Chapter 24: Unraveled
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Chapter Song: Breaking the Habit by Linkin Park
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"We can't seem to find…Queen Isadora or the children." Pressed close to the bloody remains of what was once his closest friend in the cramped confines of a guymelef control chamber, King Van Fanel felt his world tip off its axis and plunge into the infinite void of space. Still moving by rote, his hand sluggishly flipped the proper switch to open the two-way communication channel.
"Please repeat." He could not even recognize his own voice as he spoke those sparse words into that gaping abyss. The metallic scent of blood permeated the air; Van could feel the viscous substance coating his hands as they slipped on the controls. A brief glance at his person revealed dark splotches seeping into his breeches wherever they made contact with the central chair. Even in the pervading gloom of the partially lit chamber Van could discern the abundance of oxidized fluid.
"…rd Van!...Come in Lord V…" the king was jerked from his morbid inspection, brought sharply into focus as the original message finally seeped below the overwhelming pain of loss. What was he doing? He didn't have time to mourn a friend in the midst of a battle. His children were missing! Galvanized into motion, Van scrambled from the cockpit in haste. As he squeezed through the narrow rift he unsurprisingly left a bit of skin behind. Wordlessly the king promised to return and give his selfless comrade a proper burial. For the time being he activated the controls that would seal the mech—now coffin—until his return.
On his way to Escaflowne Van encountered two mercs on foot. Their intentions were apparent as they skulked around Van's mech. The two meant to scavenge the field for workable guymelefs to aide their cause. Van sped forward silently and ruthlessly dispatched the nearest from behind. The other had only enough time to see that his comrade was dead and make the starting motions to flee before Van's sword fell on him as well. Van had no sympathy for fanatics or cowards but he found this willingness to abandon the battlefield most contemptible. After all, it was their choice to march on Fanalia; one would think they were committed. Something wasn't making sense. The tension built within Van, a silent compulsion was leading him to return to the castle immediately.
Inside Escaflowne, Van opened a channel to the main fleet. After a short-lived consultation with Allen and Chid, Van conferred new orders and determined the battle was in hand. Now he had only to find Keori and his children. It only took moments before he was airborne.
Van brought Escaflowne to an abrupt standstill within the courtyard at the castle. Vaulting from the control chamber, he fairly flung himself to the hard-packed earth. When Van hit the ground he was still feeling the impact running up his legs as he darted into the keep. He raced along the dark, torch-lit halls of the castle toward Keori's room. 'Surely Orland released the boy from his prison?' Skidding to a halt in front of the correct door, he noticed it was slightly ajar, hanging on its hinges. A mere turn of his head brought the room into muted focus. Grabbing a torch to the side of the door, he entered. What he found inside was far from what he'd expected.
The room was in ruins. The chair and desk were toppled. The bed was stripped and slashed, its guts pouring out onto the floor which was also cluttered with clothing, bedding, and goose down in various states of damp. The washbasin laid an empty discard, explanation enough for the presence of water. Among the carnage were scattered chips of clear glass reflecting the trembling flames of the torch; an object of some sort had been smashed violently against the unforgiving stone.
A luminous white feather blew across Van's way, catching in his clothing. Van eyed the longer than usual plume but figured it for an odd feather mistakenly used to stuff the pillows. He brushed it aside and regarded the room critically. The chaos indicated there may have been a struggle, but the complete destruction and lack of traceable footprints or blood made that conjecture unlikely. If the room was not even occupied beforehand then this was a deliberate act of vandalism or an indiscriminate search. Van felt his chest tighten in alarm. 'Who the hell is Keori Kan?'
Pivoting on his heels, his Highness raced away from the wreckage toward where he hoped he would find the boy. Orland was dead. The pain of loss tore through his chest like a gaping wound. His thoughts could do little else but poke at it and wonder how bad it was, if the wound would ever fully heal; and with the prodding came more pain that inevitably caused him to shy away again. Van was no novice when it came to dealing with repressed emotions but now was a bad time for the habit to desert him. In the midst of a war, mourning a lost friend could only appear selfish, but Orland's last words kept ringing in Van's ears. Protect Keori. Protect Keori. The mantra kept Van on his feet and running else he might have just collapsed in anguish. The thirty-two year old, war-hardened man within him was coldly vowing retribution but the traumatized young adolescent was shrieking in fear and begging for it all to end. A pithy fifteen years of peace was not a fair trade for a decimated childhood; Van couldn't help but feel severely wronged on a personal level.
Guards, who were busy scouring the keep for his missing family and securing the castle, watched their king as he sprinted by. Van was halfway to the dungeons before something registered in his turbulent thoughts and brought him up short. His breath whooshed in and out of his lungs like the bellows in an iron factory. If Keori had been telling the truth, then that meant he never lied about any of it. One of Van's own most trusted people was involved in what was clearly turning into a conspiracy. 'But Priest Regis isn't…' Van shook his head partly in denial and partly with an unbearable epiphany. Regret swarmed his heart; he had an idea where he could find his children. He swiftly made his way again.
Down the corridors as fast as his legs could carry him, Van spared a few thoughts for his people. They were holding up admirably. The death toll could not be calculated until the field was cleared of the enemy, but it was not looking as dire as the Zaibach Campaign. With Fanelia's population expanded to nearly three times its original size, the low projection was well-received. Allen had also mentioned that most of the fires were doused and the few homes in the process of being completely consumed were on a controlled burn. People who managed to secret away in the hills before the mercenaries marched on Fanelia were already returning to aide their fellow men and women. As for the castle itself, Van saw only minor damage when he flew in on Escaflowne. Passing through the halls he could see people were already scurrying to clean up what little evidence of damage there was.
Van finally reached the dungeons, which were quickly being filled with snarling captured rebels. The King spared them not so much as a glance in his haste to one particular cell. The blazing torches paved his way and blurred after images into his retinas as he passed. Van felt as if his heart had stopped when he reached his intended destination. The roof of the cell was practically caved in, the most architectural destruction to the castle he'd witnessed yet, and Van could see streaks of blood in the dirt encrusting the floor. He had failed. Orland's last request and Van couldn't even protect one boy.
"Your Highness, we can't seem to find Kan. We believe he was abducted along with your family." The guard's words were concise reporting but held an inquiring tone. He too wondered what business the enemy could have with a simple boy. When Van turned to the guard with interest in his words the guard indicated a blood-smeared disturbed patch of dirt on the floor as a way of explanation. Relief, only briefly, washed over Van when he saw the markings on the ground that indicated the boy had been dragged from his prison. 'What could they possibly want with Kan?' His thoughts were only becoming more multifarious as he dwelled on it. Van desperately wished Orland were here to tell him what was going on. Questions, all concerning the strange boy who dropped out of nowhere into his life, paraded around his skull with annoying persistence. They didn't matter; he had to protect Keori. He had to rescue his children.
~*~*~
Keori woke groggily. A groan escaped from his parched throat. The first indication that he was no longer in his cell was the pain in his wrists throbbing in tandem with his heartbeat. They felt as if they were slowly being pulled apart from his body. His head lolled weakly to the side; his eyes opened to slits squinting in the harsh light from overhead. Tears leaked from the corners of his eyes and blinking only paved way for more as they refused to adjust. By feel, Keori determined his wrists were bound with rope; it chafed angrily at his skin. The cold sting of metal revealed a construct, by which he hung. The pressure, as far as Keori could tell, developed from his limp weight pulling on the wrists he hung between.
Experimentally Keori felt for the floor beneath him, anything to get the weight off his agonized wrists. The sharp pain that sprouted white-hot from his right knee caused a hoarse scream to issue from his throat and bright spots of light to dance in his vision. Keori blacked out for a brief minute.
"Now, now, don't aggravate your wounds. I don't want you to lose consciousness again. That would just be so boring." said a mellifluous voice that he recognized. Keori detested the whimper that escaped him of its own volition. He'd never felt this amount of pain before in his life. His knee was surely shattered, hopefully not beyond repair. Sweat beaded on his forehead and snaked into his eyes, irritating them all the more. The most he could manage was a blurry stare at the figure addressing him. A curved figure and too slight to be a man, light colored hair, and eyes the very texture of the exclusive stones they imitated. Keori squeezed his eyes shut and rolled his head away from the truth. Pain, of the emotional kind, beset his heart on behalf of his father and siblings.
"No need to be so formal," said in a calmly piqued fashion belying the equally threatening undertone, "As a guest it is only proper that you show me due respect, but even I won't demand that you sway your eyes when speaking to me." Keori had no desire to look upon her in any respect and kept his face turned away. In seconds his muscles could no longer contract and his head bowed between his shoulders, the thin film of his eyelids became his sole resistance to her jibe.
"W-What are you doing?" Keori managed to query short of breath. Even that small effort brought pain and the light-headed feeling that preceded fainting. He struggled to stay conscious taking small but measured breaths through his nose. He secretly wondered how long ago he was trussed up and prayed the lack of blood flow to his hands would not damage them too severely. Then sound brought his focus to his captor; all thoughts silenced so that he could concentrate on her words and comprehend them.
"I'm surprised you bother to ask. I would have thought you…knew already," Keori felt a chill as the words were given a peculiar inflection. What Queen Isadora acknowledged went beyond Keori's accusations to the king. Somehow she knew what—and more importantly who—he was!
"But Naomi and the boys," Keori nearly choked, whether with revulsion or unexpressed emotion was unclear, "they're your children!"
Keori cried out as the attempt to yell brought a slew of pain with it. His breathing turned erratic and a coughing fit caused darkness to encroach on his vision. Only this time Keori lost consciousness for longer than a few seconds. When next he came to it was with a startled scream as a whip snapped against his ribs. He had only a glimpse to identify the merc known as Hardorn—whom he had once seen in a vision through another merc by the name of Keryon—for in the next moment he was fighting another losing battle for air. The second crack of the whip scored his upper thigh, perilously close to another tender part of his anatomy, but by then Keori could have been flayed to death without uttering a sound because he blacked out on a more extended basis. Watching the proceedings from a distance, Queen Isadora scowled and ordered the subordinate to bring him around once more.
~*~*~
Allen shifted his straining eyes toward the horizon searching for any flicker of movement in the twilight glow. Some stragglers remained; Allen could hear them prowling among the hulking ruins of fallen guymelefs. For all the knowledge of their presence, Allen still could not see them. Silently he willed the sun to raise again more swiftly. For the moment he steadily grasped his sword, primed for violence, and passed one dusty, blood-speckled sleeve over his brow. The night was muggy and the sweat of exertion permeated his clothing so much so that even Allen could smell the musk. The Caeli Knight would have been concerned about enemy detection except his own grunge couldn't hold a candle to the rank stench of the battlefield itself.
Bodies rift open bled glutinous fluids in dampened pastures. Completely severed remains scattered the ground like grisly confetti. Already, carrion birds lay feast to the pickings contending only with what appeared to be the entire insect population of Fanelia. Apparently the mercenary faction cared less for their dead comrades than for the personal effects they could strip from their corpses. Allen bared witness to several instances of appropriation. Some thieves would go so far as to remove the very clothing from a dying companion begging for help. If the victim was lucky he might be given a swift execution. A few occurrences notwithstanding, the most common theft still remained weapons—the more lethal, the more quickly usurped—and guymelefs were the prime pickings. In response, while Allen and his crew methodically captured or dispatched the residual insurgents on the ground, Chid's detachment was charged with retrieving the mechanical means of destruction.
Spare drag energists were shared out to Chid's men and even a few civilian contractors who knew the basics of operating a guymelef. With a duo of allied guymelefs standing guard, three men on foot would approach an inert guymelef first, to determine if it was occupied. Using a drag energist, if necessary, they would open up the control chambers. The main purpose was to ensure there weren't any Trojan Horses—men inside feigning death while secretly planning an attack when Fanelia's guard came down. If the guymelef turned up clean, relatively speaking, the next step was to check if it was still intact or at least functional. If the answer was yes, one person of the original three was given the task of walking it to the castle holding—not a gratifying experience when someone has previously died inside the chamber, usually in a very messy and unpleasant way. If the guymelef was beyond field-repair the three men would salvage what was useful and leave the shell for later disposal. In this manner Chid was preventing the enemy from taking possession of the only weapons displaying a real danger to Fanelian forces.
The muted sound of a boot treading on grass had Allen striking in one fluid motion. The zing of sound and jarring vibrations up Allen's arm proved this fighter better equipped than some of his cohorts fertilizing the fields. Allen was forced to take a step in retreat to better engage his enemy. The pervading obscurity of dusk cloaked small identifying markers, but Allen could distinguish the scruffy attire and an unkempt beard. A desperate foe was sometimes worse than a calculating one; the odds of Allen accurately predicting his moves were less in his favor. Then again, a disorderly appearance in their current situation could be a misleading marker. Allen slowly began to move to the side until his opponent mirrored the action in counterpoint; now they were revolving around each other affording each a constant view of his surroundings. Allen kept a vigilant eye to the fringe, anticipating an interloper. He wouldn't put it past mercenaries to jump him if given half the chance.
"I wouldn't spare so much attention to the future," Allen's attention sharpened on his adversary as the rough voice rent the still air, "with death staring me in the face." Allen caught a flash of bared canines before the man made his assault. As the sword came bearing down from above Allen stepped to the side and knocked the offensive weapon off course using his own. A feral laugh escaped the mercenary who recovered quickly, daintily skipping out of striking range.
Allen had the distinct feeling he was being led into some kind of trap and wearily eyed the encroaching shadows. His enemy seized the moment of distraction, nearly plunging the tip of his blade into Allen's chest. Allen closely managed to deflect the blow, but he came away with a nasty gouge in his shoulder.
"I told you." his antagonist taunted in a sing-song voice conveying a disturbing appetite for violence. Allen could just make out the glint of lunacy in pitch, staring eyes. If that wasn't a clear enough indicator, the spontaneous cackle of laughter that next escaped the man's lips cinched it. Allen tensed; if there was an enemy worse than a desperate one, it was a criminally insane one.
After the war there were those anomalous combatants who could not, for one deranged reason or another, slake their thirst for blood. They were remnants driven by a skewed logic so convoluted and flawed beyond recognition that it could only end in psychosis. And their particular neuroses tended toward impulsive unremitting brutality.
Allen kept alert to the danger on his flanks but he focused a more cautious eye on his opponent. The bedraggled man let out a sudden high-pitched screech, sounding like a night-thing dying, and lunged erratically forward. Allen brought his sword to bear on the opposing force. The harsh rasp of metal became audible only after the initial sound of contact.
~*~*~
Muffled sound and colorful contours gave way to harsh rhythm and bare minerals as Van loped his way into the old castle. The pounding of his steps was amplified and echoed by the tromping of the guards following him. No sooner had the thought occurred to him then he was making his way and gathering what warriors were nearby. If his intuition was accurate—as it made a habit of being, recent events notwithstanding—Van knew exactly where to find his children.
The knuckles of the hand firmly gripped around the hilt of his sword turned white with the exertion of pressure. Van nearly prayed, against the wellbeing of his own children, that he was wrong. The heart within his chest was pounding in counterpoint to the beat of his feet on the stone floor. He would almost rather experience the panic and anxiety of the last few hours over his children's unknown whereabouts than acknowledge the suspicions budding to the fore of his mind.
Van faltered, all but stumbled to the ground, as he was awash with the haunting stench of burning. A faceless guard steadied him with a grip above his elbow, below the crook between his shoulder and ribs. No matter how often or how exhaustively the place was scoured the odor of ash suffused the ancient wing. Faint, ghostly echoes of the crackling flames imposed themselves into his awareness until the query went up among his sentry; they also could hear it.
Van picked up his pace, round the last bend, to the corridor leading to the former throne room. Unexpectedly they were enveloped by a putrid black cloud which brought on hacking coughs and weeping, irritated eyes. Van and several others instinctively hunched closer to the ground and were just as quickly emulated by those less experienced. With motions of the hand, Van sent scouts ahead to investigate the cause and extent of the blaze.
Moments passed. The air was fraught with tension; every miniscule shift of the body caused stilled nerves to wind all the more tightly. Another moment elapsed. Time became, all at once, too slow as the wait extended from one second to the next with no sign of a return. Sweat began to bead on the skin as the ambient temperature rose. Van released a slow breath of stagnant air; spots in his vision and the light-headed feeling served as a reminder to breathe.
"Lord Van," the tremulous voice in a veteran was enough to alarm him, "the enemy…they're inside."
~*~*~
'Kill him'. The sibilant voice whispered in the dark recesses of his mind. 'Kill him. Yes, yes run my sword right through his middle and watch the blood spill, spill, spill like rain spills from the dark clouds in the sky; like the tears will spill over his corpse once he's dead, dead, dead.' He charged at the motionless man's back and brought his sword down. 'Blood, where's the spilled blood and the dead corpse on which the sky sheds raindrop- drip-drop, hehe, drip-drop, where are the tears?' But it took a moment for him to realize the blow did not connect. The man was unharmed and there was a sword crossing his own.
The man stepped back. 'Yes, retreat, retreat like the coward who runs, runs, runs from the death that's coming, the death that I bring.' He eyed his opponent. The man was tall, taller than he was with long, really long blonde, 'Red?' blonde hair. 'Red hair, bloody red hair, hair dipped in blood and red, red dirt just as good as blood.' Unconsciously he mimicked the other man as he began to circle. 'Around and around, and around we go, where we'll stop, nobody knows!' He caught the man's eyes darting to the outer darkness.
"I wouldn't spare so much attention to the future," he growled, a slow, feral smile parting his lips "with death staring me in the face." He leapt forward for another attack, 'Let the cold, silver, steel slice neatly into flesh and let the red, red, blood spill, spill, spill onto the blood red ground.' but his adversary easily deflected it. Lightly stepping back, a bubbling sensation worked its way up from his stomach to his throat and out of his mouth, laughter. 'Kill him. Heh hehe hehehe. Watching me, watching me with those blue, steel blue, like the sword blue, blue eyes, watching me,' his foe cast another glance to the side, ' and then not. No, no, no, naughty, naughty and look I've cut him.' Like a blossoming flower, blood seeped from the shoulder wound into view; the very sight of it thrilled him.
"I told you." he taunted in a sing-song voice. 'Blood is drip, drip, dripping and soon it will spill, spill like tears from eyes and all over until it covers his corpse and the ground, the red, blood red ground in which they'll bury him; then he'll be covered with blood and red blood dirt until nothing of him is seen.' His eyes alighted on the dark, blood-stained patch of clothe under which there was ripped and bleeding flesh. 'I've cut him and next I'll kill him. I'll kill him until he's dead, dead, dead!' hysterical laughter followed the thought. Across from him, his opponent stared fixedly and gave him a wide berth. 'Kill him. Kill him. Kill him.' Insistently, incessantly, ever more loudly the voice was directing him until all he could do was pitch his voice over the noise in his head and strike forward. One pass and then another and a third, but on the fourth assault his ears were filled with the shrill command and his eyes would not focus and there was something not quite right with the hands gripping his sword. His vision filled with red, the red of running blood, but as he gazed up at his shadowed opponent he could not see where all the blood was coming from, there was so much of it, blood spilling so copiously that someone would be dead, dead without it.
~*~*~
Allen waited until the last spark of life left his opponent's eyes. After he was assured the man was dead, he had to walk some feet away to find a dry patch of grass with which he could clean the blood from his sword. The majority of the gore was transferred to the grass but even so, Allen rubbed the flat of each side across the outside edge of his uniform pants. Cleaning encrusted blood from a steel weapon was arduous, and leaving it on too long made the blade rust and become worthless. Allen did not know when he would get the chance to clean the blade properly so it was best to keep it serviceable between kills. The day had been long and the amount of bloodshed more then he wished to stomach ever again. By now the sun was well and truly set; the darkness of the fields shrouded all movement beyond his negligible night vision. If there were any insurgents remaining, which was highly probable, the best offense would be to convene at the castle's outer rim and defend it against those seeking entrance.
Allen found the deactivated Scheherazade where he'd left it, cloaked near a copse of trees. With the efficiency of a soldier he removed the camouflage net and carefully set his energist into the awaiting pocket. Scheherazade hummed into life as Allen clambered into the control chamber.
"Allen, Allen come in!" It took a moment for the adrenaline—pumped through his system when the communication channel unexpectedly activated—to wane and his heart to slow. Allen facilitated the calming procedure with a few deep, slow breaths. Meanwhile Chid continued trying to raise him and his tone of voice left little doubt the news would be grim. Allen flipped the proper switch and spoke into the device.
"This is Allen, what's going on Chid?"
"Allen, we've found something. I think you better come see for yourself." There was an aged quality to Chid's voice that brought to mind the events of the Zaibach Campaign. Allen looked outward to the silent, indifferent darkness that was only interrupted by the sparse flagging fires soon to be doused. He could almost believe Fanelia was out there sleeping except he knew how deceptive the shale night could be. Right now the pitch, void of light served as a cover for those dissidents wishing to harm her. Allen gritted his teeth and responded.
"Talk to me." He prompted.
"We're on the South-west side of what looks to be a section of the old castle. Allen, there's an entrance here. It must have been a secret passage or…Why wasn't anyone guarding this place!" Chid's frustration carried clearly over the channel.
"Chid, what are you telling me?" Allen could infer but he needed to hear it directly.
"The castle has been breached. I don't know how many mercs took advantage, but I'd be willing to bet some of those early deserters weren't leaving at all. They were most likely men assigned to this aperture. How could they have kn…" Chid broke away for a moment, Allen could hear an indistinct mumble in the background as the Duke conferred with his men, and then he returned. "I'm taking a contingent inside. I'd appreciate some support. We'll also need to set a perimeter; there's no telling where they'll come out."
"I thought of that a few moments ago, only I hadn't known they penetrated so deeply. There really isn't any use fumbling blindly in the dark for the stragglers out here. I'm going to recall the forces to the castle and set them to watching both internal and external traffic. Give me a few moments then I'll join you." Allen paused for confirmation then closed the channel to open another.
~*~*~
The first sense to return to him was his hearing, only it was as if the sounds he was hearing were being filtered through water before they reached his ears. There was some shuffling, a whimper that could have come from him but he wasn't sure, and then an indistinct raised voice rebuking someone. Keori tried to open his eyes but the most he could do was slit them so his lashes obscured any true vision. The harsh light from before was still shining intensely on his face. A few tears leaked from his eyes, adding to the gummy substance gluing them partially closed. It was at this point Keori felt an incredible weight on his chest and a desperate need for oxygen.
Taking a breath was difficult and painful. His nose was broken and clogged with dried blood. When Keori instinctively tried to breathe through his nasal passage a gobbet of bloody mucus slid down his throat nearly causing him to gag. One defunct airway down left only his mouth. Keori drew in slow, shallow breaths which tasted of copper—blood from his broken nose and split lip the cause—and triggered a burning sensation to travel the length of his torso. Keori couldn't be sure if the pain was coming from taxed lungs or if the damage was more external in nature. He couldn't even recall how many times he was whipped, assuming the man stopped while he was unconscious—an assumption he was not willing to make.
"K-Keori?" while the center syllables came across garbled, Keori could still recognize his name as it was tremblingly called. He tried to face the direction of the speaker to no avail, but he must have managed something because the next words he heard were, "Keori, thank God you're alive."
His tongue felt like an inert slab of flesh in his mouth, with no muscle to move it. Even so, it was imperative that he communicate with Naomi, if only to reassure her. Keori mustered up a breath of air, only to have it explosively expel from him again as a sharp pain lanced from his side. The guttural noise that escaped his lips sounded like a cross between a yelp and a groan. Naomi called out to him, concerned, but her words eluded him. The haze of pain and lack of adequate oxygen were fast becoming his undoing.
"Nao-" came out on the next exhale, but then his lungs contracted. An anxious struggle to draw in air ensued. Blurrily, Keori caught sight of movement where Naomi was, but he couldn't focus enough to determine how her position had changed.
"Get…down…You're killing him!" her scream, the first words he heard clearly, echoed eerily around him. There was some sort of significance to that but Keori could only concentrate on what it felt like to slowly suffocate to death. Tremors began to pass up his arms, occasionally causing one hand to twitch or spasm against the bindings. His lack of vision was made worse by the black fringe working its way inward. Only the panic-generated adrenaline and the reduced endorphin flow within his body were keeping Keori conscious. He would have sobbed with vexation if he could marshal the air needed to support such emotion; for the time being, only silent tears of pain trekked their way down his face.
"He's turning blue, damn you!" As if to compensate him for his untimely death, Keori's hearing returned to normal, allowing him the chance to listen to his last moments. Naomi. The shape of her name formed on his lips repeatedly but, without a voice to carry it, she did not hear him. "Please. I'm begging you. Please, let him down!" Naomi beseeched to an unseen authority. Keori hoped the person wasn't her mother. By now there was no question that Naomi was aware of her mother's betrayal; helplessly, Keori still wished to shield her from that ugly truth.
"What worth can he possibly be to you dead?" Naomi demanded hotly. The slight quiver in her voice gave away her very real fear for him.
"You would be surprised," rejoined the smooth tones of the traitor herself.
In the next moment the constant pressure on Keori's wrists vanished. He dropped like a stone. Air gushed into his body as his lungs finally managed to expand. Then he hit the metal-grated platform on both feet, which immediately buckled beneath him as a scream tore itself from his throat. Keori's knee was nothing more than an angry, inflamed knot of blistering agony. He curled around the appendage breathlessly stumbling over words of prayer and supplication. He was not even aware that his hands were still secured to the metal device, only now being held below waist level. Wet warmth seeped through his tattered clothing, heating his clammy skin. Several of the half-scabbed cuts littering his body were now bleeding freely after the impact of his landing. Though the sting of these was like a lit match compared to the raging inferno of his knee; they didn't rate so much as a twitch of discomfort.
"Keori!"
When his name finally registered, it sounded like Naomi had been screaming it for some time. He must have shown some acknowledgement because in the next moment Naomi was asking after his well being.
"Answer me! Are you all right?" Naomi prompted into the silence broken only by his labored breathing.
"H-," His breath hitched and he forced a swallow to rid himself of the acidic taste in his mouth, "Hurts." He managed above a whisper. Naomi was still able to pick out the lone word. The room conducted sound very well. Something about that niggled in the back of Keori's mind, but just as quickly the half-formed thoughts disappeared.
"You should'a let 'im die." Hardorn asserted harshly and then hawked and spat, "Damn ash. Either way, we can't stay 'ere much longer 'r the fire'll reach us."
Now that it was mentioned, Keori could taste the cloying smoke that was most likely augmenting his breathing problems. By now the pain in his knee was dulled to an excruciating, but bearable, pulse. Keori became aware that his hands, while still bound, were allowed a wider range of movement. Leaning forward, and bending his elbows, brought his numbed hands to his face. Using the joint between his thumb and palm, Keori knuckled the caked fluids from his eyes. His vision was returned just in time to witness Queen Isadora backhand Hardorn across the face.
"If I had wanted your advice," she sneered as she said the word, "I would have demanded it." From the height and angle at which Keori sat, he could not make out Hardorn's face. However, the conspicuous silence and the telling tremble of Hardon's balled fists gave Keori a fair idea what expression the man wore.
"Where are they!" Queen Isadora whirled from the direction of the door until she was facing Hardorn again; then she boar down on him with every menacing fiber of her being. "They should have been here by now."
"Per'aps they would'a been if they 'adn't been delayed by the unnatur'lly informed guards." Hardorn's face angled meaningfully at Keori. The hatred focused on him caused a cold flush throughout Keori's body.
"Have no doubt; he will be dealt with, regardless of the outcome." Keori did not need to see Queen Isadora to feel her wrathful gaze on him. She made his skin crawl in a most unpleasant manner.
"What, what are you going to do to him?" Naomi's voice quivered from the forgotten corner she was restrained in.
Keori gazed down at his sister, but her attention was focused on their captors. She looked the worse for wear, wilted in a many-layered, wispy sleeping gown that was torn and dirt-smeared. She'd clearly been dragged from her bed. Keori could imagine what her first thoughts were on being awakened during the false dawn of morning. She must have thought the castle was under attack and she was being evacuated. Keori wondered how long it took before she realized her own mother was holding her hostage.
"Don't concern yourself overly much with him. He will be serving a most auspicious role, one of which you should take due notice." Queen Isadora aimed a malicious smile at Keori which left little doubt in his mind what her plans for him entailed. The only question left was, how much of a role would his father play when all the cast reached the stage?
"What do you mean by that? What does Keori have to do with any of this?" Naomi sounded frustrated as she cast Keori a look of compassion. "He hasn't done anything…"
"That's where you are wrong!" Queen Isadora cut in scathingly. "If it weren't for him, we would not be in this mess! If he had just stayed in his own land our plans would have been realized. He has everything to do with this!" She ended in a shout, one index finger pointed accusingly in his direction, shaking with barely suppressed fury.
"It was you," heads swiveled to look up at him, "You were the one who sent that guymelef after the carriage in Asturia. Marilyn wasn't the target," Keori shook his head and cursed himself a fool for not connecting it sooner; "It was Naomi." Keori slowly, carefully clenched then loosened his hands trying to work the circulation back into them. When a chance presented itself he would have to be ready to utilize it.
"That's correct. His priority mission was to take her but," the Queen gave a negligent shrug; "if he managed to seize the Asturian princess I would not have been disappointed." Keori watched her features gradually contort with loathing. "If it weren't for you, we would be in negotiation right now. All that planning wasted." Apparently she carried a lot of resentment toward him, but Keori expected it was not all on account of his actions. Queen Isadora knew things, perhaps not at the time he first became an impediment to her plans, but definitely now; she as much as told him so in their previous verbal encounter.
"He tried to kill them." Keori rejoined in protest.
"All is the more pity he failed."
Naomi gasped and shot a horrified look at her mother.
"But…" Keori felt the confusion like a tangible thing clouding his mind. If the original plan was to abduct Naomi to use her as collateral against Isadora's demands, why would the Queen not care if she was killed?
"Did you honestly think I didn't have an alternative plan if such was the case? Could you imagine what would have happened between the two kingdoms if Van Fanel discovered an Asturian knight was responsible?"
"But he wasn't Asturain!" Naomi shouted before Keori could voice the same reflection.
"Wasn't he?" The smirk twisting her lips belayed the innocent timbre of Queen Isadora's voice.
"How would you explain Marilyn's death? Or Celena's?" The whole operation was turning out more complicated than Keori initially anticipated; how deep did it run?
"What would that matter to Van Fanel after his only daughter was dead?"
Keori had to admit there was some truth to her words. Perhaps they would not have gone to war, but his father would never have forgiven Asturia for failing to protect his daughter, regardless of the other deaths.
"How long have you…" Naomi could not bring herself to voice the question in full. Her own mother was, had been, possibly for a number of years, planning her own child's seizure. She was to be used akin to a pawn in a chess game; and everyone knows how easily pawns serve as sacrificial pieces.
"I have been planning since before I spawned you." Queen Isadora showed no reluctance to admit it. "You and them," she motioned to the unconscious twins in the far corner adjacent to Naomi, "You were like parasites implanted in me, feeding off of me. I never wanted you, but HE demanded it of me. I was tied to him and this place against my will!" Disgust, resentment, anger, and hatred, each emotion ran deeper and was fueled by the next. Naomi choked on a sob and buried her face into up drawn knees.
Keori wondered at what point madness lost its cunning. Already Queen Isadora made the mistake of kidnapping them, but keeping them in the castle was particularly unwise. Keori finally recognized what had been bothering him about the room they were in. The ante chamber was part of the old castle; it was used to house guymelefs for repair. Keori was suspended on a platform employed to reach the control chamber without having to climb the machine. Just then, it was this height advantage that afforded Keori an unrestrained view of the happenings at the door.
"Your Highness! It's…" The rebel that burst through the door staggered to a halt and mouthed soundlessly as one hand gestured back toward the way he'd come.
"Well?" Queen Isadora prompted impatiently, "What is it!"
"They, they found our escape route. There are guards from Asturia, Freid, and Fanelia making their way in." The man shifted nervously in place.
"And?" Queen Isadora also grasped there was more to the message.
"Lord Fanel is leading a contingent of guards down the main passage. We are being attacked on both sides." Such was the man's fear that Keori could see his Adam's apple bobbing convulsively even from a distance. Naomi let out an elated cry of hope.
"Fuck! Now we're caught in a trap of our own making. Is this what you wanted?" Hardorn turned on Isadora, beyond giving caution to his words. "You 'ave sentenced us to death."
"Bar the door and don't be so melodramatic. Our forces will turn the tide, and if they don't…Well, don't forget we have our own means of exodus." Queen Isadora passed a significant gaze over her children and Keori. Hardorn's answering smile was not so much one of confidence, but rather one of grim resolve. As a fighter, Hardorn realized the bleakness of their situation. There would be no escaping apart from a miracle, and he wasn't holding his breath for one of those.
Keori also recognized the state of affairs, but that did not preclude their survival in the least. If Queen Isadora came to realize the truth, she would have them all slaughtered before rescue ever reached them. Keori shifted tentatively in place and was greeted with a slew of expected pain. There was no helping it. If the worst came to pass he would, unfortunately, be of little assistance.
"Can you hear that?" Naomi broke into the intermittent silence. "Father!" she then screamed, trying to be heard into the antechamber where Keori could just make out the sounds of colliding swords. In response, Queen Isadora issued a voiceless command. With swift movements, Hardorn strode over to Naomi and cracked her on the side of her face with a closed fist. Naomi's whole body jerked to one side, causing the chains securing her in place to rattle and muffle her exclamation of pain.
"Keep your mouth shut." Queen Isadora ordered threateningly. Naomi whimpered and curled into herself for fear of further abuse. Keori didn't doubt that it was the first time anyone had hit her. Suddenly there was the sound of a solid impact against the door that was followed by another, and then another. The door was being rammed.
"They'll break through sooner 'r later. We need to pr'pare for when that 'appens." Instead of castigating him for more unasked for advice, Queen Isadora focused her intent gaze on Hardorn and awaited further suggestions. However, the man did not say another word. Instead, he walked over to the drugged boys, slung Jiro over one shoulder, and then lifted Benjiro around the middle like he weighed no more than a sack of grain. Naomi let out a strangled noise, the only form of protest she could muster without actually speaking. Hardorn walked toward her. Naomi wrapped herself into a tighter shivering ball of fear, but the man only deposited the boys on the ground beside her. Naomi didn't hesitate to snatch the boys to her and curl protectively around as much of them as she conceivable could. Hardorn snorted derisively and unsheathed his sword.
"No!" the shout was past his lips before Keori could reign it in. Naomi whimpered even as she sheltered the twins' necks, bearing her own in the process.
"We are only being prepared." Queen Isadora explained casually. She gave no indication that the sight of a man holding a lethal sword over her children disturbed her. From the back entrance more mercenaries poured in and took up positions around the captives. "Which reminds me," Queen Isadora's eyes bored into Keori. He was so focused on her inhuman gaze that he failed to see Hardon's response to it. In one moment, Keori was semi-curled on his side, opposite the one with the damaged knee, and in the next he was raised aloft by his lashed wrists. His head reeling and consciousness slipping in and out, he was not aware that he'd screamed. However, Keori did hear the sound of splintering wood and his father's voice; and he recognized the man that burst through the doorway despite the tears obscuring his vision.
"Naomi! Is that you, Naomi?"
Van Fanel unburied his sword from Priest Regis' stomach and sent the man toppling, still dying, to the floor. Fanelia's King was dirt splotched, soot-stained, and virtually bathed in blood. The burgundy fluid, still wet, glistened malevolently in the lights overhead. As for the expression on his face, Keori had never seen it more murderous, not even once in a vision.
~*~*~
"Lord Fanel?" a younger guard prompted when Van did not immediately react to the knowledge of the enemies' intrusion.
"How many? What are their positions?" the questions slipped from his lips on automatic as his focus was turned inward. 'Obviously they would not be keeping his children in the throne room with a fire raging inside. Taking that into consideration, the fire was arranged as a deterrent'.
"There was too much smoke to see clearly, but I'd say no less than a dozen and they aren't staying in fixed positions." The scout reported. His stance was firm, and his voice unwavering.
"That's…" 'The best course of action in this situation would be to remove the hostages from the premises all together. Only if they had another way out would it make sense for them to obstruct the main passageway.'
"I agree; twelve is a pretty small number for an operation of this size." The veteran guard at Van's side replied to his unvoiced concern.
"They're still here." Van realized out loud. Suddenly, he felt a feral emotion blossom within his chest. Without conscious design, a ferocious smile twisted his lips. The younger guard took a hasty step back from his liege and sent an imploring glance to the veteran at Van's side.
"We'll follow you to the depths of hell, My Lord." The veteran atoned in answer before he unsheathed his sword. All around, the guards and scouts quickly followed suit. With the guards behind him, and a few scouts ahead, Van didn't hesitate to rush into the inflamed hall.
The room, lacking most trappings and made of stone, was like an oven. The few remaining articles that had survived the Zaibach campaign were already alight and burning violently into indistinguishable ash. The heat was very noticeable and clung to the skin like a mild sunburn. The air too was perceptibly thin; oxygen serving to succor the flames. Breath would be short. When swinging a lethal weapon it would only take a moment's distraction—a sudden constriction of the lungs, a cough—and death would be the inevitable outcome. If those hardships were not enough, the inescapable draft whipped ash and smoke into the eyes making for blurred vision and streaming tears. Still, when the Fanelians clashed with the first cluster of rebels they were unflinching.
Van stepped readily into the fray swinging his sword so powerfully it cleaved through his first opponent's clavicle and most of his chest cavity before stopping. A morass of bloody bodily organs fell in discernible chunks to the floor. The eyes of his enemy held the glassy shine of death before the rest of his body realized it was no longer receiving information from the brain and stopped holding him up. Van didn't spare time watching him collapse but rather wrenched his weapon free and turned to his next opponent. Apparently there was a gap in their defense somewhere if the rebels had free passage within the interior of the new castle from the old. Such passages only first generation natives of the new Fanelia could know of or traitors in high places.
Just then Van's eyes clapped onto a familiar figure among the rebels. In response his mouth turned down into a grim line and his next strike turned markedly vicious. His adversary, a rather young man no older than eighteen, screamed and stared in horror at his right side where blood spurt copiously from where his shoulder and right arm used to be. The young man was in far too much shock to even realize he was missing the lower, right half of his face too. Van's next blow was a thrust from beneath the boy's ribcage up into his heart. The screaming abruptly cut off. All around him his guards were accordingly dispatching the rebels they encountered. With a flick of his wrist, Van sent a spatter of blood from his sword to the ground. When he next looked up his eyes met those of Priest Regis through the haze of smoke and fire. Van's glare embodied their surroundings with the smoldering hatred in their depths. Priest Regis, eyes narrowed contemptibly, sneered and retreated into the adjoining passage flanked by no fewer than four mercenary guards.
"Lord Van!" shouted the younger guard from before pointing in the direction of Regis' escape.
"Your flank, boy!" Van bellowed far too late for the boy to avoid the killing blow descending on him. Van cringed. The boy's eyes grew wide, but they stayed locked with Van's. His last glimpse of life would be of his liege who could not save him. Van sought to convey his regret but was diverted by a sword bearing down on him. He parried in time and had to exert iron control over himself to keep his eyes centered on his opponent. The boy was dead. There was nothing Van could do for him now. The rebel lunged forward.
Angry at his clumsy opponent and sickened by his own inability to help the young guardsman, Van pivoted around the attack and swung his sword in one swift motion. The duel was over. Breathing hard, he watched as the corpse tumbled to the ground in two distinctly separate pieces. The eyes that stared out of the severed head looked ridiculously elated having not seen the death-blow coming. On the other hand his body looked like any other, albeit headless, bleeding abundantly onto the stone floor. And now that Van's attention was brought to the floor, he could see that he was standing in a large black puddle of blood. His breeches, too, seemed to be drenched from mid-calf down from brushing against bleeding bodies. The cloying smell of copper assaulted his nostrils. Van took stock of his shirt and could now reason that sweat alone was not what was causing it to stick to his frame. Van resisted the urge to shudder.
"Your Highness?" said a wavering voice suddenly at Van's side. Van gasped and whirled around only to come face to face with the young boy guard. 'Oh god, I've lost my mind.' "Your Highness, the rebels are dead. The remaining reinforcements have retreated down that passageway." He pointed in the direction and images superimposed themselves in Van's mind making the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.
"Is something the matter, Lord Van?" the veteran guard of before, now greatly unkempt, gently settled a soot and blood smeared hand on Van's shoulder. Van startled anyway and looked wildly at the guard.
"He's…" Van gestured vaguely at the young boy—no, the young man.
"That was a near thing indeed. One of the others was close enough." Turning to give the younger guard a solid warning look, he added, "That kind of luck only comes once in a lifetime, I assure you."
Van felt like a weight was lifted from his shoulders and turned to what was left of his enduring assemblage.
"Anyone who has minor injuries, I want you first to gather and treat those with more serious wounds. If they need more medical expertise than you can provide, evacuate them to the other wing. After that, collect our dead in a corner so they can be properly buried after this is over. Put out the last of the fires as well." Van's gaze passed over the many bodies littering the floor to the sparse columns of flames still flickering. With nothing left to fuel them, they were dying, leaving swaths of black scorch on the stone. Whatever had been left of Fanelia's history was now gone up in smoke.
"Those who can still fight, come with me." A roar of sound greeted these words and those who would fight lifted their swords in salute.
Even in the passageway the smoke had not dissipated but hung stubbornly in the air. No one paid it much heed as they tramped with purpose down its expanse. The only concessions to its presence were the abundance of coughing and the motion of hands to faces where tears were wiped from irritated eyes. Van spared no attention to his own discomfort, attuned to his surroundings and the battle ahead. His vigilance paid off when they encountered the straggling members of the retreating insurgents. One rebel turned, leveled a crossbow at them, and fired. Van managed to deflect it with the flat of his blade. The sound of the arrowhead striking off his blade served as a signal to the others that the enemy was on their heels. Shouts went up in warning among the rebels ahead and a small faction broke off to face off with Van and his party.
Van didn't even slow down. His first victim fell to a stab wound in his stomach and garnered Van a shallow cut on the left shoulder. The second went down when Van smashed the heavy hilt of his sword against the rebel's temple. To either side of Van his men were handling those who would attack him from the sides leaving Van a clear path down the center. An inexplicable feeling was driving Van to keep moving forward, not to slow down. Blood splashed against his front as Van gave another rebel a brand new smile below his chin. Van could feel they were getting closer to their destination. Two adversaries came at him simultaneously. Van brought his sword to bear against them and braced the blade with his left hand while holding it by the hilt with his right. One mercenary took the pressure off to attempt a lunge, but that was all the opportunity Van needed to kick out at his second foe. The man fell backward and was then impaled on his own ally's blade. Now encumbered by the dead body, the first mercenary was unable to block Van's sword as it arced through the air and cleaved his head from his neck. 'Hurry. Hurry.' The mantra sent him loping over the dead bodies in his path toward the next encounter.
The farther down the hall they went the more mercenaries they began to meet, until they reached a mass of rebels unmistakably guarding the door to the old guymelef repair chamber. Among the crowd was the unmistakable form of Priest Regis. There remained nothing left of the calm, cultured and collected man Van remembered. Now sweat poured from his brow and there was a noticeable tremor in Regis' hands. With his eyes locked on the betrayer, Van slew the enemy before him, ignoring the cut resulting from a near miss that curved around his right eye from his temple to his chin. One of his guards stepped up and severed the fallen man's head to be sure he was dead for the unpardonable attempt on Van's life.
"Kill him!" Priest Regis shrieked, nearly hysterical. "It's your job to protect me! Kill him!" he pointed imperiously toward Van.
The guards rushed forward as they were bid and were dispatched just as quickly as the ones from the passage. Regis had his back to them; he was worrying the handle of the door, trying to get into the next room.
"Step away from the door." Van ordered icily. Regis turned slowly, his expression a rictus of spiteful hatred in the face of his impending death.
"You were never what she wanted!" he screamed at Van. "She could have been infamous if it weren't for being stuck in this, this insignificant speck of a hamlet! She could have been queen of the world! They were supposed to take us away from here!" Regis' lips were pulled back in a snarl and his eyes were ablaze with a fanatical zeal suggesting he was on the precipice of a mental break. The guards managed to edge him out of the way so they could work at opening the door. As a group they rammed their shoulders against the block of wood which stood immovable before them.
"So you're the one responsible for this?" Van demanded, internally hoping Regis would redeem Isadora by affirming his culpability.
"Our plan would have worked too if it weren't for that, that seed of Satan!" Regis raised his bowed head and Van felt unease coupled with his despair when he spotted the broad grin on the man's face.
"Do you mean Kan?" Van could not see where Regis was drawing the corollary between Keori and the devil.
"But I, I know his secret," continued Regis taking no notice of Van, "I heard him in the hall telling that, that traitor of his own kind! Yes, and now Her Majesty knows too. I promise you, he won't be long in this world." Regis cackled his mouth opened wide but his eyes streaming tears. Van did not understand what all he meant but he did hear that his wife was conspiring with Regis to kill Kan; and they were likely responsible for the foreign enemy currently at their gates, the ones still threatening his children. For all the acts of treason Van could muster not even a semblance of pity for the man. Fueled by unbridled anger, he chose a place known for pain and a lingering death in which to strike.
In the same instant that he impaled Regis on his blade, he heard a cry from within the chamber, and his men managed to break the door in.
"Naomi! Is that you, Naomi?"
Van unburied his sword from Priest Regis' chest and sent the man toppling, still dying, to the floor. The scene he walked in on was like something out of a nightmare, certain aspects of it recalling to his mind events from the Zaibach Campaign. Before he could fully absorb the scene, a commotion at the other entrance drew his attention. A welcome sight greeted his eyes in the form of Allen and Chid leading their own contingent of fighters into the room. At center-stage was a group of mercenaries with crossbows encircling Van's three children facing outwards. Within the circle was a man holding a sword above Naomi's neck. Van's grip on his sword tightened convulsively, but he did not rush forward. 'Where are Isadora and Kan?'
~*~*~
Allen dropped from Scheherazade on the South-west side of the old castle and was immediately surrounded by guards at sword point.
"Schezar?" When his identity was confirmed the weapons were lowered. "This is Alec, he'll be taking Scheherazade into the holdings." the senior guard motioned to the young man at his side. Allen stepped forward and shook his hand while tossing a raised brow look at the senior man.
"I didn't doubt that my mech would be taken care of. You should have spared yourselves the expense of time." Allen frowned at the man.
"Wouldn't have mattered; we're the guard keeping away rebel reinforcements. We got another contingent of guards for you to take into the castle. Duke Freid said there wasn't any use in waiting and that you could join up with him on the inside." The irritated twist to his mouth that accompanied his words let Allen know what the man thought of Chid rushing in without Allen as backup.
"Not to worry, Sir. I'm sure he'll hold his own until we can consolidate our forces. If you'll just show me where the breach is…" Allen prompted. He was directed without delay towards the breached entrance where he met and conferred with the men who would be under his leadership inside. After obtaining all the relevant information, he sent a few men ahead to scout the area and brought his men into the passage.
No sooner had they walked a few yards then they all inhaled the acrid stench of smoke.
"If you have something, cover your nose and mouth with it. If not, try to walk closer to the ground without compromising your mobility." Allen called back to the guards. He suited words to action by tying a square of clothe over his face; it cut the smoke out only marginally, but that was an improvement over direct breathing.
"Where's the fire?" someone asked almost rhetorically.
"I wouldn't worry about it until I can see it." Another rejoined.
"Eyes to the front; and no more talking, unless it's important." A senior guard asserted for which Allen was grateful. The contingent was made mostly of Fanelian forces, and while they respected Allen as a legend, they would likely chaff under any rebuke he might give out. As long as they kept themselves in line, Allen could work peaceably within their ranks.
They'd traversed quite far into the labyrinth before they heard any indication that they were in the midst of a battle. There had been ample visual proof beginning almost immediately upon their entrance into the building. Chid's men obviously had an easy go of it with the handfuls of mercenaries they'd encountered on their way, but Allen suspected they would be coming up on larger numbers the deeper they went. When the sounds of war grew consistent, Allen called a halt to wait for the next scouting report.
While they waited, some of the men who'd fought on the field took the time to properly wipe their blades and even a few brought out whet stones to add whatever small edge they could in the sparse time they had. Allen looked down at his own weapon and frowned when he spotted a knick he could not recall getting. Rarely did he have to service his personal sword, Scheherazade's weapon was another matter, but there'd been a great deal of fighting so he decided it was inevitable.
"Sir," Allen's attention zeroed in on the scout, "Duke Freid's men are ahead trying to breach the enemy's position. They've formed a wall in a narrow passage leading deeper into the castle and they're using crossbows to prevent close combat."
"Loses?" Allen prompted; he could imagine Chid walking in unprepared to face long-range weapons.
"Four dead. Two with flesh wounds. Everyone has taken cover behind whatever they can find."
"Then why are we hearing the clash of swords so often?" Allen pondered aloud.
"Well, apparently they've been at a standoff for some time and the mercenaries are running low on arrows. Occasionally they'll attempt to salvage ones that haven't been imbedded in stone, which is when Duke Freid's men will engage with the enemy. However, we aren't sure how many arrows they have left because they fire off more whenever Duke Freid attempts a full on assault." The scout looked off in the direction from whence he'd come in contemplation.
"Alright, let's see how they handle an additional twenty men." Allen announced to the appreciation of the men surrounding him. As one they rose from their crouching positions and headed off down the hall.
~*~*~
The arrival of Allen and the additional twenty guards created a swell of renewed morale within his own ranks. Chid allowed his appreciation to show by giving Allen a solemn nod, which was returned likewise. Allen's men quickly took their places beside his own and it was as if they'd always been one body. On the other side of the room, Chid could hear the rebels arguing; no doubt they'd noticed the arrival of his allies. Chid caught motion from Allen's direction and watched as one of Fanelia's guardsmen crawled out from behind his cover and began to make his way toward the mercenaries. For a moment Chid could believe they had finally exhausted their supply of arrows when none were sent flying.
The guard actually managed to get within striking distance, evinced by the bellowing cry of a rebel whose legs the guard amputated, before the twang of a released arrow rent the air. Chid did not have to look to know the guard was dead. However, to his surprise every Fanelian guard stood as one and surged forward of a sudden. Belatedly Chid gave the order for his men to do the same realizing Allen was exploiting the guard's sacrifice as a distraction in order to breach the enemy's position.
One, two, four arrows flew before they clashed and the rebels were too close to Fanelian and Freid forces to chance hitting their own with the long range weapons. Chid was right alongside his men wielding a sword with memories of a time he was far too young to do so cluttering his mind. They were a mass of thrust and parry, swing and sidestep. But if Chid had known how few the enemy really numbered he would have made the same call as Allen much earlier. Their advantages lie only in their use of the crossbows because truly their position only afforded Fanelia an easier victory. The battle lasted less than a candle mark and their casualties listed below two handfuls, half of which were from Chid's first encounter with enemy crossbows. Staring at the baker's dozen of felled mercenaries, Chid came to a startling conclusion.
"I have a feeling we're the victims of a stalling tactic." He announced.
"Come again?" Allen queried.
"These men, I think they realized that we closed off this escape route and sent a warning to whoever's behind this. They must have sent all their forces to the main passage where they'll have a better chance of leaving the castle. Think about it; once they get through the throne room they'll have plenty of potential exits, whereas this way there's only the one which we're guarding." Chid locked his gaze with Allen's. He was searching silently for the older man's thoughts on his analysis, but fortunately Allen wasn't one to hide his opinion.
"If that's accurate, then we haven't got the time to waste standing around here. Following your scenario we shouldn't encounter any more resistance until we get to the heart of this mercenary army."
And they didn't come across anyone, but for a few watchmen subdued in silence, before they reached the antechamber and stumbled upon a precarious situation even they hesitated to influence one way or another. There were the royal children held hostage in imminent danger of losing their lives. Then on top of the guymelef scaffolding, below and to the side of the battered form of Keori Kan, stood Her Imperial Highness Queen Isadora, not looking the least bit frightened or as if she were being held captive herself. Across from them stood His Imperial Highness King Van Fanel looking shocked and confused having just caught sight of Keori strung out by his wrists and his wife unharmed below Kan.
"Isado…" began Van in a halting voice. He shook his head to the side in a vain attempt to deny the truth that his mind and all the evidence were explicitly conveying.
"Stay where you are or I cannot compel them to refrain from ending your children's lives." Isadora commanded making a negligent motion toward Hardon and the mercenaries surrounding the children. As movement caught her eye in the direction of the larger combined force of Fanelia and Freid she added coldly, "It goes without saying that the rest of you will comply unasked." Guards hastily backed away in fear of catalyzing an adverse reaction which left Allen and Chid to the fore of the group. Yet, there was no action on the part of the blonde duo who wore identical expressions of grim comprehension. Hesitation and reigned-in anticipation rendered everyone still; silence sounded deafening within the tableau.
"Please." Van beseeched softly, "Don't harm our children."
From his height, Keori watched as all the actors were brought to the stage. From the pleased expression on the Queen's face, he could only deduce this had been her desire from the very start. Perhaps the original plan entailed their removal from the grounds, but that may have been only to appease the mercenary faction leaders who would aid her in the coup. In truth Isadora wanted to hold Van's love for his children over his head and then watch him fold under her demands to save them. The only aspect Keori was still unsure of was whether Isadora's would then kill them all to spite the king or would she actually make some kind of bargain with him.