arthyr ducked the blow and tried again. Teeth gritting, veins in his forehead popping, heartbeat thundering in his ears, Arthyr wrenched the entire helmet off. The damn thing was heavy, but he was still in the throes of the blood. Without thinking, he shoved his fist into the helmet and used it to bash the monster’s unprotected skull repeatedly until there was a loud crack and the monster dropped to its knees. Other Gyunwarians poured over the creature, some stabbing, some hacking, and others just kicking. Arthyr jumped down, landed awkwardly, slipped on the bloody cobblestones. Straightening, he found himself face to face with another monster. Claws swung around fast. Arthyr raised his helmet-protected fist. The air around him filled with the angry shriek of metal striking metal. The force of the blow knocked him sideways. He hit a building and sank to his knees. The helmet landed next to him spinning slowly. A shadow fell over him. Arthyr grabbed the helmet. The monster keened and drew an arm back for a killing stroke. Arthyr yanked the helmet on over his head as he scrambled to his feet.

  He was Gyunwarian. He would not die on his knees!

  The monster peered down at him unmoved, pale orbs glowing.

  And then with a faint keen, the monster turned away and found another battle to join.

  Though confused by his odd stroke of good luck, Arthyr wasn’t going to let this second chance to save his ambassador go to waste. He grabbed the nearest weapon he could find, it was only a small knife, and pushed forward into the rear of the crowd. Hundreds of angry Yordicians stood between him and the platform, but he wasn’t going to stop until something stopped him.

  “To the Ambassador!” he shouted again, hoping he wasn’t speaking to himself.

  The answering cry gave him a glimmer of hope.

  Chapter 27

  Red.

  His entire world was red. Red sky. Red ground. Red faces screaming red words.

  Red metal chains bit into his red wrists.

  Big red teeth gnawed on his bright crimson red back. Sharp red teeth tore into his red, bloody-red back!

  The red became too red, so red his eyes burned red, and then, his red world turned black. Black was comforting. Black was soothing. After all the red, he welcomed the black.

  But then, a loud thump crashed into his cool black world and turned it red hot red again. He wanted to scream his own red words, but he couldn’t. Not yet.

  The Red Creator had told him he only had to say four words. Say the four words and I’ll make the red stop. Say the four words and I’ll make everything black. Forever.

  He wanted the black world now. Wanted it so very badly.

  But something deep inside him kept him from saying those four words.

  The four words were a lie.

  But it was more than that. The four words would give the other man power.

  The other man. He couldn’t remember the other man�
�s name anymore. He only knew he existed and he wanted those four words. Needed those four words.

  He wouldn’t do it! No matter how red the world got, he wouldn’t do it.

  Eventually the red would burn too hot and he’d be gone. He’d pass into the black world never to come back to the red.

  He’d take those four words with him.

  A red line of fire ignited across his brow.

  “I killed the king!”

  Those were the four words!

  His world was so red, but he was certain he didn’t say them!

  “Stop! This man is innocent! I killed the king!”

  There were those words again. No! He wanted to shout. Don’t say them! Don’t give the other man the power he wants!

  But he couldn’t shout the warning because his mouth was red too.

  Red because his red lips were sewn shut.

  chapter 28

  With one quick swipe, Stephano Di Rygazzo carved a line across the top of Ian’s forehead. Blood poured down his face and into his eyes. Just a firm yank and he’d scalp the man. It was a technique he’d learned from a Euclacian warrior many years ago and it was always a crowd pleaser.

  “I killed the king!”

  Di Rygazzo hesitated. For so many hours he had worked to get those four words out of this man . . . and yet now . . . had someone else said them?

  He searched the crowd. A sea of yellow-haired men and women all screaming for blood stared back at him. Perhaps after so many centuries, his mind was playing tricks on him.

  He tightened his grip on Ian’s hair. The top flap of skin was going to come off!

  “Stop! This man is innocent! I killed the king!”

  Di Rygazzo straightened. This time he was sure he’d heard the words.

  And so did others.

  The sea of yellow parted revealing a lone figure standing only a few yards away. He pushed his hood back.

  Sir Lumist Tunney.