Chapter Fifty-Eight: The Shining Spear of Aldoran

“Fear the Shining Spear. When the High King rides into battle with his lance of Rhinegold like a ray of sunlight bursting from the sky, the enemy will know true despair.”

—Turnus Hibernon, Royal Bloodlines of Faengard

Time tended to slow to a standstill inside the prison cells. Without daylight or any idea of what was going on outside, the only method Alend had of telling the time was when the prison guard handed him his gruel through the bars. Even then, it had taken him what felt like a week before he’d finally begun to eat the filth. Since then he’d counted sixty meals. Twenty days. On one hand, the fact that he hadn’t been executed meant that the one month time period wasn’t up yet. On the other, he didn’t know how long it took to get to Raginrok and back, but if Ein and the party hadn’t returned in three weeks, things weren’t looking good.

Alend spooned the lumpy substance down his throat, feeling his insides reject it. They were still lacing his food with inhibitor drugs to prevent him from regaining his Kingsblade strength. The other option would be to sever the bond entirely, which would free Alend and prevent anyone of the Uldan bloodline from ever bonding with him again. It was a smart move on Aedon’s behalf, maintaining his massive leverage. At any time, all the King had to do was command Alend to kill himself, and he would have to obey. The Vow was the very definition of a double-edged sword.

Once Alend had finished his meal, he left it by the door and sat back down to the wall. The dungeons had given him time to think about things—too much of it, in fact. Aside from brooding, there was nothing else to do but eat, sleep and piss. He suspected that was the main reason why all the criminals went mad. He himself had almost gone insane, especially that night when Ein had come to visit him. Wearing the Thoren pauldron on his shoulder and the Rhinegold blade strapped to his waist, he had reminded Alend of Edric in his prime. Edric had always been the idealistic one, the optimistic brother who saw the good in everything. Alend had been his opposite, cynical, grounded in reality.

He’d worked so hard to escape his fate, to give the son of his sister-in-law a fighting chance at life. When he’d first taken baby Ein into his arms, he’d had doubts as to how things would progress between the two. After all, he was in love with Rhea, not her sister. Ein was not related to him in any way.

But those doubts had disappeared soon enough. Ein had been just what he needed in his jaded life, a bright-eyed child to mentor and set on the right path as he had done with young Gilfred all those years ago. Ein was a good boy, one who listened and thought logically.

That was why it pained him even more to see the boy return to his old ways, to his ideals of becoming a Hero of Faengard. Edric’s idealism had been his undoing. He did not want Ein to go down the same path.

Those thoughts had cycled around in his mind for several days, several meals which he’d skipped. It had only been through sheer strength of will that he forced himself to eat again, to move around his cell and try to maintain his fitness, to think of brighter things. After all, when Ein returned—Alend would never consider the alternative—he wanted to greet his son with a smile.

A light flickered at the end of the hallway, and steel boots began making their way towards his cell. The prison guard no doubt, come to collect his dirty plates. Alend carved a mark into the wall with the back of his spoon. That marked the sixty-first bowl of gruel since he’d began counting. It had to be night; the time between night and morning was always longer than between morning and noon or noon and night.

Alend squinted and then shut his eyes as the torchlight grew brighter. Sitting in the dark all day had made his vision oversensitive and honed his remaining senses. In the silence of his cell, he could hear a pin drop—or the mumblings of a man five doors down the hallway.

It was quiet tonight, so there was no mistaking the jangle of keys being moved on a keyring.

That’s odd. The guard only ever opened his door to clean his living space, though more often than not he was handed the implements through the bars to use himself. The keys continued to clatter against each other as they slid into the lock, activating the tumblers and turning.

Alend opened his eyes a fraction and then a fraction more, waiting to adjust to the soft light. The door fully swung open and a man stepped inside, wrinkling his nose. He wore full Rhinegold armour without a helm, and his golden mane was fiery in the torchlight

“Gilfred?” Alend rasped, flinching at how weak he sounded.

“I owe you an apology,” the Kingsblade said. “And the King as well. He wishes to see you, after we’ve had the medics do a checkup on your condition.”

The door was open. A fresh breeze trickled in, one that he hadn’t felt for a long time. It sang of one word, a word that was music to his ears.

Freedom.

Alend crawled towards the light in wonder.

#

He was taken to a makeshift medical station set up in the entrance hall of Uldan Keep, allowed to shave and clean himself, given a fresh set of second-hand clothes. As he looked at himself in the mirror, he was shocked at what he saw. He was so much thinner than he’d remembered, his skin sickly white from lack of sunlight, great big shadows beneath his eyes. He felt light, though not in the good way. In the way that a twig might as the wind blew it away.

Gilfred had left him after explaining what had happened, glossing over the details of Illia’s suicide. The servants worked in front of him, manning the desk, hauling crates of supplies and precious items, leading reluctant horses across the carpet. The entire population of Aldoran was gathered in single file with their belongings, signed off one by one and subsequently led to the escape tunnel in the castle cellar. Guards watched the line intently, breaking up disputes and attempts to jump the queue before they could escalate.

It was over. At last, he was no longer a wanted man. Though he was still bound to Aedon, the King had supposedly withdrawn his hostility and was welcoming Alend back with open arms. He frowned. It was strange to think of Aedon as non-hostile again, after spending so long living in fear of his former friend. He didn’t think it would be that easy to mend their relationship, even after Aedon had apologized. This was not something that could be done via a middle man. This was something that needed to be settled face to face.

And Illia was dead, too. He kept opening his eyes and expecting it to be a dream. The woman who had started it all, who had set Aedon against him and fed his paranoia, she was gone. Broken at the bottom of Wall Norn. Dead.

Alend stood up and strolled around the edge of the hall. The iron sword Gilfred had given him felt unwieldy by his waist, unusually heavy. He didn’t think he could use a sword now, not after spending almost a month doing nothing with his body. He would struggle to even lift a blacksmith’s hammer.

“Master Alend! By the Pantheon, you’re alright!”

It was a voice Alend had not expected to find here of all places. He turned around and saw Bran running towards him, the tall, lanky boy carrying a sack of supplies over his shoulder.

“Bran,” he said. “What a pleasant surprise.” He was taller, Alend realized. Bran had always been tall, but he stood straighter now, stronger. They were almost the same height. There was something in the boy’s eyes that hadn’t been there before, a hint of confidence perhaps, a hint of strength. Pride swelled inside Alend.

If only you could see your son now, he thought to Sanson, when he’d been a butcher and not a Faceless. He has become a fine young man.

“Have they released you?” Bran continued, hopeful. “Has Ein returned with Garax and Rhinne? Did they succeed on their quest?”

“I’m afraid not,” Alend sighed. “Aedon, it seems, has finally seen the error of his ways and revoked my Deserter status. All it took was a failed attempt to stop the relicts and a confession from his wife.”

“I heard about that,” Bran said darkly. “Illia threw herself off the wall in guilt, apparently. As she well deserves. Many good men have died because of her naivety.”

Alend sighed. “It could have been worse. The bomb could have done a lot more than send the relicts into a berserk rage.” He peered at the station where all the medics were, noting the dark-coloured robes of the Songweavers. “Is Evaine here? How is she doing?”

“She was with the healers,” Bran said, “But I think she’s gone to help the perimeter unit now. She’s been up to her neck in work since the attack on Wall Menkraft.”

“Well she’s got what she wished for,” he said. “I doubt she’ll ever be caught up again in an adventure as big as this one.”

“Indeed.” Bran had a faraway look now. Alend smiled inwardly. It seemed that things were progressing well between them. He’d secretly hoped Ein and Evaine would end up with each other, but after everything that had happened, he somehow doubted that would be the case. The two were simply too different.

It was at that moment that a horn sounded from the distance, long and wailing. Alend snapped his head to one side as the guards broke into urgent whispers.

“What’s that?” Bran asked, following his gaze.

It was a sound that every guard, every member of the Legion knew. A sound that Alend had never heard before in his time as a Kingsblade, outside of when he’d been taught it.

“Another attack,” he muttered. “The second wall, I’d say.”

Bran’s face paled. “Are you going?”

“I suppose I should. Just to see what’s happening, at the very least.” He could stay here and evacuate with everyone else, but there would be no point. Two out of three of the remaining Uldans were out there, and if both of them died, their chances of survival would drop from infinitesimal to basically nil.

“Aren’t you going to armour up?” Bran asked. “I can ask some of my seniors if they—”

“No time,” Alend shook his head. “At this rate, armour would only slow me down.” He had half a mind to throw away his sword as well—anything short of Rhinegold was useless against a relict—but he decided to keep it, just in case.

Just in case he needed a quick way to end himself.

Alend bolted through the double-doors to the courtyard, racing past the enormous line of people. Panic had started anew. The guards had their hands full simply controlling the citizens and stopping them from running amok.

“Come this way,” he heard Bran say behind him. “It’s faster.”

Alend turned around and chased after the boy. He’s definitely changed, he thought. The Bran he knew would have remained inside the Keep, cowering.

They flew across the pavement, cutting through lawns and low hedges until they reached the moat. A choir of Songweavers stood at its edge, chanting a mystical hymn towards the waters, infusing it with salt. The two fled past without a second glance, following the other soldiers as they streamed down the hill to the second slope.

“Wyd almighty, it’s dark,” Bran panted.

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And indeed it was. The sun, it seemed, was not going to rise any time soon, and the street lamps had all but burned out. Had Alend not been so familiar with the roads, they would have lost themselves in the darkness.

The pair followed the clamour to the gate of Norn, which had been blown into smithereens. Fire flickered along its length, lighting up the savage faces of the Worgals behind them. Soldiers held the immediate area in a phalanx, forcing the horde back. Three mounted Kingsblades in Rhinegold armour mowed through the ranks, swinging greatswords the size of men.

“Evaine!” he heard Bran cry. They rushed to a corner of the street where a circle of Songweavers stood singing in concentration, the young woman among them. A salty breeze gusted over the area.

“Bran!” she exclaimed, lifting her head up from concentration. “Alend! What are you two doing here?” She looked older somehow. It was her eyes; they were darker, dimmer.

“Aedon,” Alend said. “Where is he? And is the Princess secure?” She’d been taken somewhere secluded along the wall after her mother’s death, according to Gilfred. Alend hoped she was safe. If they lost her, their already slim chances of survival would halve.

“The King went to the east gate,” another Songweaver said, a tall, squarish woman who looked like a man. “He took two of his Kingsblades with him.”

Alend cursed. Aedon was not in any shape to be fighting. “Bran. Head back and tell the guards in the Keep what’s happening. Have them send reinforcements to the east gate so we can safely retreat.”

Bran shook his head. “I’m coming with you, Alend. I won’t sit back and watch anymore, not when everyone’s fighting but me.”

Alend blinked. Before he could answer, Evaine jumped in as well. “Minstrel Kedryn, is it alright if I go with them to the east gate? I think we have enough numbers here.”

The female Songweaver nodded. “Go, Journeyman. May the Winds blow favourably upon you.”

Alend shook his head. A lot had happened in the month he’d been gone. The boy and the girl on either side of him now, they were not the same boy and girl who had left Felhaven all those weeks ago.

#

“Your Majesty!” Gilfred cried. “Watch out!”

The Slazaad barrelled across the road, its flat head ramming into an empty tavern. The windows exploded into glass fragments as it broke the wall and the front counter. Wood snapped and splintered, crumpling beneath the giant relict, bottles of unsealed liquor shattering over its back. It roared and then began to backpedal, heaving its body from the wreckage.

Celianna hugged Gilfred’s waist harder, burying her face between his shoulder blades. The Princess was clearly shaken by her mother’s confession and subsequent death. Gilfred couldn’t see her face, but he knew it would be chalk white with shock and fear—yet he couldn’t just take her and flee back to the castle, not when the High King himself was in danger. His honour prevented that.

Aedon and Vanin circled around on their mounts, Rhinegold weapons raised. Behind them, the Worgals fought small skirmishes with the scattered footsoldiers. Claw and steel rang through the air.

“We can’t hold,” Vanin said. “As much as I hate to admit it, Your Majesty, we must fall back to Adem.”

“We’re not going back, damnit,” Aedon growled. He lowered his golden lance and urged his horse onwards. It let out a fearless cry as it rounded the relict’s side, building up momentum. The King roared and thrust deep into its flank, splattering black blood across the stones.

The Slazaad screeched and swung its morning-star tail, cracking a streetlamp in half. It snapped like a twig and crashed into the ground where Gilfred and and Celianna had been. Gilfred guided his mount around the fallen pole and back to Aedon’s side, his heart pounding.

“Celianna,” he called out. “Are you hurt?”

He felt her shake her head.

Lauriel above, he thought. If the Slazaad somehow caught the Princess, she would not last a second.

A pack of Worgals bounded across the road to join the fight, but Vanin dispatched them easily with his greatsword. Aedon continued to circle the Slazaad, roaring obscenities at it. He was huffing and puffing, clearly out of shape—Gilfred couldn’t remember the last time the King had been in a fight—but some sort of battle rage had taken over and he refused to back down. The Slazaad slammed its tail into the ground, cracking it to pieces. Gilfred darted in and landed a deep blow, slashing open its side.

“Come on, men! We’re almost there!” Aedon kicked his steed into a charge, lowering his lance. “Kalador give us strength!”

Something flashed before them. Celianna cried out as a bronze blur rammed into the King, killing his steed and knocking him off it. Aedon fell heavily to the ground, wrestling with a Bloodmane. The creature was slashed with a thousand wounds and half its body had been burnt, but it was still a match for the King. It had lost its Boneblade somewhere and was snapping with its teeth, eyes red with furor.

“Celianna,” Gilfred ordered. “Take Dawn back to the Keep. Go!”

He handed her the reins to his steed and leapt off, racing towards Aedon. Vanin had dismounted as well. The two Kingsblades tackled the Bloodmane, grabbing an arm each and pulling, slamming it into the ground as it snarled and kicked. Aedon rolled back onto his feet and stood, blood running down his forehead where he’d been struck.

“The Fire take you,” he hissed, and plunged his lance through its chest. The Bloodmane arched its back in pain and then went still, its eyes fading.

“Father!” Celianna shrieked. “Behind you!”

The stubborn girl! Gilfred thought, even as he turned around. Why is she still here?

A great roar shook the earth as the Slazaad’s tail came from nowhere, sweeping across the three of them. Aedon and Vanin ducked to the ground, but Gilfred was a heartbeat too late. White-hot pain exploded in his ribs as the spiked ball smashed into him, flinging him several feet into the wall. The city whirled, the night sky and the flames blurring into a single veil of red agony. He hit his head hard and slid down onto his knees, coughing.

“Wyd almighty,” he spat, gasping for air, and then swore violently. The noises around him became deafening, the roar of fire, the distant barking and snapping of Worgals, the ringing of steel against steel as the Legion fought for the glory of Aldoran. He blinked back the tears and raised his head, only to see Aedon grab a burning plank of wood from one of the destroyed houses and shatter it on the Slazaad’s shoulder. Fire caught onto the relict and splashed down its back, igniting the spilt liquor.

The Slazaad’s eyes rolled back into its head and it thrashed with pain. Vanin stepped in with his sword and landed a finishing blow, impaling the lizard through the neck. It writhed and then sprawled onto the ground, twitching as the flames ate it away.

“Gilfred!” Celianna cried, bringing Dawn towards him. “Gilfred, are you okay?” She dismounted and ran to his side. Aedon came limping over, while Vanin pulled his sword from the corpse.

“I’ll live,” he groaned, breath shuddering in his lips. He felt blood soak his shirt, but the armour had thankfully protected him from the worst of the attack. The more pressing concern was the dent in his armour, which was causing his broken ribs to grind painfully against his organs, impeding his breathing. “Help me get this thing off.”

“A real piece of work that creature was,” the King said, feeling for Gilfred’s straps. “No wonder the gates fell. And a Bloodmane, too.”

There was a click, and Gilfred gently removed the breastplate from his torso. He placed it on the ground and gingerly flexed his chest. Pain blossomed inside his lungs.

There was no way he was fighting again. Even with the magic of the Vow running through him, it would take at least two days for a wound of such calibre heal.

“Are you happy now?” he asked. “You’ve killed a Bloodmane and a Slazaad. We should quit while we’re still ahead—”

Gilfred’s voice caught in his throat. It had been quiet for a while—he’d assumed the Worgals and the Legionnaires had taken their fight elsewhere. But as he looked into the burning distance, he realized that wasn’t the case.

The Worgals had moved on, because all the soldiers were dead.

It stood atop a mattress of blood-stained black and silver, the remains of the valiant soldiers who’d given their lives for the city. The Apocalypse Knight looked even taller than Gilfred had remembered, the mask of the Watching Moon upon its face, the pattern of scars vivid against its body.

“Hrongar Urudain,” he whispered its name.

The half-man, half-giant had been sealed in Nephilheim along with the rest of the Apocalypse Knights, bound with cursed chains which now dangled brokenly from his wrists. He was the strongest of the seven, so powerful that even his fellow giants feared him, said to have wrestled many a dragon to death during the Great War.

Hrongar approached the group with deep, shuddering steps, expressionless behind its mask.

“Aedon,” Gilfred said, throwing away all formalities. “We have to go. Now.”

He tried to get up, but Aedon was already heading off to meet the giant. Vanin gave Gilfred an apologetic look and went to join him.

“Celianna,” he said, turning to the Princess this time. “Your father is a stubborn fool. That… that thing will kill us all if we try to fight it. We can’t stay here.” He dug his heels into the ground and forced himself up, holding onto the wall for support. Dawn whinnied, staring at the Knight in fear.

Aedon stepped over the corpse of his horse and slammed the butt of his lance onto the ground. Vanin stood a short distance beside him, greatsword resting on his shoulder.

“No,” Gilfred moaned. He would have gone to aid his King, but with the state he was in now, he would only be a burden.

“Gilfred told me there were two of you,” the King said. “Where is the other?”

Hrongar regarded him calmly. Dried blood lined his chest and hands, where many men had found their deaths. Sweat gleamed along the half-giant’s skin, mixing with dirt and soot. He made a muffled noise from behind his mask, something incomprehensible.

“Speak words, Urudain. I don’t understand gibberish.”

The half-giant laughed and grunted again, pointing along the trail of destruction it had left.

“The west gate, I think he’s trying to say,” Vanin murmured.

Aedon nodded. “And I suppose your army is marching towards the innermost wall now?”

Hrongar nodded. Aedon lifted his lance off the ground.

“I see. Well Hrongar, I’d like to say I’m seeking vengeance for the destruction of my city, but that would be a lie.” He lowered the lance until it was pointing directly at the Knight’s chest. “You see, this has now become a personal matter. Though you had no part to play in it, I am holding you directly accountable for the death of my beloved wife. And for that, I cannot allow you to live.”

He lowered his knees into the Coiled Viper. Vanin took a battle stance of his own. Hrongar looked at them both, and then charged.

Gilfred felt the tremors through the ground as he stumbled towards Dawn, struggling to place his foot in the stirrup. Hrongar let out a berserk roar as he reached the two Rhinegold-clad warriors, sending a flying punch towards Aedon. Aedon, to his credit, avoided it and stabbed his lance straight through the Knight’s stomach. Hrongar bellowed and clamped its free hand around Aedon, holding him close.

“Father!” Celianna screamed. “Gilfred, we have to do something!”

“Mother Anturia,” Gilfred swore, digging his heels into Dawn. “Aedon, you fool!”

Vanin loosed a battlecry and swung his sword down onto the half-giant’s neck. It cut several inches deep but no further. Hrongar stepped rearwards and slammed his back against the wall, crushing the Kingsblade. He cried out in pain as he slumped onto the ground, a mess of blood and gold.

Aedon was still struggling, trying to push the Knight off him. Gilfred drew his sword, feeling the pain flare near his sternum. Even if he were to die, he would at least land a few blows upon the Apocalypse Knight. It was the least he could do.

The King’s face was purple now, his eyeballs bulging in their sockets. He twisted his head sideways, facing Gilfred as he approached, sword in hand.

“Take Celianna and go,” he managed, before Hrongar’s second arm came down and locked him into a deathgrip. “Protect… her.”

“No!” Gilfred howled. He felt the command take over his body, felt his hands steer himself in a curve away from his King. Celianna was crying now, rushing towards her father, her face a mess of tears.

“Father!” she screamed, as Gilfred grabbed her by the waist and threw her onto the saddle. “Father!”

Poor girl. To lose both her parents in one night. Gilfred shook his head. He planned for this, didn’t he? He wanted to die. The stubborn bastard!

Aedon was still struggling against the half-giant when two arrows struck it in the back. Gilfred jerked his head sideways to the opposite end of the road. Three figures raced towards them—the young Songweaver Evaine, the runner boy Bran, and…

“Alend!” he exclaimed. “Lauriel above… what the blazes are you doing here?” It was the former Kingsblade, dressed in a patchy long-sleeved shirt and pants, with a shoddy sword by his waist. He wouldn’t last a second if Hrongar hit him.

“Aedon,” Alend roared. “You bastard. You owe me more than a damn apology!”

He sprinted over to Vanin’s dead body and prised the Rhinegold greatsword from his hands. The arrows on Hrongar’s back began to steam, melting holes in his skin. Hrongar released his hold on the King and tried to pull them out, writhing like a fly with its wings cut off, but they’d buried themselves in a place he couldn’t reach. A haunting song echoed from far off, the song of a siren leading sailors to their death, a song that smelled of brine and the sea. Gilfred looked towards Evaine and realized she was singing, weaving some sort of magic into the arrows to increase their effectiveness. Another voice joined in, one he knew well. It was Celianna, her frantic melody twining with Evaine’s. The arrows sank deeper into the giant man’s flesh. The runner boy, Bran, loosed another arrow and struck Hrongar square in his exposed eye.

“Bran,” Alend cried out. “Evaine! Get Aedon and go!” He pointed to Vanin’s horse, which had fled to a corner and was waiting. Bran nodded and ran towards it, placing his hand against the animal’s head and whispering to it. The beast seemed to understand what was going on.

Hrongar finally managed to wrench the arrow from the eyehole in its mask. Blood streamed from the hole, thick and lumpy. The Knight bellowed, swinging its arms blindly, smashing windows and brick walls. Alend ducked under its arms, the greatsword in his hands, moving as lightly as if he were dancing.

“What are you doing?” Aedon spluttered, as Evaine and Bran helped lift him onto the saddle. “Alend, you madman!”

“Saving you,” Alend called back. “Old habits die hard.” He lifted the sword and stabbed it through Hrongar’s foot, pinning it to the ground against a section of packed earth. As the Knight swept the air for the hilt, Alend rolled out from its reach and bolted for Gilfred’s horse. Gilfred extended a hand and hauled his former mentor onto the saddle.

“Run, Dawn,” he shouted. “Run!”

Bran urged Vanin’s horse as well, with Evaine keeping Aedon strapped in place, and they raced away from Wall Norn and to safety.