Authors: S. E. Zbasnik,Sabrina Zbasnik
The King's Blood (4 page)
By the time it was answered by a man's, Ciara was already halfway up the stairs to the kitchens.
The shade grasping firmly upon his shoulder lowered slowly until its monstrous face came into focus for Aldrin. Instead of red glowing eyes and rows of gnashing teeth, the dark monster had a well weathered, but still surprisingly youthful countenance. What skin drooped beneath his eyes seemed to come more from weariness than age, and what lines were there vanished in the folds of mahogany skin.
"What brings you to this place, Milord?" the dark specter asked, his clean shorn chin distracted Aldrin who'd grown up in a land where as soon as you could sprout a forest on your face, you did.
"My father," was all the prince could stammer out, transfixed.
His monster laughed, a warm one that could put any at ease. So well honed, most did not pick up on its cultivation. Aldrin chuckled too, much squeakier.
"Yes, father's do complicate," the Dark Knight responded.
The boy wanted to say something witty, and wise; the kind of quick turn of the tongue that could have this exotic man belly laughing.
"Mine's the King," was the best he could come up with and a good reason why the boy was kept far from any public speaking.
But the Dark Knight laughed again. Asim spent much of his younger days entertaining small children, little past their weanings who bravely touched the shadow man's skin, or tried to weave a finger through his tight curls. The stares and gasps of the children did not bother him; it was simply a pity that most never grew out of the fear of anything fresh. Many had never seen a Dunner, much less spoken to, or walked past, or sold bread to one.
It was a long, slow climb to a plateau of acceptance serving Lord Albrant. While the Lord set the precedent by never treating his new friend as anything other than a spare soldier, the fellow lesser knights took it differently. But time and age cooled hot heads and even some respect from fresh recruits who, upon meeting Asim, would be pulled aside and warned against calling the man a "sandworm" or "shadow wraith." Some of the warnings from men still bearing the scars of a Dark Knight who they regretted learning did have a breaking point.
But life was good in this small valley. He'd made a home, won the love of a woman who could strike down her enemies with a single finger curl, and begun a beautiful family. His decision to leave the Triad behind seemed a wise one, one that rarely rousing him up in the middle of night until talk of war drifted on the wind.
Now his beloved home was invaded by the royal elite, a far more dangerous enemy than common soldiers. You expect a knife in the back from an invading force dressed in armor, but rarely one from a twig of a woman covered in velvet. Never one for courts, Asim kept mostly to himself, which also suited the King's knights just as well. Some of them had fought along the western boarders and were none too pleased to see one of their own hiding a villain in their midst. But they would all pack up tomorrow, head back to the King's lands and take all the strangers with them.
A few troops pledged their creaking loyalty to the King's cause and, if Albrant ordered it, so would Asim; but for now, he looked forward to a slumbering winter at home. Tonight should be a joyous occasion for him, but something kept his senses sharp, like a god pricking upon his fate.
There were too many shadows in the castle.
He expected the Prince to scurry on up to his father's side, terrified of the Dark Man towering above him, but the boy stood his ground. In fact, he seemed almost curious, twisting his head until the Ostero hair flopped into his eyes. Asim laughed again, and subconsciously pushed it back. His Little Raven was always doing that too, refusing to use the knots the other ladies preferred. The boy caught his hand and held it, turning it over and rubbing to see if the darkness upon him was a trick of paint.
Just then, the rabble died down, heads turning to watch the woman framed by the mighty fireplace stand and address the crowd. Despite her slight frame, buckling under the heavy undergarments and bustles that were expected of any highborn lady, she still stood as though no wave could move her.
"Lords, Ladies, Friends. We wish to take this moment in the midst of revelry to offer thanks to the great Scepticar. With his unwavering eye we stand strong against the fading Emperor and his false god and we shall prevail!"
The knights broke out into applause, banging what they had in front of them together for emphasis creating the world's first Deerduckhen. Asim glanced down at the prince who seemed to have little interest in the queen's words and was now inspecting his other wrist, the boy's fingers lingering over the mark the Dark Knight wished he could shear away.
"And let us raise a toast to my husband, good King Edric," she motioned behind her and the rolling mound of royalty stood, his hand waving meekly from outside his excessive sleeves uncertain of crowds and loud noises in general.
Asim was certain that were this not a call for war, the malleable king would have been relegated to the small corner of history that keeps most census workers and a few Lords that were endlessly fascinated with sewage plumbing. But the people loved him, this hulking bear of a man who looked as though he could rip entire forests from the ground even though he secretly preferred a good cuppa and a crude puppet show.
The Queen was a different matter entirely. Power positively radiated from her, some even whispered that it wasn't entirely a gift from the gods either. But none would dare breathe the "w" word near her, lest they find themselves waking with their own severed head lying in their bed.
Raising her arms high, her sleeves glowed in the firelight behind, and she called out, "And for our beloved crown Prince Henrik Varnen Ostero." The 'beloved' sounded more the way some would say "shit encrusted work boots," but she still maintained a friendly grimace on her face.
The crowd clapped again, turning in their seats trying to find the mighty Crowned Prince amongst the sea of commoners and slightly less commoners. Slowly the clapping died to a smattering as no "beloved" appeared and they all looked back to the Queen.
She raised her arms again and once more called out, "Prince Henrik Ostero. Henrik? Henny? Gods take him, where is that boy?"
The gods taken boy's father shrugged his shoulders. He hadn't been aware of any of his spawn outside of the occasional wedding or pants wetting since they'd hit the ground. Her false face melting by the heat and rage billowing beneath, the Queen turned from her husband and stormed out, a deluge of handmaidens following behind.
Edric shrugged again at the audience, "Women."
This was answered with even greater applause, laughter and a few terse glares from the fairer tables. "Forget the speeches, let's all get drunk 'til it's the dark ages!"
Asim looked back down to the little prince who had moved past the shadow man and was watching the pair of knights head butting each other until one passed out. If this is what the heads of state are studying, it was no wonder the Kingdom was in the shape it was.
He was about to suggest the boy head back to his father, who was also leading the front row of knights in a round of "Stab, Stab, Stab Your Sword," when his ears prickled. In the distance, a thud registered, like a large slab of wood hitting the ground.
Protective fingers searched for the young princeling's shoulder, pulling him close. He shrunk back into the edge, his ear pressed against the cool stone, and through the raucous din of knights doing what knights did best could make out boots tromping, thousands of boots. Aldrin struggled in the tight grip but got nowhere, freezing as a thin blade unsheathed itself beside his face. The Dark Knight opened his mouth, about to scream, "We are invaded!" when the great hall's door blew open and a volley of arrows descended upon the party.
A black swarm stormed across the bright party. The enemy moved with purpose, while the knights, most more inebriated than Gallo the god of cheap wine, tripped and fell upon their own swords. In the scramble to run away from the fingers of god inching in to sweep them away, a pair of barbarians heaved up one of the long tables and launched it towards the advancing army.
But the swarm found other holes in the defenses. They poured in from the sides, as unstoppable as the tide against a broken dam. The few elite knights and Lord Albrant rose to their teetotaler feet and readied for battle.
Asim's hand slipped over the boy's mouth, keeping him silent. There was no chance he could fight without endangering the young prince; his only hope would be to circle around and raise the remaining guards. Assuming they hadn't all been killed by whatever traitor raised the portcullis.
Moving as silently in the shadows as he could, the Dark Knight inched towards the servants' door, mercifully empty of swords. He clutched the boy close to his chest and crept backwards, his eyes always upon the slaughter as the King's company suffered their own innards spilling out upon the feasting platters.
Letting go of the Prince's mouth quickly, he reached behind him to grasp the door handle. It was just enough time for a scream laying in wait to claw its way through the boy's mouth and straight into the ears of an invader.
Asim turned and pushed the prince rather rudely through the open threshold where the boy slipped down a set of stairs and split open his chin. The Dark Knight spun just in time to catch his blade upon the invaders, his superior steel snapping the weaker ones. They hadn't been expecting anything of a fight.
Ramming his blade through the man's chest, his hilt crumpled the buttons carved with the three circle image of the Empire. Asim pushed the corpse backwards, extracting his entrenched sword slick with blood.
Just as he turned to follow the boy, a scream high and shrill pulled his attention to the dais and his heart fell as the only master assassin in the bunch roared up in front of the King and, with one pass of his giant blade, sent the King's head flying into the crowd. Asim swore to never look back again, lest he sacrifice both his life and the boy's for the sake of vengeance, and bolted the servants' door behind him.
Her foot caught on the broken stair as Ciara burst head first into the larder. Normally large enough to easily house a couple dozen deer carcasses should the need and bounty from over excited hunters arise, it was packed with people chattering their heads off.
Ciara tried to push past the smattering of younglings curled up on the floor weeping wild tears of terror and around a woman who placed a bucket on her head and cried for her granda. The twins clung desperately to a side of lamb that had somehow missed the spit, trying to wedge it to shore up the kitchen door. The fact the door swung outward belied their collected state.
"What?" she tried to ask them, as the lamb slipped once again from tiny fingers, thudding to the floor. "What happened?"
The right Matilda glanced back for a moment, but tried to haul back up the lamb carcass, the drippings coating her apron in a gory mess. Ciara grabbed a hold of the left Matilda.
If she'd thought the larder was bad, the kitchen was ten times worse. But she was able to get more than just quiet sobs and blank stares. Everyone, in fact just about everyone she'd ever met or known to work beneath the stairs, was stuck in between flaming spits and boiling pots tucked in the hearth, babbling their bloody heads off.
"I saw it, right through his neck!"
"There's gots to be thousands of 'em!"
"With big teeth, and big eyes, and a huge tonker!"
That had to be mistress Danalean, about all she thought of were tonkers and bigger ones. But this got her nowhere.
Standing up to her full height above the throng, Ciara cupped her hands over her mouth and shouted, "Will someone please tell me what's going on?!"