Prince of Bryanae Read online

  “Willow!” the Queen shouted, but to no avail. Willow heard her, but the sound didn’t register as meaningful words.

  The Queen yanked Willow’s rapier from its sheath and her eyes darted about the room until she spotted a floor-standing display case. She dragged the case; it moved in fits and starts.

  “Willow, help me—oh never mind!” She pointed at the jeweler cowering beside the counter. “You! Help me get this case down.”

  The jeweler’s pallor was ghostlike, but he ran to the Queen’s aid. Together, they heaved the case across the room. It toppled, and a fortune in jewelry spilled to the floor, and the glass top of the case shattered into a thousand sparkling fragments.

  “Wedge it against the door,” the Queen said. The jeweler whimpered at the wreckage, but nevertheless did as instructed. Together they pushed the case against the door.

  Just in time, too. They heard the last Elite’s dying scream, followed by a thunderous crash against the shop door. It buckled, and the display case slid back into the room. A muscular arm reached through the crack and groped for whatever was bolstering the door.

  Willow watched in stymied agony. Why couldn’t she act? Where was her precious discipline?

  “Dammit, Willow!” the Queen shouted. “Do something!”

  But Willow was trapped in the prison of her suppressed past. She fought to keep from remembering. Tears streamed down her face. She wrapped her arms around herself and shivered.

  There was a crash in the backroom. The sound of a door slamming and footsteps running.

  “Oh no,” cried the jeweler, who then slid into a supply closet and closed the door behind him.

  “Damn the cur!” cried the Queen. “Is everyone a coward?” She pressed her back against the display case and brandished Willow’s rapier.

  “Vazerian, stay down,” she whispered. “Don’t make a sound, no matter what happens.”

  The door to the back room opened. The Queen tightened her grip on the rapier.

  But through the door came Captain Snyde and two of his lieutenants.

  “Your Majesty,” he said, his face flushed, his eyes darting. “Are your hurt? Where is His Highness? Has he been taken?”

  “Snyde, thank the gods you’re here,” the Queen said, aiming the venom in her voice at Willow. “No, Vazerian’s safe behind the counter.”

  “Stand clear from the door, ma’am,” Snyde said.

  The Queen dove to the side, and the door burst open, sending the remnants of the display case flying. One of the barbarians stormed into the room, his axe whirling. He was enormous, his head almost touching the low ceiling. His arms were as thick as Willow’s legs.

  Snyde was there. His rapier whistled and found its mark in the barbarian’s chest, piercing the leather hide and wounding him. The barbarian howled and swung his axe. Snyde side-stepped and the axe embedded in the floor beside him, sending up a rain of splinters.

  Snyde lunged again and this time, he buried the rapier a third of the way into the barbarian’s chest. The wound was telling and the barbarian dropped, his axe sticking upright from the floor like a bizarre tree trunk.

  “Willow,” Snyde said, “Wake up! There are too many of them. I need your help protecting the Royal Family.”

  Willow simply stood there, shivering, holding herself. Not in front of Snyde, her mind begged. Please do something.

  “Willow!”

  No response. Snyde left the door unguarded as he crossed to her.

  “Willow!” He slapped her across the face. The force of the blow snapped rocked her head so that her ear nearly touched her shoulder.

  She stared at him with wide eyes and then threw herself against him. She began to sob. Nonplussed, Snyde threw an awkward arm over her shoulder.

  “Um?” he said, seemingly more terrified by her breakdown than from the attacking hordes. “Um, Willow?”

  Another barbarian burst through the door and Willow shrieked like a child. She was aware at how appalling her behavior was, but she was powerless to stop it. Tears of rage and frustration mixed with the terror she already felt. She felt betrayed by her mutinous mind and body, which refused to obey her orders.

  Snyde shoved Willow off to the side and lunged at the barbarian’s midsection. The barbarian parried his attack, his axe almost knocking Snyde’s rapier from his grasp. He pressed Snyde back against the counter with a rapid series of axe chops.

  “Willow!” Snyde shouted, fumbling to regain his grip on his weapon.

  The Queen flanked the barbarian and drove Willow’s sword through his ribs.

  “Forget about her. She’s useless.”

  Barbarians flowed into the room from the back. Snyde’s two lieutenants engaged them, but were outnumbered. The first lieutenant managed to draw blood along an enemy’s hairy arm, but his foe shrugged off the wound and decapitated him with a single swing of his axe. The other lieutenant caught an axe blade to the belly and dropped to the floor, his life’s blood draining onto the priceless jewelry scattered there.

  Snyde leapt to engage the largest of the group, but one of the others bashed Snyde’s head with an axe pommel. The captain took one more step and then fell to the ground, convulsing in agony. Moments later, his eyes rolled up and he lost consciousness.

  One of the barbarians grabbed the Queen by her shoulders. She sliced his leg with Willow’s rapier.

  “Willow! We need your help!”

  The wounded barbarian yanked the rapier from her hands, tossed it aside, and then wrapped his hands around her throat. She gagged.

  “Mother!” the Prince cried, leaping from his hiding place. He pointed a finger at the barbarian. “Don’t you hurt her! She’s a Queen; not some commoner that one rapes and pillages.”

  “Vazerian!” she croaked. “Run!”

  Too late. The other two barbarians vaulted the counter and grabbed the Prince. After a brief struggle, they bound his hands and legs, trussing him up like a pig for slaughter.

  “Mother!”

  “Let go of him, you monsters! If you harm him, I’ll hunt down every last one of you!”

  The wounded barbarian backhanded the Queen and she gasped. Tears streamed from her eyes. She slid to the floor.

  “Mother!” The two were carrying him from the store. The wounded barbarian hulked over the Queen, guarding against her interference.

  Willow stood in her corner, watching.

  “Don’t hurt him.” The Queen was kneeling, supplicating. “Please.”

  “Mother,” the Prince wailed once more, and then was gone.

  The wounded barbarian flashed a contemptuous glance at Willow. He turned to leave.

  “Bastard!” The Queen drew a small knife from her boot, leapt to her feet, and stabbed the Barbarian in the side of his neck. When she withdrew it, blood jetted from the wound.

  The barbarian whirled on her, teeth bared, but in two strides his eyes rolled and he collapsed.

  The Queen ran into the back room. In the dim recesses of Willow’s mind, she could hear her sobbing.

  Just like before, Willow thought.

  * * *

  The Queen shook Snyde awake.

  “They’ve taken him!” she said, her oval face flushed red with anguish. “Find them!”

  “Taken him?” Snyde rubbed the back of his head, dazed.

  “Vazerian, you idiot! They’ve taken the Prince!”

  Now his eyes began to focus. He clambered to his feet.

  “Where?” he asked. He shook his head to clear it. “Which way did they head?”

  The Queen pointed to the rear of the store. “That way. Hurry!”

  Snyde glanced at Willow. She tried to stare imperiously back, but her defenses were demolished. Instead, she averted her gaze, the shame burning in her cheeks.

  “Yes, Your Majesty,” Snyde said and then departed.

  Willow started to follow, but the Queen clamped an iron grip on her arm.

  “Not you,” the Queen said. “You let them take my son. I’ll see you hanged fo
r treason.”

  Willow clasped a hand to her chest. Her heart was pounding so hard, she felt it would surely burst.

  “Your Majesty,” Willow said. “I—”

  “Save it, Willow.” The Queen’s eyes blazed. “You’ve had this coming for a very long time.”

  Willow’s thundering heart seemed to grow larger in her chest. She placed her other hand against the wall for support.

  “You’re out,” the Queen said. “Out of the Guard. No, wait. Better than that: you’re demoted. Report to your new commanding officer, Private Willow. If I’m not mistaken, that would be Lieutenant Marcus.”

  The Queen rubbed her hands together, her eyebrows furrowed, her teeth bared.

  “And you’d better hope that Snyde finds my son and returns him alive. If anything happens to Vazerian, I’ll have you put in Fyrelord’s Blood Press; see if I don’t. You’ve gotten away with too much for far too long. Your time is at an end, Willow.”

  Chapter 6

  Discipline.

  Discipline is what kept Willow’s face impassive when everything inside her was a raging torrent of humiliation and fury. Discipline is what kept her standing while her weak knees threatened to topple her into a pathetic heap before her Queen.

  “Yes, Your Majesty,” Willow said, and she was relieved at how calm her voice sounded. A mild quaver, perhaps, but not unacceptable given the circumstances. The Queen’s eyes registered surprise at Willow’s apparent indifference.

  Not indifference: discipline. But oh, where had that discipline been when she had most needed it?

  “You will of course need to have the Chancellor issue that order through proper channels,” Willow added. “Would Your Majesty like me to remain with her until she has conveyed her edict?”

  The Queen’s eyes narrowed, studied Willow’s.

  Discipline. Willow’s face would betray none of her anguish. Her life was over. She had destroyed herself. All that remained was to decide on the proper method of suicide. Nothing else could possibly redeem her.

  “No,” the Queen said, her voice acid. “You’ve already been more than enough help. You may remove yourself from my sight immediately.”

  Willow saluted. For one terrible moment, she felt her knees buckle, but she reacted quickly. As she fought to control her plunge, she swooped her arm to make her near-fall look like an insouciant bow and flourish.

  “As Your Majesty commands,” Willow said, and then turned to face the door, her limbs numb.

  The Queen’s voice stabbed Willow in the back.

  “You’ll regret your insolance. And for your sake, you should pray fervently for Vazerian’s safe return. Your life depends on it. Now get out of my sight, Private Willow,” the Queen said.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Willow’s hand fumbled on the doorknob. She saw her fingers grasp it but did not feel its substance beneath her fingertips. Nevertheless, she managed to open the door and she stepped out onto the street.

  Much had changed since she had entered. The corpses of a handful of barbarians littered the street, with almost twice as many members of the Guard mixed in. All four of the Elite posted outside the shop were dead.

  And in the middle of the street, two Guards were kneeling beside Tamlevar’s corpse. Willow’s heart sunk into her chest.

  Elidon, I’ve killed your son!

  Discipline. She had to have d—

  A sob bubbled up, but she fought to suppress it. No! She bit her tongue, hard, and the sudden pain washed away the emotion. Tamlevar was dead, and foolish tears would not bring him back.

  Discipline.

  She approached his body. One of the guards looked up. His face was pale, and his eyes red-rimmed.

  “He’s hurt really bad, Captain!”

  Still alive! The smile pressed at the corners of her mouth, but she kept her face neutral.

  “Any other wounded?” she said.

  “No, ma’am. All the wounded are dead except Tamlevar here.”

  Willow knelt beside Tamlevar’s unconscious body, examined the wound. She inhaled deeply.

  His belly had been slit and she caught a glimpse of his entrails beneath. The pavement around him was crimson with his blood.

  She tore a strip of silk from the undershirt beneath her armored jacket and its padding. Next, she fished the canister of Szun’s Ointment from her belt and doused the wadded cloth in the pure alcohol. She handed it to the corporal.

  “Put your hands here and here, and press the wound closed. You—” she addressed the private now “—use this salve to clean the wound and then press on it firmly to prevent further blood loss,” she said. “Hold it there until the corpsmen arrive.”

  She turned, but the corporal stopped her.

  “But where are you going?” he blurted.

  “I know someone who can save him.” Without another word, she marched calmly away from Tamlevar’s dying body as though she hadn’t a care in the world.

  But as soon as she was around the corner and out of sight, she ran as fast as her legs could carry her towards the tower of Suel the Mage.

  Chapter 7

  Suel’s Tower was the ugliest building in Bryanae. It resembled a charred piece of wood thrust into the mud at an angle and forgotten. It had looked like this when Willow arrived in Bryanae all those years ago, and it would probably look the same hundreds of years from now.

  Her exhaustion increasing, Willow slowed her pace to a plodding jog. As she approached the tower, the plaque at its base came into view:

  On this spot did King Eric the Strong give his life to vanquish the sorcerer Fyrelord, thereby saving the great city of Panineth.

  – year 37 / reign of King Eric the Strong

  Even now, Willow couldn’t help but be amused. One of the few advantages of living so long a life was getting to see how lies turned into legends and then into historical fact. For instance, very few people knew that the words on the plaque were almost exactly wrong.

  She approached the huge double-doors to Suel’s Tower, out of breath and her heart pounding in her chest. The mage was no doubt aware of her presence by now. If she were welcome, the doors would swing open on their own. That was what passed for Suel’s sense of humor.

  The doors remained shut.

  Fine, she’d do it the hard way then.

  Willow grabbed one of the door rings in both hands and braced a foot against the other door. Her muscles bunched. At first, the door didn’t budge, but then it grudgingly screeched open.

  The inside of the tower had changed little since the sorcerer Antalus Fyrelord had lived, and subsequently died, in it. A king’s ransom in treasure lay scattered about the dusty hall that consumed the entire first floor. Suel, unlike his predecessor, had made at least a token effort to keep things clean and to protect the more valuable items: swords and armor were oiled, paintings and furniture draped with cloth, and so on. The effect was akin to entering a museum prior to its grand opening.

  There used to be a staircase at the far end of the hall, leading from the main hall to the floor above, where Fyrelord’s laboratory had been. But that staircase was gone.

  After all, Fyrelord hadn’t had wings.

  Without a staircase, getting into Suel’s laboratory would be difficult. Willow tried the obvious approach first. She cupped her hands to her mouth and called out to the mage. Her voice echoed throughout the hall, but there was no response. Oh well, it had been worth a try.

  She eyed the opening in the ceiling above her. It was well over four times her height. Very well.

  Willow searched the hall for items she could use as a makeshift ladder. She dragged a table to the wall under the opening and then hoisted a slightly smaller table on top of it. She found a large stool and placed it at the top of the pyramid. She dared not pile anything higher. Every moment was one less moment Tamlevar had to live; if she fell, it would cost her more than just a few bruises.

  She removed her boots and climbed with great care. Her sense of balance had always been
keen and she wasn’t very heavy. At the pinnacle of her scaffolding, she stood about a third of the way to the opening in the ceiling.

  Now came the hard part. She fitted her fingers into the cracks between stones, lifted herself slightly, and then did the same with her toes. With excruciating slowness, she scaled the stone wall.

  Her hands were already aching from opening the front door, but now the dull ache turned to dull fire.

  Discipline.

  Tamlevar lay dying. Every second she paused to collect her strength was a second robbed from him. His wounds were severe. He might have hours to live, or he might be dead already.

  She climbed. Sweat dripped into her eyes. Each handhold was a sharp burst of fiery pain.

  Discipline.

  “Damn you, Suel,” she muttered.

  Almost there. Her fingers felt as though they were being filed away to raw meat. She kept her face an impassive mask out of habit, though there was nobody to see her. Discipline.

  She reached the hole in the ceiling and pulled herself through onto the stone floor above. She climbed to her bloody feet. The wooden doors were in front of her. She pushed them open without knocking.

  The stone chamber within was nearly as large as the floor below, but was dominated by wooden bookshelves that covered almost the entire circumference of the room, save for the doorway through which she had entered. The window behind the desk at the far end of the room revealed the sun approaching noon. Precious moments were slipping away.

  At the desk, the mage sat, his head on its surface. He appeared to be asleep.

  Terrific.

  “Suel,” Willow said.

  He didn’t stir.

  Perhaps he was dead. That was just what she needed.

  “Suel,” she said, a little louder.

  The mage snorted once, coughed twice, and then looked up at her.

  “What the hell do you want?” he asked. Though bald from just above the ears to the crown of his head, he still wore what hair he had to shoulder length. He pushed this hair out of his eyes and glared at Willow.

  “Elidon’s son has been seriously hurt. I need one of Fyrelord’s Elixirs.”