He ached for the touch of her skin. For the sweet smell of her hair. He longed to feel the sting of her skin against his own. For the beat of her heart against his. He yearned for no desire in life but the warm, gentle touch of her flower petal hand on his cold, cold cheek.
There was no warmth found in the frosted glades of Firstfall. The soil was ruined with hard clay. Frozen earth that would break the bones of any fool on his first fall in Firstfall. The traveler held his grip tightly on the lead of his steed. Slowly the chestnut beast strolled upward into the dark woods that had longed loomed before him. He knew somewhere in these dismal woods, in this dismal world, was the man he was seeking. If what he was seeking had ever been man.
The traveler, bundled in his roughspun cloak, was almost afraid to see it. Almost afraid to find the foretelling true. Yet as he was promised he found the castle surmounted on a hill surrounded by rock spewed high from the earth toward the grey sky. A black castle followed by a black mood. There it was, right where she said it was. He wanted to mutter a prayer then but the traveler knew the only one who would answer would be her.
The structure was foreboding to approach yet the only greater terror was the prospect of turning around. And so the horse slowly slumped its way up the hill. The traveler kept his head bowed, strands of hair once thicker flew along the breeze in front of his face. It might be pride to imagine he was still handsome. Yet the years had changed him. Though he had been once impossibly fair, the traveler wondered if he were a man himself in his gorgeous prime.
Near the front doors of the castle the sound of grunting erupted. The startle of it forced the traveler’s hand to the ebony hilt at their side. An instinct that could never be unwritten from him, he realized. He looked over and found to the side of the castle’s front was a muddy pen filled with swine. Most gave him a queer look. His own heavy eyes narrowed on the plump creatures. They came with a foul smell and fouler memories. Memories of his benefactor. Yet instead of her he dwelled then on the master of the castle he had come to visit. Of course he keeps the pigs well fed.
He tied the horse to a post before the stone stairs of Castle Firstfall. A castle, he thought. He’s a lord now. Dragging his body up the steps, feeling eyes already on him, he put his strength into the knock of the front doors.
“Who goes there?” An old and muffled voice came through the oak door.
“I seek the lord of this castle.” It had been sometime since he heard the sound of his voice. It sounded strange on him. Deeper and duller than it ought to be.
“Aye, and I asked who’ll be seeking him.”
“An old friend.” That won the traveler a pause. “Tell him the Prince of Steel wishes to pay homage to the Lord of Firstfall.” Another pause. Then footsteps. As the traveler waited, the buzz of a fly caught his attention. He traced its path to a spike above the door. As the footsteps faded and returned, he studied the upper skull adorning the spike.
Somehow the main hall was larger than the already impressive monolith would have suggested. Numerous corridors ran down the hall between dark pillars containing ragged banners the traveler knew to mean nothing to their liege lord. What is he doing here? Why does he need a hold so large? Thinking on it, the traveler found the question to be self-explanatory. Yes, he would want a big castle like this. If anything this one is much too small for him.
The old man who had let the traveler in was hunched over in a bow to the side. The rest of the servants were surrounding him from a distance along the sides of the hall. Mostly women. Another obvious touch the Lord of Firstfall would make. The servants, dressed in faded gowns, kept their necks bent down and averted their sights when the traveler matched them. They’re afraid, he realized. Are they nervous because of me? He kept his demeanor as cold as the room while the servants continued to watch his back.
The distinct sound of men shuffling in armor greeted the traveler first. Down the hall was the balcony carved between two sets of curved stairs. Soldiers filled the upper floor. Boys, the traveler saw. Yet spears were spears and crossbows were killers on an open floor like this. Then the last echo of arriving steps. The Lord of Firstfall had arrived.
“Light the fires and say a prayer,” the Lord of Firstfall cried in that juvenile voice that could only be his. “Archie, you bloody old fool! You’ve gone and let a ghost into my castle! The Prince of Steel you say. Yes, you’ve either brought me a ghost or a ruse.”
“Forgiveness, m’lord,” the old man wheezed, “I thought only to alert you of-”
“Quiet that tongue or I’ll take that next. You were right the first time. You’ve returned to me a dear, old friend.” The Lord of Firstfall smiled his crooked smile, “Myers.”
“Reindell.”
The Runt.
His former pale hair had been dyed darkly though he still combed it back with grease. He had traded his loose fitting garbs for a loose fitting cloak and black-by-purple velvet beneath. Some kind of white ascot was tied below his chin and tucked into his vest and peacock feathers fitted his right shoulder. His attire matched the style of his castle well but Myers, the Prince of Steel, knew the true creature beneath the luster.
Even from the ground floor, Myers could spot Reindell’s shrunken ears. See his eyes were mismatched, one dripped and shriveled out of place. A face of clay left to sleep too long on one side. He was as ugly as the day he was born. As ugly as he was when they stormed Belcan. The hideous day they became heroes.
“You look like shit.” That kind of crude comment did not surprise Myers to hear. What surprised him was how the dozen men behind Reindell casually laughed at their lord’s remark.
Myers responded with his usual cooled tone, “Looks can be deceiving. We should both know. Any monster can claim a castle and fancy themselves a noble.”
“Yes,” Reindell agreed with some hesitation. “Just as any god can fall from grace.” He understands me well, Myers thought. “You’re blonder now. Paler too. You’ve seemed to have lost weight as well, my old friend. Have you not been eating well? Come! I was just about to settle for supper. Garlic pork, clam chowder, and some shitty grapes. You should join me this miserable evening.”
“You should not offer me hospitality, old friend.”
“That is where you are wrong, Prince of Steel. I am a lord now. A true lord by decree. My word is law. You will dine with me this night because I command it.” The posture of his guardsmen changed at that moment. As if to insist on the pleasant dinner he was being commanded to join. He is drunk on power. I knew he would be if he were to ever taste it.
“Then I have no choice.” I have no choice in any of this.
Followed by the entourage of adolescents and cheap bronze, Reindell led Myers down the back corridors, “I’ve more rooms than I can count here. That is my title now, you know. Count Reindell of Firstfall. A noble count,” Reindell nearly chuckled on his own words. The words must be sweet to hear aloud. No doubt he mutters them often.
Yet it was a bitter appetizer to chew on before dinner. Reindell a recognized count. He was the youngest of their company. The weakest as well. How is it that the lowest amongst our rotten ranks rose the highest, Myers wondered. He has surpassed even Xander. And how many stronger men has Reindell come to outlive?
When Myers first laid his icy, grey eyes upon the Runt he was cowering in a barrel, drenched in his own urine. Nobody offered him aid that day. The camp was looted. The dead, whoever they were to the Runt, tossed into the river. But the Runt followed, feeding on the scraps of the company. Feasting off their leftovers like the runt he was.
That was years ago, Myers remembered. Today Count Reindell of Firstfall was leading him down a passage with a ceiling four stories above their heads. The windows reached near the top of the hall, showcasing the snow coated mountains across the valley. A white bloom was enveloping them. A storm was coming.
“The land gets its name from the view held by my castle. The first fall of snow can always be spotted from the window of my bedroom. The top of the world that room. You always would have made for a pretty woman, Myers. Were you the Princess of Steel I would show you that view before taking you in my bed.” The Prince of Steel gave no response. He meant that to be flattering.
The Runt had always been a pitiful creature, Myers thought. Though few ever showed him sympathy. Most mistreated him. The Runt was often made to fetch the rack, dig the latrines, polish the boots of the other men simply because they could make him do it. And now those men are dead and Reindell is lord. Grissle was the worst of them however. He would make the Runt ‘polish his sword’ late at night along with other chores that made him quiet when the two were together. Grissle was a bastard, Myers remembered. Surely I’ll be dining with him next.
Myers found his hand wrapped back around the hilt of his sword, his eyes on the gilded blade peeking out from Reindell’s cloak. Ceremonial, he could see, and surrounded by a band of boys. The right flex of muscles, rehearsed in a hundred battles, was waiting for the Prince of Steel to make. Then his nerve was lost when his host continued.
“Sad to say, I’ve disappointed many a maiden. You see, I am married.”
“Married?”
He thought then of why he was here. The touch of her skin. The smell of her hair. It was love, he thought. It’s for love Reindell, Lord of Firstfall, my old friend, has to die. However, he never imagined Reindell might know love of his own. Does this change anything? He thought the answer would pop in his head. He knew the outcome would not change but whether this meant something new? No answer appeared. He was alone with Reindell and his crooked smile before another heavy door.
The dining room sat several steps above a lower lounge, fit with a grand window out toward the snowy mountains. A burning fireplace sat between the two doors to the room. The table was long and covered in silverware bearing bloody meats and thawed wet fruits. Overlooking the table from the corner was a stuffed bear. In its shadow, rising from her seat, was a young woman of black hair and round belly.
“Isabelle,” Reindell held his arms out as the woman moved toward him, “my lady wife.” A delicate flower, Myers thought, and clearly with child.
When the two embraced, Myers saw Isabelle jump at Reindell’s touch. Her arms fumbled awkwardly behind her husband’s back. Her lips were well parted and she blinked away in fear at the sight of Myers. Afraid like the rest of them. Afraid of Reindell.
“She is noble born?”
Reindell turned from his wife. By the fireplace he was hued in an angry, orange glow. “As befitting a mighty ruler such as myself.”
If she delivers a boy, then the Runt’s days are already numbered. They will have milked him for his worth and will throw him to the fire. Myers knew the ways of nobles. From serving them. From fighting them. From killing them. It was amazing to see the Runt dressed in noble clothing but the true nobles would not tolerate him a day longer with an heir held in his wife’s arms. It made sense to Myers then. This woman is his life line. It is through her he has cemented himself to his position.
Again he saw Reindell as a creature of great pity. “You are very beautiful, my lady. You are a lucky man, old friend.” Again there was no sympathy for the Runt. Myers could see there was no love between the two. Nothing was changed in the course he was committed to.
“Do I sense envy, old friend?” Reindell rubbed the shoulders of his wife. She looked ready to jump from her skin.
“Your friend is most kind, my love,” Isabelle managed to stutter out.
“Quiet now, love. To your seat. My old friend is not known for his kindness. He merely speaks the truth. So I ask you to speak truly again. Is there a Lady of Steel? A woman weeping for your return?”
I've two women in my life, Reindell. Neither among the living. Neither exactly dead. The one watching us now? You knew her, Reindell. And she knows you well. “She is dead, I’m afraid.” No, not dead. She is waiting for me.
“There are more berries in each bush. Please, look through my serving girls and take one for yourself.” Reindell took his seat at the end of the table. “I am a generous lord.” He held out his hand before the course on the table. “My meat is your meat.”
Myers pulled out his seat at the opposite end of the table. As he did so the rest of the chairs filled with Reindell’s guardsmen. Casually, the bronze plated lads picked away at the roasted pork and drained the flagons of wine laid out across the table.
Sitting down, Myers asked, “Who are these men exactly?” They’re far from disciplined soldiers. No true lord had their own men sit at their dining tables like this.
“These men are my men, old friend.”
But you do not call them friends. Yes, Myers could see, he’s reliving the old days. We would storm castles and butcher lords in halls like this one. We would sit at their tables and have their despoiled daughters serve us their richest wines. Do you even know how the great lords dine, Reindell? Do you know how to imitate them as you have imitated their dress? Or do you only know how to behave like when we were outlaws?
“I own two villages,” Reindell bragged as he waved his goblet for a frail servant to pour their flagon into. A white substance poured into his cup. Milk, Myers knew at once. “They do quite well for themselves and they love me dearly. So dearly they pay a tribute more handsome than even you. Or rather more handsome than you were when I last saw you, old friend. What have the years done to you?”
The years were good to me. Better than I deserved. I’ve only recently begun to waste away. “The years have simply passed, old friend.”
“And have you forgotten to eat all these years? Eat. Drink, damn you. Your Lord of Firstfall commands it.”
“His lordship has spoken,” one of the younger guardsmen cheered.
Another raised his cup, “Eat and drink up! Our lord commands it!”
“Yes, drink and be fed.” After the third raised his cup they all followed suit. “A toast to the health of our lord’s old friend!” They keep parroting ‘old friend’ and I might believe myself old. I am old though, aren’t I? Yes, I will die before I am thirty and I will die old. “Cheers! To your health and cheers!”
Even Isabelle timidly raised her cup once the room was obvious enough to read. Myers took a sip of wine, found it bitter, and the men hollered in approval. “Settle down now,” Reindell politely asked of his men. “You lot don’t even know who you're cheering for.”
“Who is our lordship’s friend?”
“They don’t need to know me,” Myers said.
“They should though,” Reindell swirled the contents of his goblet, “they should know how you became the Prince of Steel if they’re going to toast to your health.” That seemed sufficient enough to quiet the rabble at the table. Each of the guardsmen lent their ears to Reindell then. “Lads, this is more than a friend from days gone by. This is the best bladesman of his generation. No. Best of our era.
“No man was his equal on the field. Four to one, bets were on Myers here. And I mean that as in four on one. There were more times than there are cocks at this table I saw Myers surrounded by four of the enemy. It wasn’t because he could draw that steel and slice through four men at once. He could slash and parry four men, four minds, four blades in a single moment.”
“Four ain’t that much,” the wine told one of the drunker men at the table to spit.
A flicker of rage sparked from Reindell’s deformed eye, “How many battles have you been in? Any fool at a bar can boast of slaying a hundred knights. But when you’ve seen battle as I have you learn that four on one means death. The numbers gang up on the lone man and it turns into a stabbing contest between the four.” He knows this because he was often the fourth man to join the killing.
Reindell drained his goblet and sighed, “The rule of four. It meant shit with Myers. You ever needed to spot him on the field you only had to trace the line of bodies leading to the path he was cutting. I remember at Lowrow two men took each other’s heads off because of how he swung his neck out of the way. Not duck. Swung amid the steel. He could kill without even swinging his own sword. That’s why he was the bloody prince of steel. Metal was his to command in the fray. Once at Merryden he-”
A sudden clank struck the table. The bitter cup of wine in Myers’ hand forced itself free and stained its contents onto the cloth of the table. No, not now, Myers cursed himself as the twitching took hold of his hand. He hid the twitching hand under the table as if that remedied the problem. The guards gave him the same queer look the pigs had given him outside the castle. A few looked around the room, either unsure of where the sound had come from or were merely feigning ignorance. Isabelle seemed to be expecting the worst, eyeing Myers and then her husband in a look of genuine horror.
“Forgive me,” Myers found himself forced to say with Reindell’s twisted eyes on him.
“No, forgive me,” Reindell gave his most crooked smile yet. “If the wine isn’t to your liking then-” His men laughed at once. Myers only wished he left it at that. “Is this part of your affliction?”
“I have no affliction.”
“Do not jest with me at my own table,” his tone had switched then and with it the very mood at the table. He was merry-going a moment ago but now? We are cutting to the chase. “It might have been nine years since I’ve seen you last but I remember the old you well.” The Runt leaned over the table wearing a smile like he was about to spill some secret, “You were not so pale then. So frail. Your hair was dirtier but healthier as well. You have come to me in failing health, haven’t you?”
Only a man with a death wish would admit as much to a creature like Reindell. “This much is true.”
“My love,” Isabelle stammered, “should I-”
“Leave,” her lord husband commanded, “wenches leave, every one of you.” The servants vacated and the guards set aside their plates to listen closely. Once the table was only seated with men, each suddenly aware of the blades at their sides, Reindell sat back, “It’s strange. Very strange. Rumors spread beyond truth. They say it wasn’t even the Thatch Gang that saved the realm from that sorcerous bitch. No, couldn’t be us. Had to be the bloody god Gadley come to slay his tyrannical cousin. That’s the story the bards at all the inns would rather sing.
“You think our fathers ever would have thought us heroes? Certainly mine never saw me and thought himself the sire of a one-day lord. Save the realm,” he sounded ready to spit on the floor, something Myers would expect of Reindell, but the lord controlled himself. “Who was your father, old friend? A common mercenary? Or the dead god? Because, yes, I say it's very strange you come to me looking a lot like how they say Gadley is supposed to look. Blonde, narrow, almost ghost white. A swordsman to boot. But how is that sword hand these days?”
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His sword hand was twitching but it still felt the shape of his hilt, “Where do you mean to take this, Reindell?”
Reindell scratched at his lips, looking almost bored, “Funny too, isn’t it? Promise of pardons. Promise of castles. As far as I know I’m the only one to win the castle I was promised. Probably because I was smart enough to save my gems for the day after Belcan. Paid for the dowry too. Now I’m rich and landed and they’re all dead. Even you, Prince of Steel. Even you have lived beyond your end.
“You’re not the first to throw himself at my door. Lard came here a year ago. You remember Lard, don’t you?” The fattest of Thatch’s ranks. The drunkest too maybe. He joined Grissle a few times when he came to visit you, didn’t he? “His name lost all meaning. Came to me skin and bones. Well, I kept his skin. Perhaps you saw one of the bones decorating my front door?”
The Runt laughed then, “How sweet the days are when old friends come to visit. Begging me for help.”
“I did not come here to beg for help,” Myers said, his grip holding his hilt so hard the twitch almost subsided. It was too sweet to hope it would though.
“You can always beg for mercy,” Reindell shrugged.
“I wouldn’t ask that of you either,” Myers said.
Reindell laughed. His laughter dragged on for a time. Long enough his guardsmen mumbled a chuckle or two with him, uncertain of what was happening. The Runt understands though. He took me inside for the same business I came here for. We’re both monsters but I am the Prince of Steel.
“I’m glad we both know where we are presently seated,” the Lord of Firstfall hissed. He stood, “Draw your blades, lads, and bring me the prince’s handsome head already.”
Two stood at once at the order. One decided to draw their blade from their seat before standing for some reason. The rest of the guardsmen exchanged uncertain looks as if they each thought they misheard the order. Hadn’t they done this with poor Lard already? What did it matter though? If they try me they can die with their dear lord. And with that the Prince of Steel, steel drawn, was on his feet.
There it glided over the table, silver-steel edge over table cloth, Titan’s Scale to the ceiling, sharpened tip pointed at Reindell. There it was in all its irregular stretch, tested through the flesh of a thousand combatants, the steel of the prince: Whisk. It has become so heavy in my hand. Once he could fight and train for hours on end, never having to whisk away the blade back to his sheath. I cannot hold it a moment longer than necessary.
With a swing Whisk was already struck beneath the sword drawn by the guard nearest to Myers, “I understand your devotion to your lord,” he said dryly, “but make no mistake. I will oblige each of those willing to die for him.”
For a moment all were frozen. For a moment all held their breath. The only sound in the room came from the crackles of the fireplace. The nearest guard whose sword rested over the metal of Myers’ lost the color in his face, perhaps wondering if all Reindell had said was true. Evidently he doubted the stories for he threw up his sword high in the air, ready to slash down on the castle’s guest. The boy thinks himself immortal. How wrong he was.
Myers had only to trace Whisk up the path of the guard’s blade and lean his arm forward. Poked through the neck the guard collapsed into the table, spilling wine and blood alike. It takes so little to kill a man. So little to provoke, so little to break. By Myers’ reckoning, the boy holding his bloody throat on the ground would not die first. Not with how the next one sloppily threw himself into the fray.
The second guardsman at least invited Myers to spring from his spot. Passing over the first, Whisk tasted the metal of the second, then settled for the flesh of his neck. Shaving his beard, and carving the bone in his neck, the second man fell faster than the first. I am sick, yes, but these are not warriors. These boys are the chaff before the sickle. Number three charged into death as eagerly as number two. One clang and one parry and Myers was sticking Whisk into the guardsman’s back as he continued on, still facing Reindell.
The fourth proved unworthy of meeting Whisk with steel. A simple step out of the way and Myers had all the space and time to take his hand. Or rather half his hand. I’m getting rusty. I should have gone for the wrist and not the fingers. The man began to scream in pain as he fell to his knees, gripping his hand to what was left of the other. This one will live, Myers thought.
Four seconds was all it took for the Prince of Steel to leave four men dead, dying, and crippled. Four seconds and he was already halfway to Reindell with the remaining guards on his side cowering between him and his target. The screaming of the half-handed man rolling on the ground seemed to have awakened Reindell to his reality. Even his bad eye appeared to open in shock.
“Get your crossbows up,” Reindell ordered the guards on the opposite side of the table to Myers. “Bolt’em! Bolt him already!” Give me a break.
Fast as he was, there wasn’t time to carve his way to Reindell and cut him down. Not with three guards across the table fumbling up the crossbows they had brought to dinner. My only armor is the thin plate around my chest and they won’t miss their mark this close. Reindell has bought himself a few minutes of life.
Whisk and the sword of the fifth kissed. The crossbows raised. With his free hand, Myers took up a flagon from the table and smashed it against his latest adversary. The man grunted and stumbled, the wine flurried into the fire, and Myers was off to the door. The last man between him and Reindell swung after him sluggishly and the bolts hit the door once Myers had escaped.
Though the bolts had missed, the excitement had caught up with Myers. Crossing the hall his shoulder slammed into the stonework and he began to gasp for air. This isn’t the time for this. I never imagined myself becoming winded so quickly. I have to be quick about this before I burn myself out. His moment to breathe was cut short. Both doors to the dining hall filled with the guardsmen. Another crossbow raised and Myers fled to the next room.
The room was tremendously tall as the hall before it was. Littered throughout it were islands displaying vases and clunky marble carvings. The walls held gloomy paintings contrasting with tribal shields brimming with more color and life. An art gallery. What need does the likes of Reindell have for an art gallery?
“Circle’em,” cried one of the arriving guards. I’d rather you didn’t. Feeling exhausted already, Myers forced himself into the center of the gallery and took cover behind the replica statue of Michael. I wonder if the blood we stained on the real one could still be seen. I suppose we’ll see how this one fairs.
Already another round of bolts flew across the room. They missed terribly, striking some priceless painting of a happily cuddled couple on a riverboat. I hate ranged weapons. Still, terrible as their shot, I don't want to expose myself. Michael stood as proud as ever, ancient armor sculpted in pale marble. His slingshot fell down to his knees and his shortsword was held high above him. Myers rested against the base of the statue, waiting for the next guard to get cocky and reveal himself.
Two came at once. From either side. The first swung his blade for Myers’ neck but only managed to take a chunk out of Michael’s toes. The next one, drenched in wine, stabbed his blade forward yet Myers danced out of its path as well. He kicked that one back in time to block the swing coming for his back. Two on one, I can manage this. Then racing across the floor ahead arrived the lone arbalist, crossbow in hand. Aren’t they making this fun?
He blocked twice more the assaults of the man to his right. Then the wine soaked man to his left and again the man back to his right. Already the crossbow was once again taking aim. They’re giving me no time to fight back. I’m going to die if I don’t end this now. When the soaked man on the left swung again, Myers followed the course of the blade’s trajectory. Guiding it smoothly around his body and sending it flying out to the floor. End it now!
Myers awkwardly shuffled his back out of the path of the remaining blade’s swing. Whisk already held high like Michael’s above him, Myers whisked it down on the shoulder of the man to his right. Cleanly he plucked it from the deadman’s body, just in time to see the swordless one retrieving a dagger from his side.
A bolt flew from the crossbow and cracked the freshly stained base of Michael. Myers felt the breeze flow into him where the bolt tore the side of his cloak. That could have been bone if I was a sliver closer. The remaining man in Michael’s shadow plunged his dagger for Myers’ eye. It caught a piece of his cheek instead. Few have ever done that. Myers repaid the man with a swift swing of Whisk through the ribs. The man cried and dropped against Michael for support.
There wasn’t a second to relax however. The crossbow ahead of Myers was already stringing up the next bolt. There was no cover to take but chance. I can play ranged too. Myers yanked the dagger from the dying man’s hand and let him fall to the floor. He spun the dagger in his left hand once and cranked his arm forward without a second thought. He had seen Xander throw knives countless times and recalled him saying it had to be done quickly and unburdened by doubt. I am the same way with Whisk.
So the dagger slipped from his fingers and launched out toward the arbalist. No! That slipped sooner than I wanted and the weight of the throw felt wrong. That won’t hit. That won’t- The dagger sailed through the arbalist’s ear, severing it from his head.
“Aaah, shit! Aah, shit, shit!” The man fell to his back, clutching his bloody head. “Aaah-aah, ho’ help me!” His crossbow hit the ground, forgotten by the one-eared man. Well, I suppose that will have to do.
Ready to see who was left, Myers ventured around the corner of the statue. He turned it in time to see another guardsman tipping his toes around it. The look of surprise on the man was so priceless it belonged on one of the paintings in the room. Before they could meet, Myers rushed for the other direction. He stopped mid-circle and began to double back the original way. If he’s as dumb as the rest I’ll catch him by his back.
The trick might have been worthy of Reindell but it worked. As if he had crawled from the shadows, Myers appeared at the backside of the sneaking guardsman. He had time enough to turn around and see his death was upon him. The look on his face that time was art in itself. However, the expression of despair was as short lived as the man attached to it. Whisk carved half way down the man’s head.
“Now!” The shout came from the entrance of the room. Myers saw from the corner of his eyes there were two left. Both arbalists equipped with those pesky crossbows. The Prince of Steel had meant to retract Whisk from the skull wrapped around it yet it would not budge. Bastard isn’t letting go, Myers realized. Though the body attached to the end of the blade was limp and heavy it was clung tightly around Whisk by the horrid gash splitting the head.
Putting his palm against the blade as to better steer it, Myers moved the puppet of a corpse around. The body jumped when the two bolts struck its back. Between those extra pushes and the slash against the air, Whisk unwedged itself from Myers’ meat shield. Now it was just Myers and the two men taking their time loading their next bolts. The weakness of the crossbow reveals itself.
The Prince of Steel dashed forward. The closer one dropped his crossbow and held his hands up, “Wait! I surrender! I surrender!” Then surrender your fingers. Myers slashed his blade through the air and the fingers began to rain. The man joined his wailing to the others and observed his bloody nubs in terror before taking flight. You still have your thumbs and I only took the upper halves of those fingers. You’ll manage.
It was down to the last man. He gave up on loading his bolt where he stood when he saw Myers dispatch his partner. Along with dispatching eight of his fingers. No doubt that sent some panic in the last man. Still, he tried to reload his crossbow. But that was no easy task when jogging on foot away from an incoming enemy.
The last man circled around one of the art pieces. An obscenely tall and lanky vase painted a dark blue. It stood nearly to both men’s chests. As Myers tried to race around the vase the last guardsman rushed around, keeping the vase between them. Just surrender already. What chance do you think you have? The man was still trying to reload his crossbow, even as Myers chased him the other direction around the vase. What am I doing?
Realizing the folly, Myers kicked at the vase. The vase split in two before shattering against the guardsman. Springing onto the stone base where the vase once stood, Myers swung Whisk out, taking the man’s head clean off. Catharsis melted over him. I have forgotten how good that felt.
When the spray of blood cleared, or rather when the body fell to clear the way for Myers’ view, he saw the door at the other end of the gallery. There were four more guardsmen crowded there. Arriving just in time to see the Prince of Steel taking the head off the last man. Given the rest of the bodies laid out across the gallery, they finally understood what they were up against. And so they fled.
Before leaving the gallery, Myers took one look back. Now there’s a painting befitting the Thatch Gang. He would have smiled if it was still in him to do so.
He caught in time the fleeing men turning a corner at the end of the new hall. Just ahead of Myers were two of the serving girls, comforting a teary eyed Isabelle. They left in such a hurry they’ve forgotten the women. He knew for certain then that their union was as hollow as expected for the Runt of Thatch. This is for love, Prince of Steel. Remember why you’re here. You’re hardened by a different metal. Still, it was as disappointing as it was sad to see Isabelle left abandoned.
“He has gone upstairs,” Isabelle said, “he’ll be in the War Room. Third floor, right side. The red door. The room with the red door on your right.”
A dribble of blood met Myer’s tongue. The cut on his cheek was bleeding and he hadn’t noticed his mouth was agape. He gave Isabelle no reply. Instead, he licked his lips, sealed them, and was off to find the room with the red doors.
A memory of Xander returned to Myers in the stairwell. “Try going up steps backwards,” he had said, “at least keep your head turned as you go up them.”
“Why?” Myers had asked.
Thatch appeared then, “So you catch the bastards above, waiting to put arrows in your back.”
If Reindell had more bows he would have used them here, Myers thought. The stairwell was unguarded. No ambush waited for him on the floors above. He always was fond of the bow, Myers remembered. It was how Reindell fought back when the gang was wild in the land. Reindell never fought in battles that required intimacy. Not if he wasn’t sticking a knife in a sleeping drunkard. Reindell fought from the trees, fought with the bow, putting arrows in the backs of witless travelers. No matter what, he deserves this.
The door was not even shut when Myers found it. His hand began to twitch as it had before. I’ve taken too long. If I drop Whisk I am dead. He shoved the door open. They must have been directly above the dining hall. A row of windows showed the same view of the mountains. Snowflakes were hitting the panes now. Before the window was Reindell, spinning around, looking as twitchy as Myers’ hand was feeling.
The Prince of Steel counted nine more guardsmen surrounding the Lord of Firstfall. He had more men than I expected. Granted, all still young and some still tying their bronze plates to their bodies in a hurry. The walls held numerous weapons. Some exotic, some not very practical looking. There were pillars by the door though. I could take cover if I needed. But there appeared to be no more ranged weapons. Some spears, a mace, a few wooden shields. Nothing impressive.
“Hello, old friend,” Myers said.
Reindell was fuming behind his men, “I’ve won this, Myers!” The corpses in the gallery would beg to differ. “Rule of four! I’ve got double that and a whole extra man!”
The twitch in his arm was acting up, making his elbow jiggle. “They don’t have to die with you.” He pressed on into the War Room with Whisk held out to his side. It’s as heavy as it's ever been. I cannot drop it. Not now.
“He’s coming at us,” cracked one of the bronze boy’s voices. “What we do?”
“Use your bloody weapons,” Reindell shouted.
“You didn’t see the gallery,” another said, “this isn’t any ordinary bugger. This is Gadley the Golden! God among men!”
“You can slay gods,” Reindell insisted, “he killed one!” That did not appear to encourage his men.
“But he-”
“He is dying,” Reindell roared, “he has long outlived himself. Time he joined the rest. Now get! Nine on one! Slaughter him!” That was enough for Reindell’s men. They gathered what courage they could and charged.
Five led the pact. Four fed the rear. Reindell watched by the window. The twitch took on a pain in Myers’ arm. His breath was beginning to escape him. No choice in the matter. I’ll only be able to do this once. Can’t fail. Can’t pass out either. He gripped through the pain and winded Whisk far back behind him. The charge shook the floor and the Prince of Steel whisked his steel with everything he had.
It was a cut from another era. Borrowed strength he would suffer dearly for spending. Whisk was again facing the back of the wall, this time held up toward the ceiling. Myers' body was twisted in a turn that ignited a burning ache on his ribs. He had swung well. The five in the front had been carved into pieces. The other four stopped in their tracks, yet none were so awestruck as Reindell, watching five men sliced in one single, majestic swing.
He did not think this possible, Myers thought, he did not think it possible even in my prime. The four survivors threw their weapons down and abandoned their lord. “Where are you going!?” His voice sang high, “Come back, I am your lord!” The four hid their eyes from Myers as they paced from the room. They’re too afraid to run so they hustle out in shame.
“Get back, you cowards!” The terror was there in his tone. He’s still processing what has happened. He did not think one could cut through four or more at once. Such a feat was never easy. But never impossible. Better armor, more of it, that might have made the difference. That might have saved you.
Myers rested Whisk down. “Isn’t this familiar, Reindell? Melony had nine children. We killed five of them before we got to her.” The Proselyte we wounded but he escaped. The Crawler was never part of the deal and so we let her remain in her swamp. The Wolf Mother we raped and let go. The Redeemer gave us no quarrel. The other five we killed before I plunged Whisk into The Spoiled.
“Sod off,” the Lord of Firstfall spat inelegantly. His back was to the window, as was the incoming storm. He tried to slip off to the side but Myers held out Whisk to extend himself and prevented Reindell’s escape. He has escaped this for long enough. We slew monsters once but that does not mean we were any better than them.
The Runt was cornered. The Prince of Steel was before him. If it was Melony who had him here she would have turned him into a pig. That was her favorite way of spoiling. How many pigs out there were once ordinary men and women, trapped in the bodies of swine long after her own undoing? And all this time who better to turn into a pig than the Runt? Ah, Reindell. You would have wished it was Melony standing where I am now.
“Thanks for the dinner.” We both know neither of us were above killing each other, manners be damned with us.
Myers could feel the throbs of every muscle in his arm, the unnatural pounding of his heart. He hurried Whisk up for a piercing blow. “W-wait, stop this,” Reindell blurted, “I-I am your brother, Myers! We are brothers. Brothers, Myers. Yes! I am your little brother. This was all a ruse. A brotherly game. I was playing you, like how we would back in the day, yes. You could handle this. I know you could. Myers, please…”
The twitch was harsh in his right hand. He held Reindell by the shoulder with his left. “Myers! Stop this! I’ll do anything. Anything! I’ve got gold. S-silver! I still have some gems too. They’re yours if you let me go. You can have all the serving girls. You can have Isabelle!” Tears swelled in the Runt’s black eyes. His twisted eye seemed larger than usual. Somehow sadder. “You can have me, if you bloody well want! I-I’ll please you. I’ll please you well. Anything, Myers! I-I’ll get on my knees and beg!”
Is this supposed to discourage me?
“Your brother, Myers,” Reindell said again, this time through his tears. “I am your little brother. I…I am a runt…” That hurt him to say, Myers thought. Hurt him more than the blade he shoved up through the Runt’s body.
The blood dripped down Whisk and wetted Myer’s fingers with a cold embrace. Reindell sounded as if he had hiccupped after the blade passed through his gut and out the top of his back. Blood dripped from his thin lips. His dark eyes went darker.
“Curse you, Myers,” Reindell hissed, his tone suddenly flipped to a vile hatred. “Curse you…you…”
In an instant, Myers slid Whisk from Reindell and knocked him through the window. The glass exploded out into the misty snow. Some three stories the Runt fell from his castle. The mud below served poorly to soften his fall. Against the hard clay beneath his bones were doubtlessly well shattered. Myers could see a few protruding out of the Runt’s body when he looked below. Bloody and mangled, the Runt’s chest rose rapidly up and down. He is not dead, Myers saw. I guess if he lived this long what was impalement and a three story fall? To the Runt’s credit, the Prince of Steel had to admit, he did not die easily.
He found Isabelle in one of the halls below. Myers realized Whisk was still wet with her husband’s blood. He wiped it on his cloak and sheathed it. “Forgive me, my lady. I’ve made a widow of you.” They stood in silence for a moment. “A storm is here. Once it has passed I would suggest you return to your family.”
“That fiend was never family to me and I cannot forgive my true family for selling me to him. I will return to them though. I cannot thank you but I will tell them you freed me. I will tell them you slew a monster,” Isabelle cried out as he left.
Myers gave an icy look back to her. No, I slew a runt. You’re looking at the real monster. And what did it cost? A score of bodies. Not to mention an ear, half a hand, plus another eight fingers. My heart feels ready to give out. What will it take to claim the others?
The servants bowed their heads as the Prince of Steel passed through the main hall. Outside his nameless horse was waiting patiently as the first flakes of snow tickled across him. Lard was watching as he mounted the horse and strode off for the trail. He is not the only one watching.
Against the wind were the screams of the Runt. He wasn’t dying very well, it seemed. Moving up his horse to the muddy fence tucked into the castle’s corner, Myers saw a swarm of swine at the center. A flailing boney arm was raised up where their mass of heads met. They are eating him alive.
And so the Lord of Firstfall was the first to fall on the Prince of Steel’s bloody list. The pigs were dining on the Runt’s flesh, his tormented anguish singing against their hungry squeals. Flesh, the Runt’s killer thought plainly then. Flesh. Skin. The sweet smell of her hair. As the Runt’s skin was ripped from his broken bones, as his old friend was gruesomely devoured, the Prince of Steel yearned for no desire but the touch of her skin against his own.