The Bringer of War

Kate winced when the thorn pierced the soft flesh of her thumb. She placed the bleeding digit in her mouth, silently admonishing herself for picking up the green stems she had pruned from her rose bush without gloves on. The metallic, salty flavor of the blood reminded her that she had not eaten since the previous evening, when she had played Castle with Drakken. The king had taken defeat with good grace, thanked her for her indulgence, and then bid her good night.

It had all seemed quite civil and ordinary, which for some reason made her sick with worry. She had the distinct impression that she was being toyed with, as a cat toys with its prey before finishing it off. After a night of restless, haunted dreams she had risen with the sun. Working in the garden always centered her. The plants did not care if she could not remember the Lord of Cavendish’s wife’s birthday, nor that she was wearing trousers and had eschewed make up. She felt a pang of guilt when she realized that, without her father in the manor, she was largely free to dress as she wished.

She stood up, collecting the stems carefully. The sound of booted feet approaching caused her gaze to snap upwards sharply. Kate’s stomach twisted into knots when she saw Quinn striding arrogantly her way, flanked by two members of the watch. Quinn had recently shaven, his face as bald as his head. His garments were of rich blue velvet, and she noticed his sword now hung in a new scabbard. The three of them stopped before her, and Quinn’s face broke into a wide smile.

“Can I help you, Quinn?” said Kate, refusing to be cowed.

“Lord Quinn,” he said, as if correcting a child. “His majesty King Ludwig von Drakken wishes for you to attend him in the castle...immediately.”

“Very well,” said Kate, striving to keep her hands from shaking as she placed the thorny stems in a tin bucket. She allowed herself to be escorted from the garden, feeling light headed and scared beyond belief. For the most part, she was able to keep it from showing on her face.

She was led to a coach, an opulent one used by the king himself. The wood had been painted a deep purple, nearly black, and the brass fastenings had been polished to a gleaming shine. A pair of horses with fur that was sleek and dark as midnight pulled them towards the castle. Kate rode silently, studiously ignoring Quinn’s frequent snide comments.

Kate eschewed the lord’s hand when exiting the coach, grateful that she was wearing trousers and did not have to worry about tripping over a gown. She briefly wondered if the reason men preferred women in such unpractical clothing was to make them more dependent, but the thought flew from her mind when she was led not towards the throne room, but down the stairs to the lower levels of the castle.

“Where is his majesty receiving me this day?” said Kate as casually as she could.

“Why,” said Quinn, his eyes saying he was enjoying every second of her torment “in the dungeon, my lady.”

“Did he say why he wished to meet down there?” said Kate, unable to keep her voice from wavering.

“He did not divulge it to me, lady,” said Quinn, though his smile left little doubt of what he suspected.

They went down the spiral staircase, the air growing cooler as the descended. Torches blazed in every iron sconce, though the pattern of ashes on the floor seemed to indicate they usually only lit every other one. The smoke stung her nostrils, making her eyes water. Quinn saw the display and guessed wrongly that she was being overcome with fear.

“There, there, my lady” he said mockingly “surely you have nothing to fear. It is not as if you have moved against the king, or had a hand in your father’s escape, is it?”

Kate felt her fear melt away before her rising anger. She stopped on the stairs and turned to face Quinn, brown eyes blazing with passion.

“I have had enough of you, Quinn,” she said harshly, though she did not raise her voice “your smug speech, your over reliance on perfume, and most especially the way you seem to think you have gotten the better of me.”

“Haven’t I, my lady?” said Quinn, his smile fading. “This may be the worst day of your life.”

“Perhaps,” said Kate, her eyes narrowing “but your day is just beginning as well, Quinn.”

“Lord Quinn,” he said, which in her eyes was a surrender. She turned about and began walking back down the stairs, much to the relief of the guards accompanying them.

They at last reached the bottom of the staircase. The air was musty, heavy with the suffering of the poor souls who had seen its walls. Kate nearly fainted in spite of herself when a long, agonized scream reached her ears. Quinn grabbed her by the arm to steady her, but she flung his hand away with a sneer on her face.

They stopped before an arched door of solid, thick oak. A window was about halfway up its surface, covered by three thick iron bars. She could just make out figures moving within the room through the bars, and the scream came again. Quinn swung the door open wide, and a scene out of a nightmare was before her.

There, strapped to a wooden rack, was the burly bear of a man who had put her in contact with the Roach. His arms were pulled to a ghastly length, clearly pulled from their sockets. Half of his face was covered in blood, a streak running from his empty left eye socket down his neck. Drakken stood nearby, wearing a thick leather apron over his regal robes. He had his back to the door, and did not seem to notice their arrival. Using a pair of long handled tongs, Drakken extracted a red hot coal from a brazier over a blazing fire. He pulled open the man’s trousers at the waist and placed it over his groin. The barkeep screamed again, more so when the king closed up the pants and laced them tight.

“Oops,” said Drakken as the coal burned through the man’s pants and hit the floor. “Well, I thought that would work. Maybe I can get the blacksmith to rig up some iron pants that will hold the coals right on his manhood...”

The king put his chin in his hand as if deeply considering the notion. He glanced over at the door and a wide smile spread on his face.

“Lady Kate,” he said, taking off his leather gloves and striding towards her. “So sorry we had to meet under these circumstances, but there is something I want you to hear. Do you know this man?”

“No, my king,” said Kate, her eyes wide. The barkeep looked up at her with his remaining eye through a haze of pain. She thought she saw a glimmer of recognition, but it was hard to tell.

“Of course you do not,” said Drakken “he is a knave, a criminal, and you keep better company. It turns out this man is an associate of one Roach, who I am sure you have heard of but never met.”

“He is known to me,” said Kate, hoping her use of the wrong pronoun would cast her in a better light. “Though I thought him a legend.”

“Oh, the Roach is real enough,” said Drakken “we have turned a blind eye to the activities that the Roach has engaged in until now, but that may have to change.”

Drakken approached the barkeep, who whimpered like a whipped cur. The king began to gently stroke his face, adopting a comforting tone.

“Peace,” he said “Peace, man. I only want you to tell her what you said when first asked who hired the Roach to free Lord Mannix. The first time.”

“It was,” said the man, his voice breaking “it was Lady Katherine, sire.”

Kate’s heart caught in her throat. Quinn strode beside her and seized her bicep, perhaps to steady her or perhaps to keep her from fleeing the cell.

“Don’t worry,” said Drakken, grinning at Kate “I know it was a lie. You were lying, where you not, sir?”

The man looked up at Drakken, fear and pain writ large on his savaged face.

“Yes,” he said.

“And who,” said Drakken “was it who not only hired you, but bade you speak ill of lady Kate if questioned?”

“It was him,” said the barkeep, trying to nod at Quinn “Lord Quinn. Lord Quinn bade me do these terrible things.”

“What?” said Quinn, shock spreading across his neatly shaven face. The two guards grabbed him by the arms and began to drag him towards a second, waiting table.

“Traitorous dog,” said Drakken, shaking his head “and I thought you’d be happy with the lands that were returned to you. You had to try and seize the Mannix estate as well.”

“Lies!” screamed Quinn. “You know it was her, your grace! You know it was her!”

The former first sword of house Mannix was unable to draw his blade before he was soundly lashed down to the table. He put up a terrific struggle, but the guards holding him were thick and burly, and used to dealing with desperate men.

“Now,” said Drakken “a true noble would never stand for such a slight. Are you a true noble, Lady Katherine?”

“Yes,” said Kate, feeling a bit of sympathy for Quinn in spite of herself.

She flinched when Drakken drew a wicked looking knife from a wall of terrible instruments. He strode over to her and turned it about, handing it to her hilt first.

“Then prove it,” he said in a hiss “prove to me that you are not only worthy of being noble, but of being my queen. Be the hand of justice, Katherine.”

Kate’s hand trembled as it closed on the knife handle. She knew what was happening, without a shadow of doubt. Drakken knew the truth, but was making it seem otherwise, and she was about to be party to the murder of a man who, if not wholly innocent, was at least devoid of guilt for the crime for which he had been condemned.

She walked slowly over to where Quinn lay chained to the table. Her feet felt like lead weights, her body like she was dragging it through water. Kate did not even like to kill spiders. She used a sheaf of paper or a shoe to flick them out the window, and welcomed them in her garden. Now she was to kill a man, to take away everything he had and everything he would ever have.

Kate could feel Drakken’s eyes boring into her back as she raised the knife high. She looked into Quinn’s eyes, saw the unmitigated terror, and felt sick. The knife began to tremble, then to dip, until it was clattering to the floor from her numb fingers.

“I cannot,” said Kate.

“I think you can,” said Drakken. She felt him looming behind her, his breath hot on her neck. “You think yourself better than me, but you are not. When we played our game last night, and fooled me into sacrificing my Dragon, you proved your devious cunning. You are a survivor, Katherine. We all are. When the time comes, we will always do what is best for ourselves, no matter what morality says. If you will not kill this man for your father, do it for yourself. Do it, and I will forget your little transgression.”

Kate gasped, her eyes squeezing tightly shut.

“I may even neglect trying to capture your father,” he went on, sweetening the pot “after all, half the nobles in the kingdom saw me best him, and many believe he drowned anyway. He is no threat to me.”

Kate shook her head, and moaned softly.

“Please,” she said “do not ask this of me, ask me anything else, anything..”

“It must be this way, Katherine,” said Mannix, bending low to pick up the knife. He took her limp hand in his own and folded her fingers over the hilt. “Remember, he plied you with honeyed words, made you think you were special to him, all to lower your guard. He betrayed your father, after Mannix took a chance on him. Betrayed him. Betrayal can never be forgiven. Never.”

He moved his mouth close to her ear, his lips lightly brushing her skin.

“Never...” he repeated in a whisper.

Something about his tone, or his manner, seemed to incite Kate. Her eyes narrowed in sudden fury, and she felt the hot rage boiling up in her chest. A thousand times since her father’s arrest, she had dreamed of doing violence to Quinn, of making him pay. Drakken was right. He had made her feel special. But it was all a lie.

“LIAR!” she screamed, and plunged the knife into his right eye. Quinn screamed as the blade entered, but his voice trailed off quickly. His remaining eye stared blankly at the ceiling, his chest no longer rising. Still Kate did not relent. She kept stabbing with the knife, even after the blade snapped in half on his jawbone. She plunged the broken blade into his pulpy mass of flesh, making him look like meat ground for sausage.

Kate left the knife sticking out of Quinn’s ruined face, and took a step back, panting heavily. She had blood spattered all over her face and gardening clothes, but the truly gruesome sight was her expression. The noble lady appeared all the world as if she wished Quinn would rise from his grave so she might kill him again.

Behind her, Drakken smiled. The guards were disturbed by the sight they had just witnessed in spite of themselves, one of them even becoming sick. Kate felt herself being turned about gently by Drakken’s hand on her shoulder. She faced him, still full of rage, but his eyes seemed to calm her.

“Well done,” he said “well done indeed.”

Drakken slowly sank to one knee, drawing a quizzical look from Kate’s bloody face. He took her hand in his own, unmindful of the red gore smeared upon it. His lips gently kissed the back of her hand.

“Lady Katherine of Mannix,” he said “will you be my Queen?”

Kate looked down at him, wondering why she had ever borne him such hate. He seemed so reasonable, so wise to her now. He could have slain her father a hundred times but had not. Who knew, perhaps her father might even be pardoned. And Drakken would not live forever...

“Yes,” she said numbly, her eyes almost trance like. “Yes, my King.”

** *

Bruno mashed his lips into Aven’s craning his neck as she was in her true form an a foot taller then he. She returned the kiss passionately, stealing his breath and making him feel invincible all at once. The summer sun was just setting, casting subtle red light over them. A good distance away their companions tried largely to ignore the display, except for Kira, who appeared quite curious.

“You can do that to me forever, beloved,” said Aven when they paused to gaze into each other’s eyes.

“Aye,” he said “I will...” he said something very low that she could not quite make out.

“What was that?” she said.

“I said I will,” said Bruno.

“No,” said Aven, squeezing his muscular shoulders “after that.”

“Oh,” said Bruno, looking abashed “...beloved.”

Aven’s face spread in a wide smile, her green eyes twinkling with pure delight. She kissed him again, and they engaged in a fiery embrace.

“Stop, sir knight,” she said a moment later, pushing him away gently “there are children watching us.”

“They have to learn some day,” said Bruno, which elicited a girlish giggle from her. Aven’s expression grew serious.

“What if this is the last time we see each other?” she said.

“It will not be,” said Bruno. “Have faith.”

“In the Allfather?” she said incredulously.

“No,” said Bruno “in me, and yourself for that matter. Believe in who we are and what we are doing and everything will turn out in the end.”

“I wish I was so sure,” she said “take care, beloved, and know that my soul is always with you.”

Aven turned about and flew while she still could, because she knew if she stared into his eyes a moment longer she could not bear to be parted. Bruno’s hand clutched at the air in her wake, but he might as well have been trying to catch a dream.

He smiled grimly. Perhaps he was.

“Are you prepared, good knight?” said Crown as he returned to his companions.

“Aye,” he said, a bit somberly. “You and I go to these secret passages you claim to know like the back of your hand, she goes to try and rally her folk to our cause.”

“And we,” said Hector with a tinge of bitterness “cower in the forest outside Fort Drakken.”

“Come here, boy,” said Bruno, his eyes narrowing. He took Hector off a dozen paces from the rest of their mates. The squire felt as if he might be in store for another thrashing, but Bruno surprised him by fixing him with a somber gaze.

“You have a very important task, bo-Hector,” he said in a low voice “the girl is...troubling. She bears watching.”

“Kira?” said Hector with a frown, turning to regard the Jindi girl “what’s wrong with her? She is strange, and quiet, but she’s been through a lot.”

“Black magic hangs about her like a haze,” said Bruno “keep her on a noble path, will you? Keep her from giving in to the darkness.”

“Sir Bruno,” said Hector after swallowing hard “you sound as if you plan never to return.”

“The way is dangerous,” said Bruno with a grim nod “but have you ever known me to risk my life unless there was at least a meager chance for success?”

“Are our chances meager?” said Hector.

“A meager chance is still a chance, squire,” said Bruno “but if the worst should happen...you must fulfill the Thirteenth Duty. You will be the last Templar, squire, or at least the last Templar who remains uncorrupted.”

“I’m no hero,” said Hector, spreading his arms “my family brews liquors! We were hunting for hops while other noble families were hunting for Sun People during the Amber wars...no offense.”

“Hero is a word applied by others,” said Bruno “what matters is what you think of yourself. Don’t be a hero. Be a man. A man who wins.”

Bruno took Hector’s hand in his own and clasped it.

“I am very proud of you, boy,” he said “as proud as if you were my own son. You are wiser than you know, and stronger than you believe. Look after the girl, Hector. Look after her.”

Bruno turned from him and joined Crown. The assassin was checking the hooves of his sable mare, using a dagger to dig out stones. He straightened up when the knight strode over, fixing him with a sly smile.

“What is so amusing, assassin?” said Bruno grimly. “Planning to betray me now that only one pair of eyes watches you?”

“Of course not,” said Crown “how could I, with Allison’s hex upon me? I was simply thinking that it must be nice to have people to care about, and who care about you.”

Bruno turned his head to the side and fixed the assassin with an incredulous stare.

“Truly?” he said sarcastically.

“Yes,” said Crown without a trace of irony. “My profession is a lonely one, Bruno. We assassins have a saying; “Friend is a temporary title.” There are times, however, when I regret that, if I should fall dead tomorrow, there will be no one who grieves.”

“Come now,” said Bruno “there must be someone in all the world.”

“None living, I am afraid,” said Crown.

The knight mounted his chestnut mare and stroked her mane for a moment. He cast one last glance first to the north, where Aven had disappeared into the forest, and then to the south, where Hector was leading his mare by the reigns. Kira sat upon its back, stroking the fur of Midnight who was nestled in front of her. Guthrie and Toad saluted him before turning to follow Hector.

“Let’s be about it, then,” he said simply, spurring his mount into a gallop. Crown followed, envy tinging his gray eyed gaze.