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Chapter 17: Runswick

Ambrose Nola was reminded how much of a fool he truly was as he once again stared at his silver coin. The skull laughing at him was too large for the coin’s small surface, cutting most of the forehead off and some of the bottom jaw. He had never seen a close-up of the skull as it rattled its jaw up and down in quick succession, and it made him feel incredibly uneasy on top of being very annoyed. Instructing him to continue on in his role, he could not fathom the lack of luck that seemed to be presently on his side. As nearly all of the soldiers stormed the castle, ransacking everything from jewelry, paintings and silverware, Ambrose could only dream of the cellar. Many rumors suggested that a collection of aged wine from generations past was still fermenting there, and yet with every step and every push of the chariot, his distance between the oasis and its current location only widened.

In the wake of the shocking death of King Whitewood, Princess Elenor’s surrender had not been the only stipulation that saved the onslaught that could have occurred. Innocence etched in her choked voice, forcing the tears that were set to erupt to ease in front of her invaders, Elenor had asked to be with her father. She could only turn her head, looking at the destination she wished to be as soldiers called for doctors in every direction up the castle steps before Sebastian took her by the wrist. As he did, both sides echoed with the clash of readying steel, the calm seemingly close to ending.

“You will not be leaving us, Princess.” Sebastian said, his large hand an inescapable shackle around her small wrist. “You will be coming with us, immediately. Comply and you may live to see your father’s grave and see your sons and daughters bestow gifts on their grandfather’s headstone. Disobey, at any time between now and your destiny, and there will be no Runswick to return to. The choice is yours.”

And Ambrose had just stood there, idly and aloof, as tears streamed down his princess’s face. His Queen, he realized now. His love, he had realized all those years ago. As greater men and women played their roles, Ambrose had once felt like his life would only go as far as others did. His destiny swept in a current that he could not escape, nor could he fight against.

It was Veronica who snapped him out of his depression, slapping both hands on his armored shoulders and causing him to jolt and his heart to race. She brandished a wide smile, half laughing as she brought him into an armbar. The woman was incredibly strong, and Ambrose’s anxiety peaked as he felt trapped in her clutches.

“This man, Sebastian!” Veronica said, “This soldier here saved my ass today! That goddamn horse is somewhere in Hell as we speak, what an abomination. And by your sword, soldier! I must have your name, I must see your face!”

As she let him go, Ambrose could only recoil and find himself at a loss for words. Aside from Elenor, who was still busy grieving, the entirety of High Hillford’s army was now locked on him. He didn’t turn, but he knew half the eyes from Runswick’s side were trained on the Princess’s every action, the other half busy tending to the King and the efforts around him. Of those eyes, more than a few would have fancied a drink from the Barrel’s Bottom. And if you enjoyed a drink there, you may have enjoyed a joke from Ambrose Nola.

Again, this time thankfully, a greater person than himself would act to steer Ambrose’s path. It was Sebastian, whose large frame had moved to his side with surprising stealth, that caused Ambrose’s latest scare. A slap to the back felt more like a punch, knocking half the wind from Ambrose’s lungs.

“You did well to save the captain, soldier. But we can celebrate that at camp tonight. We are not pausing now, Veronica. Something is amiss, as we all felt earlier in the earthquake. Before more variables interrupt my mission, we will set out with the Princess at once.”

Saluting, Ambrose bit his lip. He didn’t know what he wanted to do worse, cry uncontrollably at his sham of an existence, or laugh hysterically at his genuine belief that he had some form of luck on his side. Standing between the two most, and only, savage killers he had ever laid eyes on, Ambrose felt like he was going mad.

“Our mission, Willcott.” Veronica pointed a finger up at the man, “Ever since this morning you’ve been treating me like a lesser. I have a gripe with that.”

“You have a gripe with me? That must mean you have a gripe with every man in camp as well. You used me, and now I am using you.”

Veronica reached to her side, her hand floating near the handle of her whip. Sebastian, his greatsword still in his off-hand, floated his right hand to its handle.

Ambrose felt like he should move, felt his life depended on it, and yet he had become a statue prepared to be destroyed by an oncoming storm.

“Stop this nonsense!” Behind Veronica, the priest slowly approached. His body was a mess of arrows and blood, and he streaked the courtyard red as he limped and dragged himself to be better heard. High Hillford soldiers on either side took to a knee as he passed them.

Veronica and Sebastian eased from their battle stances, with Veronica turning and kneeling to the half-man, half-nightmare that was this arrow-ridden, anatomy-defying priest. His chin was now driving deeply into his chest, the gums of his upper and lower mouth exposed fully.

Sebastian knelt too, and Ambrose was left as the last High Hillford member to take a knee. He did a second later, realizing his folly, but not before catching a look at the Princess. Sebastian had been obscuring his view, and now Ambrose had been able to watch as sadness dissipated into horror, brought on by the presence of the abominable priest.

“Sebastian is right, Veronica. This situation has become extremely precarious, only more so with the capture of only one Whitewood. Do not celebrate now, for we are closer to celebrating forever than we have ever been. You must return the girl to the church immediately, no other priority has ever been higher. Station the soldiers here, and take the Princess in the chariot. Everything I promised the both of you will be yours when this is done.”

As he finished his sentence, the priest collapsed. Blood pooled from his many wounds, and no movement came from his body from then on. There was a brief uproar from the High Hillford soldiers, confused and distraught at seeing their Bishop seemingly fall victim in front of them. Ambrose had nearly wanted to cheer, the nightmare of looking at that thing finally over.

Sebastian and Veronica whistled at the same time, another unexpected jolt of surprise sending Ambrose to a fit. It was much more effective on the other soldiers, captivating their attention.

“Father Paulo is unharmed, everyone. Do not worry for his well-being, for He is on our Father’s side.” Sebastian strode towards the priest who had collapsed and knelt by his body. “Let us all take a moment to celebrate and rejoice in the life of a fellow believer, a man whose role in this world was filled with the greatest purpose; helping our Father, helping Him, helping High Hillford.”

Sebastian took off the cape he had been wearing, and covered the body of the priest. Ambrose watched it all with fair curiosity, as all of the High Hillford invaders, Veronica and Sebastian included, proceeded to hum a low pitch that resonated throughout the courtyard.

As Sebastian rose, the humming stopped. Presently, he turned and pointed a finger directly at Ambrose, which fell only an inch or so from his eye slit.

“Soldier! Your reward for saving the captain today is one that you should be proud of. You will be responsible for introducing the Princess to the chariot. Take her there now!” Sebastian commanded.

With that order, Ambrose finally felt a sense of elation swept over him. None of this morning had made sense, too many new pieces had been introduced for him to create a picture worth understanding. He had never been so frustrated; his strokes of crude luck seemingly unending, the skulls menacing and humiliating him so definitely, and his physical condition exhausted by a mix of a pounding headache and the burden that was his armor. But now, with Sebastian and Veronica turning their backs and heading away from both himself and Elenor, the moment his coin must have been leading to was staring right back at him. And it was a beautiful, yet saddening sight.

There she was, the Princess Elenor Whitewood. It had been five long years since he had been so close to her. Presently, her body was half turned, an arm held high and palm facing the castle stairs. Behind her, men and women alike in shimmering rainbows of color stood frozen, yet still ready to charge at the signal. But Ambrose knew Elenor and knew her hand would not cease from the halting signal it found itself in.

She was both a dream and a tragedy come to life; the morning sun finally high enough to warm the early morning, yet early still so that the dew of the courtyard seemed to glisten around her; the residents of Runswick all but blurs of every color in the rainbow for her backdrop; her face wet yet unwavering, her long, curly hair the same color as the few sunflowers bordering the grass yard to either side of them.

Her arm finally dropped, tired and lifelessly swinging next to her. Ambrose saw some reaction from the hundreds that were spread out on the stairs and on the castle walk near where the King lay lifeless, yet they did not move combatively. Like himself, the lot of Runswick residents seemed to want her close, to tell her to not give up and to take away the pain that had struck deeply and ruthlessly. But as she turned to face Ambrose, her chin still high yet quivering, the time for consolation was no closer than the time for celebration.

Ambrose finally took his first step that day. Not the coin’s work, nor at the whim of ravenous, yet somewhat holy killers, but at his own discretion. Though Sebastian had commanded it, there was a new action that the greatsword-wielding man would not have been delighted to hear.

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Moving to her side, Ambrose grasped her wrist. He could feel the shaking in both her hands and even her breath as panic crept near, yet she held strong. He had known she would hold strong.

His eyes were set to the backs of Sebastian and Veronica, who passed the now four lines of High Hillford soldiers that were headed in the direction of the castle, the space and his moment finally arrived.

“Do not react, Princess.” Ambrose said, his lips hidden by his visor and voice choked by nerves, “It’s Ambrose, Elenor. Ambrose Nola. I will save you. Come with me.”

He felt her tensing and saw as her lips swapped quivering for a stupified, frozen expression. They made it two steps before she fell to her knees.

Ambrose fell with her, his hand firmly yet painlessly wrapped around her wrist. His first instinct shot a glance in front of him, where Sebastian had stopped to observe. The soldiers to either side stole glances but moved along uncaring. They had one more moment before curiosity would turn to annoyance in Sebastian’s expression.

“Ambrose, how? Why?” Elenor said, her face towards the ground to cover the movement of her lips.

“I… I don’t know. But I am exactly where I need to be, and I will figure it out. I promise this!” His eyes were still trained on Sebastian, who took a step toward their direction. At that, Ambrose yanked Elenor to her feet. He hoped it looked more assertive than it was.

Sebastian seemed satisfied as the two continued in the direction of the inner gate, nodding and turning to continue in Veronica’s direction. Just beyond them, four golden armored soldiers remained near each of the large wheels to the chariot that Ambrose figured he now commanded. As they moved, Elenor could not seem relaxed yet had improved to a degree.

Now I have convinced her that I will save her, now to just convince myself! Ambrose thought, his heart racing and palms sweating in his leather gloves. He could not find a comforting thought between there and the back of the chariot. To his chagrin, his self-anointed hero status conflicted mightily with his task to secure the prisoner that was his love. As he opened the metal door to the standing, double coffin that was this chariot's confinements, he was surprised to find the walls were made of mirrors. The only holes in the small confinements were nested in its roof, no more than eight small windows of lights peaking through to give air. That was also when Elenor’s tears began anew, unable to harden herself at the sight of her prison. It was more than heartbreak, it was like something had died within him as he shut the metal door, bolting the latch and securing High Hillford’s precious objective.

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His new position was not imagined, and with a change of assignment, Ambrose found himself between the chariot and the two warriors who may have been able to take this capital on their own. His sword was drawn, as Veronica had instructed him to, and in horror he felt he might have to use it to fulfill his half-baked promise to Elenor. Between the four men towing the chariot and the three of them brandishing weapons at its head, they were severely outnumbered by the thousands still lining the main road.

There had been one disturbance, the retaliation coming at Veronica’s snake. She held knives now in either hand, wielding the tips of the blades between her pointer finger and thumb, while her whip moved deftly to both lead and trail them depending on her concern. It was both paving the way and securing their backsides, and in paving one of those paths the snake had slithered close to a large, burly man. Whether it had been reactionary or retribution, Ambrose could not say, but the man had attempted to lift and drop a heavy foot on the snake's body. It would have landed had it not been for one of Veronica’s knives finding home in the man's other, planted foot. As the man shrieked in agony, the snake moved with lightning quickness to bite and remove the blade from the victim's foot. Before the man could even fall to the ground, the snake had returned the knife to Veronica, a terrifying and awakening display for others who may have thought to try to fight back.

Ambrose watched as that man had been surrounded quickly by the other residents, coming quickly to the aid of one of their own. While it only further cemented his stance on the other side of his people, it also motivated his desire to get back at this she-devil and her gigantic partner.

They were once again at the center of the capital, where vendors and stores should have been readying for the day ahead by this time of the day. Circling the rotunda to continue down the main road, the sun was warm, yet the welcome was not. More scowls than ever now, from the diverse and colorful population that was Runswick, burned at them from all sides, windows, and even rooftops. Yet the concern Ambrose felt now had been slightly diminished, his attention now on the large, misshapen entrance to the Barrel’s Bottom that hung agape. It was currently the only storefront that seemed to have any sign of some life, and yet it should not have quite yet so early in the day.

His head pounded then, a gnawing that centered on the side of his right temple. It was like a force pulling him, the addiction both overpowering and yet so gentle and easy to soothe. Looking still at the bar, it was almost like he imagined himself taking off to the drunken oasis that stood just beyond his reach. He tried hard to remind himself of his greater purpose, fighting his demons with every stride he took. An altercation that had been one-sided for so long.

His forlorn quickly turned to surprise, and he had to blink hard twice to believe what he was seeing. A man emerged from the tavern, hands filled with two mugs apiece that sloshed and spilled as he clumsily walked, was someone Ambrose knew. Clad in a tight, black sleeveless tunic, his pants rolled high on his thighs exposing much dark hair there, was the bartender known as G.

“Brother!” Ambrose heard Veronica call out. He looked to her, following her gaze to the now spinning G, who bowed deeply and without care for one of his pitchers. The beer spilled over and onto the ground, and for a moment Ambrose wasn’t sure what he was most shocked at.

He snapped out of thinking of the wasted beer, sadly knowing it was as good as gone. G continued towards them, his signature tame and managed mustache glistening with wet beer.

“Giovanni Visconti!” Sebastian stopped the small caravan that was their party.

At the mention of the infamous last name, the people around G began to back up. For Ambrose, he began to shake his head subtly, unable to keep up with the day's discoveries. Had he defended a Visconti earlier in the month?

“Yes, ‘Bastian?” G said, before letting out a resounding belch in the direction of the now livid commander.

Sebastian took two long strides to cut the distance between himself and the drunk, and without warning slapped an impressively quick hand to meet the half-filled tankards in G’s right hand. The beers flung through the air, crashing, rolling, and spilling all of its contents within the city center. G said exactly what the quiet voice in Ambrose’s head wanted to scream.

“Wai-wai-what the fuck did the beers do to you big guy?” G said, his hands outstretched to either side as if pleading an obvious case.

“Giovani! You are a member of High Hillford now! Alcohol is forbidden, a waste of time and intellect that could be better used to serve a greater purpose!” The man was seething, and he only got nearer to G.

Giovani! Ambrose reminded himself, He’s not G, but a Visconti named Giovani! And he seems at odds with this one…

“Ten months!” Giovani protested, “Ten months here, to all but a tiny one at Hillford High! But now I’m Hillfordian? Or Highandian? D-don’t you dare!”

Sebastian was glaring his teeth, and for a moment the tension remained so high between the two that Ambrose thought he saw a disturbance in the air between them. It was almost comical, the much smaller, skinnier Giovani reaching as high as Sebastian’s pectorals. Sebastian snorted but was the first to turn away between the two.

“Continue!” Sebastian said, his pace both quickening and more pronounced as he pounded the earth in front of him.

Giovani continued to stand there, swaying a bit before his eyes followed an incoming spit that landed between his feet. It was Veronica, who now shook her head at her sibling, before following Sebastian.

Ambrose watched as Giovani made a face at his sister, sticking his tongue out and twisting either end of his mustache. Without the interference of the argument, Ambrose began to hear a few words from the crowd to either side of them. Curses were being passed around about ‘That fucking mute!’, and ‘A traitor, a liar!’. Giovani must have heard them too, as he began turning in either direction at the crowd, his face still mocking. The response was a resounding heap of booing at him, to which his new reply was to slap the first one clothed cheek on his arse, before following it up with a bare-skin slap to the other cheek. Ambrose watched and began walking as the chariot was now coming up on his backside.

To Ambrose’s tension, Giovani stopped the gloating and immaturity to instead fall in line right next to him. Ambrose tried to act unbothered and busy in his duties as best he could. Just when he thought he had succeeded, Giovani dropped the remaining two tankards. One had been empty, yet the other had been at least a third filled. He was expecting the dark color of ale to spill but was surprised to find a wine of deep red housed in the cup meant for ale. A splintering sound came next, with one of the cups crushed underneath the front wheel of the chariot.

Ambrose bolted his head back to position, realizing only now that he had broken attention to watch the tankard. Giovani was laughing next to him.

“Ho ho! Whoops! Luckily I am drunk, drunk enough I tell ya! Who am I telling any-”

Before Giovani had even finished his sentence, the man had deftly flipped open the visor to Ambrose’s helmet. It caught Ambrose completely off guard, not hindering his forward momentum yet turning his attention to face his former bartender. The two locked eyes, a flabbergasted expression mirrored in each other's expressions. Ambrose could see the recognition briefly sobering the man, before he slapped his hand away, the visor falling as he did.

“Well, I’ll be!” Giovani exclaimed, so loudly that Ambrose flinched. It was the worst-case scenario and sent his heart to an unsettling flight.

About five yards up ahead, Veronica heard her brother, and without turning asked, “What is it Gio?”

“This man!” Giovani started, and as he did Ambrose knew he had to do something. The hilt of his sword hit the side of the man, not hard yet noticeable enough to capture the man's attention, and underneath his helmet Ambrose shushed! as cautiously as he could, not wanting to be heard.

“What man? Where?” Veronica was scanning the crowd, too caught up with the angry masses flooded on either side of them.

“Eh, this soldier sis! A good man is all!” Giovani said, flashing a wink at Ambrose. Inside his helmet, Ambrose breathed heavily, trying to relax.

Her whip suddenly emerged from underneath the moving chariot, slithering between Ambrose and Gio. It moved to the front of her, and once it did Veronica finally turned. Walking backward, she said, “Ay, that soldier there? A good one indeed; saved my life earlier than he did. God be good!” She turned back around.

“Saved you? A great soldier then!” Giovani slapped Ambrose’s back, and then in a whisper that only Ambrose could hear, “A pity, what were you thinking? Ho ho!” He slapped twice more.

Ambrose sighed, shaking his head in disbelief. For some reason, his over-occupied thoughts conjured his father, the man reminding him to never let go of his silver coin. You can create your own luck, or guarantee it. Whichever your decision, this will help immensely. Though he hated the man for deserting him, there was simply no doubt to be had that he had been right. Now he was not just a lucky fool, but a lucky fool with a friend.