Authors: S. E. Zbasnik,Sabrina Zbasnik
The King's Blood (2 page)
"Tell the Story!"
A specter watched from the midst of the ruckus as a small man who couldn't have gotten dressed in the light was pulled into the room and forced upon the box the bear juggler previously evacuated. The Bard, in a pair of polka dot and bile green striped pants, slipped a bit in the blood and smiled like the canary that caught the cat.
Invisible the way only a servant can be when all who need serving are to the point they aren't even certain if they require air anymore, Ciara sighed loudly to herself. "Not this one again."
But of course, it was this one again. It was the only one the Bard knew outside of "Teeny Weensy Arachnid" and "Shine and Pine Little Star."
"I Sing the Song of Casamir,
He Came From The Land
Of Frost and Snow
To Bring the Dragon's End."
But the crowd was much less discerning than Ciara and erupted into applause, some already mouthing the words along with the Bard. There wasn't a babe born to the northern kingdoms who didn't know the entire tale of Casamir, Dragon Slayer, Might Legend, and local boy.
"His Beard, How Mighty
His Enemies How Charred.
His Appetite So Powerful,
His Sword How Hard.
(Insert waggle of eyebrows here)."
She suspected that the eyebrow waggle part wasn't supposed to be spoken aloud, but it became such an integral part of the song one Bard who dared to leave it out was tossed to the wolves. This was done in the middle of the town square so he mostly got up, dusted himself off, and went back to the bar, but the message was clear. It was no Song of Casamir without including every single stage direction.
Ciara lowered her ewer, the good metal one with the rose emblem that was a trap for wine residue, and turned to look upon the Royal Guests who took up most of all of her and the other servants duties. The King was tapping his foot wildly, his feet the only ones around the tables bagged in just hardened leather. Being a trueborn Ostero, the cold winds creeping off the mountains were little more than late summer breezes. He'd left his ermine and velvet back at his main castle in parts of the map Ciara never paid any heed to.
Instead, he favored light linens, still embroidered with delicate gold stitching of the Ostero's long adopted symbol, the Dragon's head locked eternally in a block of ice. The woman beside him; however, refused to give up her hard won trappings despite the arduous miles and summer months lost canvassing across the remaining free lands of Arda.
Despite being closer to the ever creeping hand of the "Empire" and their church, the war was never felt in the small hold of Astern wedged securely within the mountains. Lord Albrant would often laugh and dare the Emperor's army to try and cross the treacherous falls of the Caddatch southern arm or risk the mighty Ostero army's swords at the pass.
Her father; however, always wondered quietly at night, when he believed he was alone, whether the army couldn't simply come down through the neutral Northern Pass. But he never brought that concern up with his Lord. He never brought much of anything up with anyone for fear of shaking the keep.
"For Lo, When All Seemed Lost,
Casamir Raised His Swords
Calling To Argur To Guide Him
He Sliced Through All Ten Lords!"
The crowd's cries of joys turned to rage, the Bard realizing he'd dropped a verse. He tried to dodge some tossed mugs, the few ceramic ones shattering upon the floor while a leather one slapped across his face. Mumbling, he tried to dance away as though he hadn't forgotten this was Scepticar country and any mention of that heathen god was a sure way to meet your kidneys.
"Ah, And With That False God's Help
He, uh, um, Did Trick the Trickster
And Grinning Widely as the Moon
Argur's Lords He Did Murder!"
He wiped his brow after that quick improv, but the crowd barely noticed, erupting into wild applause, some calling for a verse encore while others repeated it loudly from the back. Nothing got the drunken knights going like some good ol' god bashing.
Ciara, still watching the rhymer in shredded tights dancing for having escaped the noose, stepped back right onto a hardened leather shoe. A small cry erupted from behind and she spun into the tranquil lake eyes of the crowned prince. Though a storm brewed behind the lake as he realized just what impeded him.
Her peers beneath the stairs had been all atwitter over Henrik. They'd swoon over his dusty hair, flopped boyishly over one side. Whisper behind their hands about the way his form filled out a jerkin nicely. And, when they were certain mistress Bralda wasn't listening, go into nearly anatomical detail about the contents of his codpiece.
He was what people pictured when they thought of Princes rescuing various damsels who get themselves into incredibly stupid predicaments from their parents refusing to invite Dragons to afternoon tea. And she'd just trod all over him.
"I'm so sorry Milord, I was being clumsy. I, uh," she stammered worse than the Bard, who was now waving his arms around, trying to get the crowd to chant his fictional verse in waves.
The royal sapphires glared down, at first seeing servants as little more than walking furniture, but then he took in the darkness upon her skin highlighted by the pale tans of her dress and shawl. The storm passed and sunny skies peeked out from behind his eyes, "It's quite all right, my Lady. I'm afraid my foot has a terrible tendency to go where it wishes without my consideration."
Henrik bowed deeply, his eyes flickering up to watch his father and not mother enraptured with the storyteller.
Ciara giggled,
gods she did not just giggle
, and tried to curtsy, causing the metal ewer to slip from her fingers and clatter to the ground. She dropped to her knees, losing sight of her first crush, while her fingers brushed across freezing stone in a vain search for the jug.
Even as the royal ruckus continued around her, Ciara's mind traveled far away to a land she'd never visited before, full of falling rose petals and what would normally be a disturbing pink sky were it not for a teenagers lust addled brain. A place where he wasn't the prince and already betrothed to that cow from Hammiter, princess Penelope. And she, she wasn't some half Dunner servant scrounging under tables, her knees coated in what she prayed was just mead run off and not something that took a trip through someone's digestive tract.
As her fingers curled around the edges of the metal still rocking back and forth from its experiment with gravity, a hand, as hard as Casamir's but much less hairier, grabbed her collar and yanked the girl back into the cruel world.
Through the not-so-great hall, common sense and decency filtered from the royal point out into a cone of drunken debauchery. It traveled from the true Knights, who actually owned a bit of land and could claim some Lordship in their blood, to the hired "Knights" who were found to be quite good with the blade, generally as they were stabbing their patron's business companion in the spleen. Past the pike men, the banner carriers, the handful of fifers, a few pig farmers who thought believed they wandered into the local turnip carving festival sat a lad not much past his fourteenth summer.
Wiping across his face with his light hand, sticky with what passed for mead in these back trenches, the boy tried to sit even higher. The mercenary missing a few teeth and fingers, grinned down at the lad in purple velvet and knocked him on the back, coating the floor in a fresh slime.
"Whance ya getz zer hore all settled ya getz ta frommagin ta piz!"
He nodded, understanding not a lick of what dripped from this lowlife's mouth. Uncertain if it was the flammable levels of alcohol or the thick foreign accent that strangled the man's tongue, Bonaventure Aldrin Othero, second in line to the frozen throne, nodded along anyway. The last thing he wanted was to draw attention to himself, a skill he was becoming quite prolific at.
Limbs more favorably compared to reeds, with muscles knotted upon the ends, Aldrin (as he preferred to be called whenever he could get as far from "Bonny" as possible) did not strike confidence in those already eyeing a King entering his 55
th
year. While his brother, already fresh upon manhood, had both maidens and the gentry swooning over. A skilled tactician in field and close combat, with that rock hard jaw, nearly translucent hair, and clear eyes that made the Othero bloodline strong, Henrik was almost a mirror image of the man who helped form the tenuous alliance butting heads against the "Empire."
Most would look down at little "Bonny" and remark upon his cobweb hair, his muddled eyes, his vanishing chin and the fact the poor boy only came up to most men's bellies that, well, at least he wasn't born with a hunchback or something. For every famous Othero mark his brother received, Aldrin got the mirror opposite, to the point that even his father suggested it might just be best if lil' Bonny be kept away from anything sharp lest he hurt someone and then maybe himself. So, while Henrik sparred in the yard, Aldrin sat invisible upon the walls and watched. He got so good at watching, most didn't realize he was standing in the room, sometimes right in front of them, until the air they tried to walk through suddenly became heavy with royal prince.
In a flush of teenage rebellion, Aldrin took every chance he could during this summer vacation to bond with the cast offs of the wagon train. While his Step-Mother was busy with her maps and little pins, he'd slip from the front upon his small pony and journey back to follow behind the knights
His mercenary friend suddenly shouted and turned to the funny man standing in the midst of the crowd. It was hard to make out who or what it was, aside from a garish mix of colors, but the back crowd was grumbling confusing obscenities.
"Wha' he say?"
"Yer mother rode all 'he way to Avar on 'er back!"
"Wha' cha say 'bout my mum?"
Insults intended for the Story Weaver missed their target and hit those who weren't even aware there was a Bard in their midst, much less that he'd made some faux pas. It began, as all turns of the tide do, with a small push. The Insulted, or perhaps Insultee (it was hard to tell at this point) pushed back. A fresh push answered with another shove, leading to another insult and finally climaxing with an exaggerated punch applied to the jaw.
Aldrin knew this was his time to exit. Dodging a mug intended for the Bard currently stammering out a new stanza, he ducked under the now throbbing table and started to scurry past armored legs towards the servants' valleys.
Behind him, the fighters suddenly remembered that they had access to better weapons than just fists when the power of the Bard's words reached into the hearts and souls of the other guests who weren't trying to pulverize the crap out of each other. Even their long past syphilitic rotted brains could pick up on something off in the air, and they slowly stopped their poundings to turn and look to the funny man with the tales.
The Bard was waving his arms like a man poorly chasing off a cougar, and when the rest of the knights went wild the mercs followed suit, also bringing their hands together, usually into the face still clutched under their arm. This was actually met with even more laughter and as soon as the fight began it was forgotten. For what was a war between friends, especially when there was no coin to be made for it?
But Aldrin didn't notice the change in demeanor and kept his long crawl past feet bound up in linen and burlap, most unable to afford anything approaching real shoes. Some even went bare, their toes long since lost to the endless miles through melting snow that began their year. And despite having a royal prince scampering across their legs, the revelers didn't really notice. If they weren't calling for the god verse again, they were ripping into what amounted to the Castle's food budget for a month and harassing some of the servants, at this point not even caring what gender they pinched.
It was their last night and soon they'd head home to prepare for the winter before War! And what a glorious one it would be too, with lots of time for perfectly innocent bystanders to get in some good old fashioned looting.
Sliding past the last pair of legs, Aldrin stood, trying to wipe off the grime coating what had once been his trouser legs. He turned and smacked his face straight into the jowls of the frozen dragon. A face made for minting glared down upon his blushing while a hand, still soft as a dove, pushed him back. Henrik paid about as much heed to his little brother as he did to anything that didn't carry a sword.
"What are you doing back here?" he demanded of the boy, his royal ring tapping hard against Aldrin's collar bone.