A Crimson Frost (11 page)

A lion’s heart beats in his breast

Beneath his rearing dragon crest,

This knight, the one who battled best,

Who from his task did not take rest,

Nor let Crimson Frost o’ercome him.

Monet watched her father, the knights, and the soldiers as the Minstrel Marius sang of “A Crimson Frost.” She thought of the battle of Ballist three years previous, of the enemies slain at Sir Broderick Dougray’s hand, of his own wounds—wounds that caused him to suffer in unconscious darkness long enough for winter’s frost to form over his blood-drenched armor and blade. Yet he awoke—struggled to his feet to defeat ten more foes before the renewed warmth of his body had melted the crimson frost from his armor.

Sir Broderick and his legion had defeated a common enemy of the five kingdoms. He had battled hard—kept evil and harm from finding its way to Karvana’s door. Bruised, broken, and bloodied, Sir Broderick Dougray had returned from Ballist triumphant. Monet would never forget the fear that stabbed her soul as she saw him ride over the drawbridge following the Battle of Ballist, covered in not only the blood of his enemies but in his own as well.

For his triumph at Ballist, King Dacian had bestowed upon Sir Broderick Dougray the title of Blood Warrior of Ballist. Soon thereafter, the people of the
Kingdom
of
Karvana
began telling stories of the Blood Warrior of Ballist—the “Crimson Knight,” they had christened him. Thus, Monet’s father had likewise christened Sir Broderick the Crimson Knight.

Lost in her reverie, it was Marius’s voice—the final verse of “A Crimson Frost”—that whispered hope to her mind.

Thus, ever can Karvana trust

No enemy will ever thrust

His blood or bones of flesh to dust

For her first knight is strong and just

And no Crimson Frost will bind him.

Monet turned to Marius and smiled. Hope had returned to her—somehow. The war would be won, Karvana would be saved, and the Crimson Knight would return—as would her father.

Monet stood atop the keep, long after her father’s white charger and the Crimson Knight’s flag had disappeared over the horizon—long after the legions and knights were gone to battle.

“God protect you,” she whispered on the wind. Monet, the Scarlet Princess of Karvana, turned and made her way into the castle keep.

The Gates of Karvana

One month passed; two more followed. Summer was spent—breathed out as a weary sigh—and without a king at
Karvana
Castle
. No knights sat at King Dacian’s round table of conferring, and the only soldiers to return to Karvana were either dreadfully wounded—or dead. Autumn was yet youthful, but the air owned a change—a cooling of the breezes whispering of harvest nigh and the impending misery of soldiers battling in bitter weather.

As the days continued to wane—the days of war, of not knowing which man had survived battle and which had not—sleep did not come easy nor linger long for Monet of Karvana. Each morning, weary and worn with worry, Monet would hasten to the castle gate. There she would wait for the messenger—for whatever wounded soldier, yet well enough to ride, to arrive with news of the battle. Each day brought sorrow mingled with sinful relief, for with each herald that King Dacian and the Crimson Knight yet lived and lived well, Monet knew a measure of consolation. Heartbroken though she was for the dead soldiers who would soon follow in the death cart—for their families—the sweet balm of knowing the Crimson Knight and her father were well renewed her hope and fortitude of enduring.

Hope and endurance were cached precious to Monet. As she stood on the castle parapet each midday to address the people of Karvana—to herald tidings of the measure of the war with Rothbain—she drew her own courage from the hope given her at her father’s survival, at the formidable stamina and strength of the Crimson Knight. Karvana would be victorious! This she told the people; this she whispered to herself again and again and again. Karvana would be victorious—and soon! The king would return, to rule with wisdom and compassion as he ever had—and with him the Crimson Knight.

Yet eventide thinned Monet’s resolve, for this was when Monet visited the families of whatever soldiers had returned to Karvana in the death cart. As the sun began its setting, veiling the earth in the solicitude borne of dusk, Monet would make her way to the homes of the fallen soldiers of Karvana. Ever her father’s counselors would beg she not go out among the people—beg she dare not venture beyond the castle walls. Still, go she did, for she was driven to them, that the wives and children of Karvana’s fallen heroes might know her heart ached for, and with, their own. Still, the dark heartache of loss—the tears of each wife and child whose beloved protector would no longer hold them warm and safe in his arms—caused a great fear and crushing sorrow to seize Monet’s mind, body, and heart. Thus, sleep did not come easy—nor linger—for Monet of Karvana.

There was no breeze the morning the king was returned. As Monet stood atop the parapet, gazing out toward the north, the flags of
Karvana
Castle
hung listless and still. They would have traveled under the cover of night, as ever they did—the wounded and the dead, and those who carried them.

The sun had risen, a great orange orb bathing the earth in the warmth of early autumn, and Monet had witnessed its waking. Reapers were already harvesting in the fields beyond the village. Monet watched them—and waited. She wondered why the death cart and messengers seemed to tarry, for it was their established habit to break the horizon in the brief moments following the first apricot blush of sunrise. Yet the sun had begun its ascension near an hour before. Thus Monet was discomfited and worrisome.

Yet, of a sudden, in the distance she saw then the approach—a messenger mounted and carrying Karvana’s emerald flag. Her heart was next pierced with anguish as she saw not one but two carts crest the hill north of the village. One cart bore Karvana’s battle banner—an emerald flag with a white wolf bearing teeth. Yet the other cart bore not only Karvana’s flag but also another: the banner of the king, white with King Dacian’s amethyst shield and white stag rearing.

“Father!” Monet gasped as understanding speared her heart.

Monet fled down the steps leading from the parapet. The shouts of her father’s counselors did not slow her, and she ordered the guards at the gate to bid her pass. The outer drawbridge had been lowered in anticipation of the arrival of the death cart and wounded. As Monet rushed its length and ran through the village, even the astonished gasps and exclamations of the people did not diminish her advance.

Breathless and worn, she met the caravan of wounded and dead, tears already streaming plentiful over her cheeks.

“Father!” she cried. “Father!”

“He lives, Princess,” a wounded yet mounted soldier told her as she reached the first cart. “The king lives. He is wounded…but not mortally.”

A whisper of thankful prayer escaped her lips as she reached the second cart to see her father sitting upright—and alive.

“Father!” she sobbed as he smiled at her. He was weary—disturbingly disheveled in appearance. His face, arms, and armor were well marked with the soil and blood of battle, his left leg wrapped with blood-sodden wound dressings.

Careless of propriety or harm to herself, Monet clambered into the wagon. Wary of her father’s wounded leg, she yet threw herself into his welcoming embrace.

“Oh, Father!” she sobbed. “Are you well? Are you indeed well?”

His arms were strong about her, his loving embrace warm and comforting.

“I am well, my dove,” King Dacian said, chuckling, “though somewhat humiliated to have found myself mortal and subject to such a wound as to keep me from battle.”

“I feared Death had claimed you, Father!” Monet cried against her father’s broad shoulder. “I saw the death carts approaching…one with your banner, and I…I thought…” She could not speak for a moment, besieged with relief in her father’s return—his living return.

“I am sorry to have frightened you, Monet,” Dacian said, caressing her tender cheeks. “Yet I am well. I am well.”

Monet shook her head, however. The wound at his leg appeared severe, and she yet feared for his health.

“This looks to be no brier scrape, Father,” she said.

“No. No indeed. Still, it has been well tended. Sir Broderick himself scrubbed the dirt and blood away…stitched the flesh.”

Of a sudden, Monet’s heart swelled. “Sir Broderick is well then?”

King Dacian smiled. “Sir Broderick is well. And I am well for his efforts. Nay…I am alive for his efforts.”

Monet’s lovely brow puckered with inquisition.

“If not for Broderick’s sword…I would surely have returned to you heaped upon the death cart with those who gave their last breath for Karvana,” he said, gesturing to the death cart afore them.

“Then I am thankful your Crimson Knight is so skilled with wounds and stitching.”

King Dacian shook his head. “No. Skilled in seaming flesh though he may be…it was his skill in battle, his master’s wield of a blade, that first delivered my life.”

I will not let Death claim your father, Princess.
The Crimson Knight’s promise echoed through Monet’s mind. Her heart beat mad in her bosom at the very thought of him—at knowing he had kept his promise.

“Tell me of it, Father,” Monet whispered. “Tell me.”

Dacian smiled. The bright resplendence in his daughter’s eyes spoke to his heart, and he caressed her cheek with the back of one hand.

“We were midst battle,” he began. “So many of James’s soldiers were there—seemed to rise from the very mists of morning—and we battled. An enemy fell my horse and I beneath him. One never understands the true measure and weight of a horse till one lies beneath his flank.” He smiled as Monet nodded. “The enemy was upon me—three soldiers of Rothbain…and me trapped beneath my horse. It was certain I was that I would be lost…that I would never again lay eyes on my daughter—the beautiful Scarlet Princess of Karvana.”

Monet took her father’s hand, desperate to feel its warm, to know that life was yet in it—in him.

“And then?” she prompted, for she must hear the whole of it.

“And then he was there—Sir Broderick Dougray…the Crimson Knight of Karvana,” her father continued. “He drew his sword…drew even a second sword from a fallen soldier near where my horse and I were fell. And there he battled o’er me…defending my life…keeping Death at bay. Three Rothbainians he slay there. Wielding two swords, he slay them with seeming ease. Thus I was preserved.”

I will not let Death claim your father, Princess.
Sir Broderick’s words lingered in her heart. She could well see him. In her mind she could see him battling to protect her father’s life—a true and valiant First Knight of Karvana.

“The wound at my leg…as my men endeavored to pull me from beneath my dead mount, another enemy fell upon us, striking hard his blade into my flesh before Sir Broderick fell him beside the others he had slain,” King Dacian explained. “Broderick’s guilt was severe…and it was only my constant assurance he had
not
failed me that eased his mind somewhat at long last. He then scrubbed my wound, stitched and dressed it. I felt able enough…and I did not want to return to Karvana, Monet.”

“You did not wish to leave your men,” Monet said, for it was well she knew her father’s heart.

King Dacian nodded. “To leave them to battle alone…it is not meet with my nature or conscience. Yet my knights were in agreement. James may well think the kingdom weak without a king in the castle. We are battling hard…yet we are not pronouncing victory, Monet. Neither is James. Thus in counsel with the knights of Karvana…it seems sure James of Rothbain will look to more deceitful methods of battle. He may well look to lay siege to Karvana itself. Thus, it is wise to have her king at hand to wage battle for her on her own lands if needs be.”

“You think King James will endeavor to beset the heart of Karvana, Father?” Monet whispered, a wicked fear rising within her.

“James is as low as the serpent slithering through the grasses. He is cowardly. He owns no honor…and he will slink from the battlefields if he cannot easily prove himself victor there. He will endeavor to keep our attention thus fixed upon soldiers crashing blades to the north…while he conjures methods of destruction poised above Karvana’s core. Thus I have returned…to prepare…to send watchmen…to protect our kingdom, Monet.”

Monet frowned. “But if this is true, Father…should not the Crimson—should not the knights of Karvana return? Would not he know more shelter…would not they be needed here?”

Monet was trembling now—trembling at the thought of enemies at Karvana’s gate, at the thought of the villagers being subject to harm. It was sufficiently heinous to have soldiers battling and dying to protect Karvana, but if its people too were to die…

Dacian felt his eyes narrow. He wondered then—was his daughter conscious of her deep reverencing of Sir Broderick? He thought she was not. He thought she was not fully aware that, in each message she had sent to him at the battle encampment, she had inquired after the Crimson Knight’s well-being. He smiled, gratified in the knowledge Karvana’s princess—Karvana’s subsequent queen—would own such respect for a warrior of the kingdom. In this he knew she would rule Karvana well, with esteem for her protectors, wisdom and strength in her decisions, and infinite love and compassion for her citizens.

Dacian, King of Karvana, was assured—assured the demon James of Rothbain would attempt to strike at Karvana’s heart. Further was his assurance strong that the documents of instruction concerning Monet’s ascension to Karvana’s throne—the documents cached to his breast and likewise in the secret compartment in his queen’s tomb—would serve his Karvana well were James to succeed in killing him.

“There are yet legions here, Monet,” her father began, “strong men…strong leaders to lead them. The knights and their legions must defend our northern border, lest a wave of battle far greater spill into Karvana. We must have time to prepare Karvana for battle…or siege.”

Fear filled Monet as it never had before.
Battle
? Siege? Would King James truly battle against Karvana herself? Was he truly so evil as to lay siege to such a great and good kingdom, to cause its people to die of injury, starvation, or disease? What then would be left to rule?

Monet brushed the tears from her cheeks, glancing past her father to the death cart before them.

“How many brave men traveled home in the death cart this day, Father?” she asked.

“One would be too many,” King Dacian said. “And yet today there are ten.”

“I must have the list,” Monet said. “Rider!”

The mounted soldier accompanying the death cart turned his horse—rode to the cart bearing the king.

“Yes, Princess?” he said.

“Pray entrust me with the list of the fallen,” she bade him.

The mounted soldier reached into his tunic and retrieved a parchment. He nodded as he handed it to Monet, and she said, “I thank you, sir.”

“I know you are in habit of consoling the families of the fallen,” King Dacian said. “But you must no longer venture from the safety of the castle, Monet.”

“We cannot let the families of these good men linger in thinking we do not share their pain, Father,” Monet said.

“Of course not. Thus we will send a penned message to each family.”

“A penned message?” Monet exclaimed. “Father! A penned message will not suffice! They must be meet with us…see that we share in their loss. Though we cannot begin to measure their pain, we must offer our gratitude and—”