Fight, then, flesh of my enemy, and my flesh will answer in kind. When your end is at hand, what have you to say of what came before it?
-The Triptych; Book of Hells, Panel 8
Castle Tern, Dridon
Lucanh watched the blade of Havokond part the air on a collision course with his head. The war hammer moved slowly, so slowly that he found himself waiting for it to be over. The attack. The pain. Life.
Time flowed differently in this singular moment suspended in the flow of history. He could think a great many thoughts, but they were ill-shapen, not fully formed, just the raw building blocks of them. His father popped into his mind’s eye. Then his mother. He felt something guiltlike for both of them. He thought of the Triptych, not for its contents or what it meant to him—there was no time for all that—but the impression of it in his world, the book sitting on the pedestal waiting for him in the royal library.
Sir Stepan, of all people, appeared next. His memory was shaped like a kindness. But he died protecting the innocent. It’s a nobler death than even most knights can aspire to have. Lucanh saw his own end on the edge of that black blade bearing down on him. There was no time to evade it, he knew—this was going to happen.
Pray to Triad you don’t have my luck, said Sir Godwald’s memory.
Lucanh’s body moved back like it was already falling in death. But it wasn’t falling—it was dodging. Or trying to, at least.
Too slow.
The blade sliced clean through the bridge of Lucanh’s nose. It shaved off a cluster of eyelashes in transit. His body reacted just in time to stop his head from being cleaved right in half sideways.
For now.
He fell back-first against the stone banister overlooking the first floor of the keep. White hot pain burned his face, the blood oozing down his face cool by comparison. He grimaced in agony, but that only made it worse, and then he tasted salt and metal. Pain meant he was alive. Pain meant he could make a plan.
Clang!
Kimbel kicked Lucanh’s sword across the landing, the steel blade clattering against stone, spinning in two full revolutions before coming to rest far away. The boy king had him cornered. “Damn fool child!” he jeered. “Mercy will be your final mistake! I’m needed downstairs. Afraid that means...” He raised Havokond into the air behind his head. “...we’ll have to do this quick and clean!”
Time was sped up again. There was no slowing of the moment in his mind—he held up an arm instinctively, knowing it wouldn’t save him. His body turned clumsily toward his fallen sword, but there would be no time to grab it.
His thoughts were even more fleeting now. He wished Sir Godwald were there to save him. He thought of his father’s final resting place. Three stones in the coffin. Soon they’d be reunited in the Heights above—or so he hoped. In that desperate, final moment, he clung back to his old faith.
He’d wanted to face death with eyes wide open, but he couldn’t help but close them as be braced for it.
There was a sickening, bloody sound. Steel cut through flesh. Havokond’s bloody blade followed through and embedded itself in the stone floor.
Lucanh saw only black now.
Then he opened his eyes.
Kimbel stood frozen in place, his face pale and contorted in shock. He turned slowly, shuddering in shock and pain, toward Rhoda, who stood at his side. She held the hilt of a blade that was now buried in the boy king’s side just under the gap of his cuirass. It was Kimbel’s own dagger.
Before, his eyes had been cold and reptilian, even when he’d tried to feign surrender. The bite of the blade brought back that familiar vitality. His eyes were now more akin to those of a rabbit in the jaw of a wolf. Vivid. Warm-blooded.
“Where did... h-how...” Kimbel sputtered, losing his balance. The queen said nothing. She only tore out the blade, which made a visceral ripping sound on its exit. His knees buckled. “I’m the king.” He had a mouthful of scarlet. Rhoda was silent, taking no pleasure when she grabbed him by the rim of his helmet and pulled his head back, exposing his neck. His fingers fluttered at his side for his war hammer that was out of reach. “I’m... the king.”
Rhoda took his dagger, pressed the blade into his neck. Drew it across. It was over in one quick motion. Lucanh’s mind flashed to red on white, the helpless little lamb that was slaughtered, and all of Kimbel’s unearthly terror was washed away at once.
He made a damp sputtering sound. Tried to suck in a breath that wasn’t there, a fish out of water. Then his eyes went dead again for the final time.
Kimbel stopped moving.
“Mother,” Lucanh breathed. His eyes dampened at the realization that they were both still alive. He was saved.
Rhoda tossed the dagger aside, wiping the blood on her gown. She approached her son, holding his face in her hands, studying it. “That looks painful. My poor baby will have a scar for the rest of his life. Are you hurt anywhere else?”
The prince’s mind buzzed. He could hardly focus on her calm, level questions, the macabre thrill of battle still fresh. “He... he hit me hard in the face,” Luke finally answered. “My leg hurts. That’s it.”
“Can you stand?” When Rhoda helped him up, she had her answer. “There are knights with more grievous injuries than you, so you’ll have to wait your turn with the chirurgeon.”
Lucanh turned an ear over the banister, listened for the sounds of war; there were none. “What’s happening down there?”
She closed her eyes and sighed. “I knew this day would come. And I knew that Castle Tern would be the key to putting down these slavers once and for all. The battle’s almost over, Luke. We’ve already pushed the surviving invaders out of the keep. Soon they’ll be out of the city.” She put a hand on his pauldron. “We’ve won.”
His head spun with everything he learned now. His mother spoke of strategy, of a decisive turn in Dridon’s favor. It all seemed too good to be true. Was this his mind’s last wishful thinking as Havokond put an end to him once and for all? Was he bound for the Heights already? Then another voice snapped him back to reality.
“Your Majesty,” said Sir Stepan. The High Knight and his cohorts were waiting in the open doorway of a nearby stairwell. “It’s done.”
“They’ve surrendered?” Rhoda asked. Sir Stepan nodded, then couldn’t help but let his lips curl into the faintest hint of a smile. Rather than address her knights, she turned her attention to Lucanh, fixed his tousled hair and ran a concerned thumb across his trimmed eyelashes. “You did well today, Luke.”
“Thank you for saving me.” He found himself averting his gaze, ashamed that he wasn’t the one to finish Kimbel on his own. “I thought I could do it, but I—”
She patted him firmly on the pauldron once more. “Don’t ever doubt what you did here today. You were the better warrior, in skill and in spirit.” Her eyes glistened. “You did well, my son. We’re both very proud of you.”
***
Dawn broke over the battle-scarred city of Tern on the day following the Grackenwelsh invasion. Queen Rhoda, Prince Lucanh, Sir Stepan, and an assemblage of knights and assorted nobility gathered at the city gates. Black smoke still billowed into the pinkish-purple sky, but the fires were finally dying.
Few invaders survived to face the queen’s judgment, at least compared to the forces that had first arrived. Their cannons were broken down and divided between the city’s blacksmiths, along with most of the Grackenwelsh swords and hammers. Even some of their armor was confiscated.
Two of their generals, a stout, burly, orange-haired man and a tall, lithe one with dark hair, stood face to face with the victorious queen, though many paces apart from her. Dridic archers leaned out of the turrets on the city wall, arrows trained on the helmetless invaders.
“I understand Grackenwell intends to surrender formally,” Rhoda announced. “Are you ready to hear my terms?” The generals only glared at her. The stout one in particular looked especially vengeful. “I’m sorry, you’ll have to speak up. Otherwise my archers might get the wrong idea.”
“Those are our intentions,” said the orange-haired one, who was called General Cadwynh. “Proceed.”
“A full withdrawal of every last Grackenwelsh, unless they’re a slave who wishes to be free. They’ll each be evaluated depending on what they’ve done, and if their crimes are forgivable, they’ll be welcomed as full-fledged Dridic citizens. Otherwise, they’ll be deported back to Grackenwell.
Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
“Any soldier, spy, or freeman of Grackenwell found within a day’s walk of Tern tomorrow will be tried, imprisoned, and possibly executed. In three moons, I will convene with the next Grackenwelsh ruler in Zan Vayonado. At that time, any military presence in that nation on your part will be treated as a violation of your surrender and an act of renewed war. You have three moons to withdraw your men from the desert. I will follow up on the Grand Archipelago in due time as well.
“When I meet with your new king or queen, we’ll discuss the terms of a full and transparent peace treaty. Let me make myself abundantly clear now, generals.” She adjusted the silver crown on her head, staring icy daggers at them. “Today you have a chance at reclaiming your lives. At going home and picking up the pieces. Should you ever invade our borders with violence ever again, you will count yourselves lucky to be my prisoners for the rest of your miserable lives. If you don’t die by our hands first. And trust me when I say that your generals will be the first to hang. Is that understood?”
General Cadwynh spat on the ground, never taking his eyes off hers. “Understood.”
“Understood, Queen Rhoda,” said the one named General Rigart with a bit more decorum.
“You may depart with the body of your king.” She motioned for two knights, who stepped out from behind the city wall, carrying Kimbel’s body on a plank of wood. They laid the corpse at the generals’ feet and then marched back to their position. “As has already been made known, my son was the one to do battle with him. Prince Lucanh will make a brave king when my time is up. Besides the Garrotin’s fatal wounds, his remains are undefiled and presented to you intact.”
“He will receive the proper burial,” said Rigart. “For this, we are grateful.”
Rhoda held out her hands in a grand gesture. “Grackenwell, you are officially dismissed from our presence. My men will escort you to the border. Safe travels to the lot of you.”
The Grackenwelsh wasted no time in turning away from the queen and marching north. A team of slaves loaded their fallen king’s body onto a crude litter made of charred wood planks cobbled together, the handiwork of yesterday’s cannons. The makeshift pallbearers carried Kimbel’s remains with great care.
A large detachment of Dridic knights and soldiers followed behind them. Now that they had the chance to assemble fully, after being caught unaware and scattered the day prior, Dridon’s military might was greater than Lucanh had even imagined.
Greater still was the awe and respect that his mother commanded. She seemed like a changed woman in the light of daybreak, authoritative and sure of herself. Had she really changed that much of late? Or had he simply never noticed?
He found himself pondering this for the rest of the day as they set about cleaning up the city, stamping out the last of the fires, hauling off rubble and wreckage. He found himself wishing he could talk it over with Sir Godwald. Wondered if the man would be just as surprised, or if he’d only laugh knowingly and pat the boy on the back.
***
“I’m sorry,” Lucanh told her that day at supper.
It was late, far past dusk, when they finally sat down to eat their first meal. The day had been full of hard labor for all and he still hadn’t seen the chirurgeon; his face throbbed with pain at every slight movement, every word he spoke.
“Sorry for what, Luke?” Rhoda asked, tearing into a strip of jerky over a plate of steaming grains. They’d be eating this way for some time now that much of Dridon’s farmland had been torched in the invasion. But she’d planned ahead for just such a development.
“I just didn’t know,” he answered meekly. “I... I didn’t realize everything that went into being a good ruler. Everything that you’ve had to do and think through, and how nothing...” He gnawed tenderly at his jerky, chewing through the pain. “Nothing is the way I thought it would be. I never thought you’d be right all along.”
She smiled a sad, vindicated smile. “I’m not always right, Lucanh. Not even the queen is infallible. But don’t go telling that to everyone you meet.”
“How did you know?”
“Know what?”
He gesticulated with his brown strip of dried meat. “You know... to wait. How did you know not to invade them first? Did you know that we would win?”
She nodded. “It wasn’t all me. I took counsel from a number of sources. Spies, the High Knight, and yes, even your father.” She smiled a bit wider at that, staring off at nothing. “Grackenwell would have had a clear advantage on their own soil. Wide open spaces for their cannons to clear out rows of Dridic soldiers. Being closer to home, they could repair and resupply their cannons with ease.
“An invasion of Dridon proved costlier for them. Their cannons did considerable damage to the cities, but they soon ran out of ammunition, and though they saved the bulk of it to batter Castle Tern, the walls and the keep were fortified enough to withstand them by the end of it all. Once inside, the cannons were useless in close quarters—there was no way to differentiate us from their own men. And it’s in close quarters where our elite knights shine.
“Painful as it was,” she said solemnly, “and though we lost far too many, I knew that it was our best chance for victory. A decisive one—not the sort that would spawn a protracted war. My aides tell me that we avoided far more casualties this way. For the sake of my heart and my sanity, I choose to believe them.”
It was as if a new door unlocked within the confines of his mind and the blinding light of wisdom came pouring in. There were pains to growing taller, he well knew, and there were also pains to growing wiser; it peeled back another layer of the veil between him and truth, and it only made his past self look more the fool for it. Would it always be this way? Or would he one day attain the wisdom of a grown man and be done, finally?
“I’m sorry,” he repeated to his mother. “I didn’t understand.”
“I’m glad that you don’t understand it all yet,” she answered him readily. “You may wield a sword now, but you’re still a boy in my eyes. You always will be, even when I’m old and gray. Even when you are.” She took his bruised hand gently, gave his unhurt fingers a squeeze. “I may be queen, and you prince, but I’m your mother before anything else, as long as I live. You’ll make a fine king someday. Someday a long, long time from now, if I have anything to say about it.”
When supper had ended, servants cleaned away the table and the nobility milled about the hall with their goblets of wine. Another shift of knights was already taking over cleanup efforts and working through the night. Luke parted ways with his mother, who sat down gingerly on the burgundy rug in the great corridor to play a game of dice with peasant children. Many of the displaced citizens of Tern were still living within the castle walls while the city was rebuilt. Some of them had likely never slept indoors, at least not in quarters as nice as this.
“I’m not sure,” he heard Rhoda say. “You should ask him.”
“Prince Lucanh!” one of the smaller boys blurted out. He was missing an upper front tooth. His hair was matted, his clothes in tatters, but his face lit up like any other child’s. “Your face! What happened to you? Did you get hurt? Come play with us, Prince Lucanh!”
He smiled back. “I’d love to, but... Well, maybe tomorrow night. I have somewhere else I need to be.”
***
For all the commotion of the reconstruction efforts in surrounding Tern, the castle’s private cemetery was deathly quiet. The stars were out that crystal clear night; the half-melted snow that slushed beneath his boots was blue in the light of the half-moon. Lucanh made his way to the modestly marked grave, nothing but a triangular headstone, and lowered his cowl.
He stood there at the graveside with his hands folded in front of him. It had gone differently in his head. When he first set out from the dining hall, he imagined he’d have a litany of interesting things to say. He predicted that he’d sound wise saying it all. Even though it would be a one-sided conversation, he thought it would be effortless for him to carry it, and by the end, he’d be sure he’d said something worthwhile.
All that came out was, “We won.” Even though he didn’t think anyone was listening to him, he felt too foolish to say anything else. There it was again—the sobering realization that there was so much more to the world that he didn’t know than what he knew. So many experiences he’d yet to have. So much wisdom yet to glean from trial and error. Had all adults gone through the same at his age?
He shuddered to think that, when he first ran out of Castle Tern to save citizens from the northern invaders, he’d made some sort of peace with the idea of dying. Not just that it was a hero’s death, but that he’d somehow lived enough of a life that he was satisfied. He knew now the precious brevity of it. He knew that even a knight of Sir Godwald’s age had more life left in him when he was cut down. The future loomed taller than ever ahead of him, the precipice rising over that canyon of uncertainty. Time only muddled what he’d hoped it would clarify.
Without saying another word, Lucanh made his way out of the cemetery and back toward the castle. It’s all right, he told himself. There’ll be other days to stand here. I’ll come back when I have something more to say.
It wasn’t as if Sir Godwald would be going anywhere.
The realization made him frown, then scoff, and then he let out a mirthless chuckle despite himself. It was a strange kind of humor, dull and without any joy but funny in a flat sort of way. Adult.
It was the sort of thing he could imagine the knight saying and then laughing to himself. At least that thought brought him some peculiar comfort.
***
It was a laborious task to climb the stairs. His battle-weary body tensed and flared with pain each time he made a movement. Somehow, every step he took made the gash on his nose throb in discomfort, the chirurgeon’s stitches prickling. His bruises pulsed like angry hearts when he didn’t baby them.
It was still preferable, he reminded himself, to what befell his enemy.
Luke pressed on up the spiral staircase until he reached the level of the royal library. Down the hall he went, through the lavish doorway, to the room with centuries of tomes that always had a candle burning. The knights guarding the door were straight-backed and stoic. When the closed the door behind him, he was alone with the castle’s collected knowledge.
The Triptych waited for him on its old marble pedestal. He was finally taller than the pedestal, tall enough that he didn’t need a boost to read the book. When did that happen? Lucanh wondered.
He held the tome in both hands—no deerskin gloves this time. He needed to feel the leather binding on his fingertips, to feel the crinkling of the oat-colored pages as well as he heard it, to trace over the illuminations painstakingly crafted by a triarch some decades prior. Someone made this, it dawned on him. What a foolish, obvious thing to realize, he thought, but it made him appreciate the tome in a whole new light.
There was a whole new light to everything these days.
He hefted the book in both hands. It felt lighter than it used to, lighter and slimmer. But he could tell there was still vast, untapped wisdom to be found between its covers, and he no longer felt that he was above learning more.
Everything he knew, he’d learned from Sir Godwald, and Sir Godwald had drawn much of what he knew from this holy tome of Dridon. He was a man truly Tomebound to its truth and its secrets alike. Its wisdom. Lucanh had always thought of wisdom as a fruit to be harvested, when it was really a tree to be tended.
“By this tome, I lived,” he thought aloud, a solemn air falling over him. “And I still live. By another tome, Kimbel lived. And he is dead.” In his mind, the book seemed to hum with an odd energy about it. “Triad, I don’t know if it was You who saw me through... or Sir Godwald’s training. Maybe it was just luck that my mother happened to be there...” He swallowed hard, not feeling quite so alone as he’d felt at the graveside. “But if I’m to lead Dridon one day, I know I have more to learn than I already know.
“So, then, O Great Three-Headed One...” He opened the tome to the Book of Heights, the first panel. “Teach me.”