WARNING: The following is a preview of an early chapter in the third installment of The Bard’s Heresy series, The Key to the Kingdom. As you might expect, it contains spoilers from The Gift of the Guardians and The Blackguard’s Bond. In addition, it contains strong language, graphic violence, and other content related to medieval warfare. Reader discretion is advised. Also, while I have chosen to share this here, be advised that it is not finished and may appear different in its final, published form. Along those lines, if you have any feedback, feel free to send an email to justindbello.author@gmail.com
NO AI TRAINING: Without in any way limiting the author’s exclusive rights under copyright, any use of this publication to “train” generative artificial intelligence (AI) technologies to generate text is expressly prohibited. The author reserves all rights to license uses of this work for generative AI training and development of machine learning language models.
Cragbarrow, the ancestral home of the baron of Agathis, had once stood as a mighty fortress guarding the mountain pass that allowed for travel and trade between the northern Andochan lands and the southern baronies of Baronbrock. For centuries, the city had maintained what was, for the most part, an open gate policy, encouraging easy transit between the perennially peaceful realms. Lughus had studied the city at one point or another during his time as an apprentice, and while he had never seen it in life, the sight of it now as a smoldering ruin filled him with disappointment.
And wrath.
Dorgan Agathis was not a man that Lughus had known well. In fact, in his relatively short tenure as baron, Agathis had refused to speak with him when he came to call, and later, allowed Andochan kingsmen safe passage through his lands despite knowing full-well that their intent was to attack Lughus’s own city of Galadin.
However, when the Brock came together to stand united against the unjust encroachment of the Guardian-King, Agathis did his duty, for as the northern army of Andoch reached his city, where they had thought to find the gates wide open and welcoming, they instead found them barred by a defiant baron who refused to back down.
That unexpected resistance, though perhaps not epic or glorious enough to attract the attention of any bard, was enough to waylay the Guardian army long enough for word to reach Galadin and the other baronies, leading to the Brock’s great victory at the Monastery of St. Golan the Ram.
In the days following the battle, though the enemy army was defeated and put to rout, there remained survivors–marauders intent on sowing chaos and destruction as they made their slow withdrawal. The largest group, reportedly led by the Anointed Guardians known as the Willow and the Jay, headed west, while a smaller group that included the Guardian artillerist, the Cockerel, headed east toward Nordren and the coastal road. Lughus and Brigid would make for the mountains, while Geoffrey, who had already encountered the Cockerel once, would accompany Theo Nordren back to his home.
From the beginning of the long, stone causeway that led to the main gates of the ruined city, Lughus eyed the scorch marks that remained as evidence of St. Aiden’s fire, the thick, oily incendiary substance that the Guardians would have used to destroy St. Golan’s as well, were it not for the clandestine actions of Sir Adolfo the Madder and Sir Geoffrey of Pyle.
Beyond the bridge, the walled city spread out into a series of concentric districts with the castle of the baron in the center and a second stone causeway leading up into the mountain paths on the far side. It had been an ingenious design and a mighty fortress, and were it not for the use of St. Aiden’s fire, even a less martially inclined baron like Dorgan Agathis could have withstood a prolonged assault so long as he kept the causeways secure.
A horse’s whinny brought Lughus’s attention back around from the ruin and he glanced up to see the Grantisi General Cornelius Navarro–the famous Gray Wolf–at his side.
“I will have my men form a shield wall as we cross the bridge. Once we pass the gates, they will fan out into smaller squads and flush the streets toward the mountains on the other side. Your archers can provide support from behind the phalanx. You say there is a second bridge?”
“As I understand it, the city is roughly symmetrical,” Lughus said. “Of course, with the rubble from the ruined castle, I can’t speak to what it may look like now. I expect the Andochans may have set up barricades as well.” His brow creased in thought. “I will lead my men in as an advance party to try to draw out the Jay and the Willow, then your men can provide the final sweep.”
Navarro agreed. “I’ll have my elite guard join you. They may attempt to dig in here so as to maintain a staging point through which they might more easily return. We will not let them have it.” He called back to the brash captain–Velius, Lughus remembered–and began issuing orders.
Lughus turned to where Brigid and Fergus stood among the soldiers of the Galadin guard. “We on the hunt then, Marshal?” Brigid smiled at him.
Lughus gave a nod. “Fergus, Brigid, and I will take the lead. Pike and Tonkin in the middle, Kender and Sedge on the flanks. You others, fill in between. Sir Balric–” he called to the mounted knight behind them, “You have command of the archers. Have them form squads to support the legionnaires.”
A chorus of “Aye!” sounded from the Galadin men and as they broke to ready themselves, Brigid stepped forward to join him.
“What do you know about the Jay and the Willow?” she asked.
Lughus chewed his lip and rested his hands upon his pommel. “Both are scouts from what I recall,” he said. “The Willow is an archer with a horn bow. I think the Jay was a quartermaster or the like. He managed supplies and protected the stores. Perhaps not the most heroic role on the surface, but certainly important for any campaign.”
Brigid smiled and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek.
“What was that for?” He smirked.
“Does a girl need a reason to kiss her betrothed?”
“No,” he said, “I just wondered what brought on the urge. That way I know how to repeat it.”
Her eyes sparkled and she laughed aloud, resting her hands upon her hilts. “If you must know,” she said, “I find it cute when your apprentice starts showing.”
“What?” He grinned.
“Your face gets very serious and your voice drops like you’re reciting passages from a book by memory.”
“Sometimes I am.”
“I know.” She laughed and gave him another quick kiss.
In the aftermath of the battle, the young couple decided that, with the destruction and the wounded, to postpone the immediacy of the wedding in favor of the safety of the realm. Yet, while the situation may not have allowed for a ceremony befitting a baron of such a storied family, the morning after the battle, Lughus’s grandfather, Roland Marthaine, suggested Abbot Woode officiate a formal betrothal beneath the eaves of the abbey they fought so hard to preserve. Such things were important for the morale of the people, he had said, particularly when the betrothal was to unite two great heroes of the realm. The public nature of the ceremony was not something Lughus would have chosen, but Brigid mollified his concerns, conceding that it was often just how these things were done.
Fergus sat back on his haunches and gave a loud sniff, drawing the young Marshal’s attention back to the present. He paused to check the straps of the leather harness that the great hound now wore. A gift from the general, it had once belonged to an old war mastiff. Boiled leather barding now provided at least some defense to the dog’s previously unprotected flanks while a spiked collar guarded his neck.
“It’s better than nothing, brother,” Lughus told the hound, “We’ll get it fitted properly for you when we get back home.”
General Navarro returned with Captain Velius and his warriors in their bright, segmented plate armor and plumed helmets in tow. “Ready to advance when you are, Baron Galadin,” the Gray Wolf said.
Lughus gave a nod and the Galadin forces, Brigid, and Fergus fell in beside him. “Follow at a distance,” Lughus said. “We’ll send word if there’s any trouble.”
“Good hunting,” Navarro said.
Together, the two squads began a parallel assent across the causeway. Lughus readied Sentinel and behind him, he heard the quiet snap as Brigid drew Whisper and Shade. The men of the Galadin guard carried embossed heater shields emblazoned with the mark of the golden hound, while across the way, the legionaries under Captain Velius carried their tall, rectangular shields and short swords.
As they marched, Velius offered Lughus a sardonic smirk. “So you’re the boy baron who’s friends with the fox-faced Loremaster, eh?”
“I am,” Lughus said, “And you’re Captain Velius, the general’s right hand. Royne mentioned you in his letter.”
Velius smirked. “So my reputation precedes me. I assume he mentioned something about me being a boorish, black-hearted bastard with the sense of a donkey and the mouth of a seaside trollop?”
“Something like that,” Lughus said, “Though he also said you were loyal, and that you liked to fight.”
“Lady’s teat! Such kindness!” Velius laughed. “I’m like to tear up.”
Lughus motioned toward the barbican. “It’s certain they know we’re coming for them. When we enter the gates of the city, you and your men take the right hand path and we’ll take the left. If you get cornered or need help, do you have a way to call?”
“Each man among us carries a whistle,” Velius said. “You?”
“You’ll hear the hound.”
The captain knocked his pommel against his shield. “Then let’s move.”
As a group, the two squads cautiously approached the ruined barbican, mindful of any enemy watchmen. Fergus loped along slightly ahead, nose to the ground. Though the city had fallen over a week ago, the smell of burning still hung heavy upon the air. Thick, wooden beams emerged crookedly from piles of rubble with the desperation of drowning men. Bodies, some burnt, others simply rotting, lie open to the air. Just beyond the twisted remains of the broken portcullis, the path split. A pike bearing the banner of Andoch–the white key on a field of red–stood like a wax seal on a formal proclamation. With casual disregard, Captain Velius brashly kicked it to the ground.
“See you on the other side,” the captain said to Lughus.
Lughus raised Sentinel in a quick salute.
Together, the legionnaires began their slow march along the right path. and Lughus turned to the Galadin guard.
“They’re like to draw the Guardians right to them for all the noise they make,” Brigid observed.
“Let’s hope it grants us the element of surprise then,” Lughus said.
From the barbican, the Galadin warriors followed the main route left through the outer most of the circular city wards. Warehouses and stockyards gave way to flophouses and lower-class tenements. Here, the damage and destruction that marked the path seemed more like pillaging and looting than organized warfare. The bodies that littered the streets were less commonly soldiers and more often peasants and poor folk. In one section, an area of closely packed homes had gone up in flames. Skeletal remains formed small heaps where families huddled together in their last, futile moments. Ice water spread through Lughus’s veins and beside him, he could sense Brigid’s palpable lust for vengeance, yet they continued onward without pause, for they had all seen enough battle not to be distracted by the horrors that followed in its wake.
At what must have been a small marketplace or square, the cobblestoned street divided into two other pathways. With a silent wave and a nod to Fergus, Lughus led the group along the pathway that turned inward toward the next concentric ward. For some reason, he felt drawn to the center of the city, as if in the ruins of the baron’s castle, they would find the encampment of the marauders. Fergus was about to bound on ahead when Brigid checked him with a call of “Hold!” and the entire group froze.
With the nimble footfalls of a forest creature, the Blade stepped forth along the path. With the tip of one of her daggers, she gently lifted a thin, braided rope from among the scattered rubble. With effortless care, she followed it to where it connected to several pitons that held enormous stone boulders precariously positioned to crush the unaware. With a swipe of her blade, she cut the tripwire and after a pause to ensure there was no secondary trigger, she motioned for the group to proceed.
“After you.” She grinned.
Lughus returned her smile and suppressed a warm flood of affection. Fergus trotted on ahead, less swiftly, but more alert, and the group followed through the ruined archway and on into the next concentric ward where finer shops and townhouses had once stood. The fire had destroyed the majority of the buildings and it appeared that once the walls were breached, this is where the fighting had been heaviest. Carrion birds poked at the decaying corpses of the Agathis soldiery, though here and there they spied the odd kingsmen or Andochan man-at-arms.
“They didn’t even bother to see to their own dead,” Tonkin muttered. They entered a small square where a ruined fountain stood beside the husk of a large wattle and daub inn. Red-cloaked kingsmen corpses littered the area, outnumbering even the Agathis guards. All of a sudden Fergus growled and his lips curled in a viscous snarl.
“Because they’re not dead!” Lughus shouted and raised his sword. All around them, the feigning kingsmen scrambled to rise. A pair of crossbow bolts flew through the air at Brigid, but she ducked adeptly and stepped to one side.
“For the Brock!”
As a pair of kingsmen ran to engage him, Lughus lunged forward in a wide arc, knocking aside their swords. In a flash, he whirled Sentinel around into a high guard and brought the blade down through an attacker’s shoulder. Blood and bits of chain burst forth as he withdrew the blade, parried a counterattack from the remaining enemy, and with another quick turn of his wrist, ran the man through.
Behind him, the Galadin guardsmen raised their shields and split into groups of two or three to engage the attacking kingsmen. Each man among them had been trained by Sir Owain Rook, and while fewer in number, they were more than a match for their counterparts in the Andochan standing army.
Yet perhaps more importantly, morale was high–as was the confidence they had in their leaders. They were emboldened by their recent victory, and if Lughus had learned anything from his studies of military history, it was that this manner of faith–this belief–could move mountains. St. Golan’s had helped to confirm that.
Another bolt whistled through the air–wildly–followed by a loud snarl and a cry of terror as Fergus brought the marksman down. From atop a broken stone wall, Brigid whirled about in circles with Whisper and Shade. A kingsman with a great axe raised his weapon, ready to split her in two, but the steel struck only stone. Through the resulting burst of sparks, Brigid leapt over his head, turned, and drove her daggers to the hilt beneath his arms.
Ina flash, Lughus leapt to join her, and in an instant, they were back to back, fighting in tandem as another wave of kingsmen rushed at them. With uncanny precision, the Marshal parried or struck out from the points of the five guards while the Blade opportunistically leapt in to strike like a viper whenever he countered. It was an elaborate and deadly dance, and together they were perfect partners.
One by one the red-cloaked soldiers returned to their former places among the fallen, though this time, they had no need to feign death. When the final kingsman turned to flee–only to be brought down by the slavering hound–a full score of kingsmen lie dead or dying. Of the Galadin guard, only Kender suffered any harm when the flailing blade of a falling kingsman caught the young man across the brow. While it bled something fierce, it was hardly a mortal wound and the group quickly prepared to continue onward, deeper into the heart of the destroyed city.
As they crept forward, Lughus considered the General’s comments. If the Guardians were able to hold Agathis, it would certainly make Andoch’s continued assault upon the Brock easier, ensuring an easy point of entry via Stonebridge Castle in the north of Andoch. Otherwise, the army might need to take the coastal road toward Nordren or else sail northward around the continent to attack the northernmost baronies of Denholm and Brabant, which would, of course, take time.
As such, Lughus knew that the fighting would become increasingly bloody and desperate with every street he secured, and while it was true that the general and his men followed after them with Sir Balric and the archers of the Brock, if he and Brigid could succeed in eliminating the Guardian leaders, the remaining troops were all the more likely to turn tail and run.
From the place of the skirmish, they crept forward through the ruins, passing on from the part of the city belonging to the burghers and the guildsmen to the larger tower houses and estates belonging to the wealthiest of merchants and minor nobility of Agathis who maintained homes in the streets just outside of the castle. The worst of the destruction wrought by the trebuchets seemed to have occurred here as the errant projectiles wreaked havoc on the aristocratic estates. Most of the corpses here were little more than charred skeletons, though on occasion they came across a body only half-burnt, but contorted in agony.
While the sight of a dead body was never pleasant, there was a difference between the sight of a dead soldier versus the sight of a dead civilian. A warrior understood the risks that could occur as a natural consequence of battle, but the non-combatants–the elderly, the servants, the majority of women, and the children–were simply victims of the horrific conflict. It was the sight of such cruelties that led Brigid to take action at St. Golan’s, using the Gift of the Guardians to heal the wounds of what innocent she could. Yet now, as he unwillingly recognized the various sizes of the burnt corpses, Lughus knew that even the miraculous power of Gift was of no use to the dead. All he could do now was hold to his oath and fight to ensure such tragedies were never repeated.
Rise now, the Marshal, and drive the Dark away!
Still, he knew that this experience would be one to haunt both him and Brigid, but he was grateful that in their shared trauma they could help guide each other through the darkness of what they’d seen.
But that was later. For now, Lughus knew that he needed to cling to that part of himself that was cold and unfeeling, that part that would allow him to carry on and lead.
“Keep a sharp eye,” he called softly to his men. “Watch for any sudden flashes of light or the flight of a carrion bird.”
“And remember the Willow is an archer,” Brigid whispered. “So try to keep cover as we proceed.”
The men nodded or grunted in assent and together the group continued on through a wide area that may once have been a garden and past the burnt-out shell of a small shrine. Lughus’s eyes darted about cautiously, yet he still failed to hear Brigid’s footfalls as she drew near.
“What are you thinking?” she asked him quietly.
“I don’t know,” he replied. “I expected to find much more in the way of resistance than what we’ve met so far. Maybe they really have simply fled before Navarro and his legion?”
“You’re no slouch either,” she teased.
“Or you,” Lughus replied, allowing a small smile to escape him. “You haven’t heard any whistles have you?”
“No, and I’ve a feeling a sound like that would never escape Fergus’s notice.”
Lughus nodded. ‘We’re nearly at the castle now,” he said, “If we meet no resistance, we can rejoin Captain Velius and check in before continuing on.”
“Agreed. Perhaps I can take–” She suddenly fell silent. “Hold on. Look up ahead. Just past the broken statue.”
“I see it,” Lughus said. He called Fergus to his side to prevent him running on ahead and held up a hand to halt the rest of the guard.
“Is that a man?” Tonkin asked.
“Looks like,” said Grimes.
“Quiet now,” Sergeant Pike whispered harshly, “Quiet and be ready.”
The armored figure drew a heavy mace and raised it high. “Death to the enemies of the Protectorate!” he shouted. At once there was a resounding clatter as a double-file column of knights on horseback charged from behind the enemy officer. To Lughus’s great surprise, however, it was not the crimson and white of the Order that they wore, but golden tabards emblazoned with the black anvil of Dwerin.
“Iron and Steel!” the riders cried, whooping and hollering as they charged.
Lughus cast a quick glance at Brigid, but the revelation of the attackers’ origin did nothing to betray her focus. Instead, she stood poised in anticipation of the charge.
“Holy Brethren!” one of the Galadin guardsmen cried.
“Find cover in the rubble,” Lughus commanded. “They can’t charge through stone.”
Barely had he finished speaking than the first rank of knights was upon them and the Galadins were scattered, leaping to the side or backing away behind their shields. Lughus twisted to avoid the first two riders, planted his foot, and whirled around to unhorse the third, forcing the men who followed to rein in their mounts. At once, Sergeant Pike, Kender, and Grimes rushed to join the fray beside him, and across the path, he heard Fergus’s snarl and the shrill whinny of a terrified horse. He could not see Brigid in the chaos, but knew that she was at her deadliest when she was out of sight.
Lughus parried an attack from another horseman, then, while the man was unbalanced in the saddle, grabbed hold of the knight’s vambrace with his free hand and pulled him down to the cobbles. Kender was quick to plunge his sword through the man’s gorget before being knocked aside by the rider-less horse. Lughus stepped back to survey the melee and readjust his footing when a sudden flash and a low grunt gave him pause.
It was Grimes, pierced through the chest by a goose-feathered arrow. The guardsman fell to his knees before falling prone upon his side.
“Warlock’s Balls!” Pike cursed as together they leapt for cover, pulling the wounded man after them.
Following now upon the tail of the Dwerin horsemen, the red-cloaked kingsmen rushed to join the fray. Commanding them was the lone figure with the mace and two others–both archers–at his side. One was tall and lean in leather lamellar and a burgundy cloak with a cowl. The other was a young man bearing the arms of Dwerin on his tabard. His mail gleamed in the light and onyx stones shone from his mail skirt.
With the uncanny premonitions of the Marshal, Lughus had the strong sense that the lanky man was the Willow. However, the other–the leader carrying the mace–was not the Jay. Rather, he was someone different, a Guardian for certain, and one of the Anointed, but not someone Lughus or Crodane or Wolfram of Parth seemed to know well. The Miller? he wondered, recalling one of Adolfo’s past reports. And his weapon is…the Millstone. Yes, that’s it. He was sent to Stonebridge to support a force of Dwerin Knights commanded by…
A cold fire burned suddenly within him and his knuckles went white grasping Sentinel’s hilt.
“Grimes?” he asked Pike.
The sergeant’s face fell. “Dead, sir.”
Lughus’s jaw set and he clenched his teeth. “Then in his memory, let’s make them pay.”
Pike and Tonkin readied their weapons and rattled their shields as the Marshal led them back into the thickening fray.
With a deft swipe, Lughus unseated another horseman, whirled the blade around, and plunged it through the fallen knight’s mail. A squad of kingsman rushed forth to engage him, and Tonkin and Pike hurried to join him shoulder to shoulder. With a deft strike he knocked aside a kingsman’s shield and quickly turned his wrists to thrust up beneath the man’s arm. Pike used his own shield to bash at the next man in the line, but as the kingsman braced himself against the sergeant, Lughus quickly dispatched him with another swift thrust. Tonkin traded blows with another enemy soldier, hacking and blocking, back and forth. Pike hurried to assist him, while Lughus advanced in pursuit of the Guardian leaders.
Two more kingsmen fell to Sentinel’s deadly song before Lughus finally reached them. The Miller shouted commands to his kingsmen while the archers at his sides shot into the fray. A bark that was more akin to a roar alerted him that Fergus was near, and moments later he watched as the great hound ripped another horseman from the saddle and pounced, pinning the soldier to the cobbles. In a flash, Brigid followed, sliding one of her blades between the seam in the knight’s armor. Another pair of arrows flew past her head, and while both failed to hit their mark, one passed close enough to knick a thin like across the top of her cheek.
With a cry of fury, Lughus charged. In the chaos and confusion of the battle, the suddenness and ferocity of his assault caught the Guardian leaders off guard. Only by luck and instinct did the Miller parry the Marshal’s blade, while the Willow dropped the arrow he held ready and raised his bow defensively. At once, the young archer from Dwerin made to flee, but in his panic, tripped on rubble, and fell hard to the stones with a high pitched squeal. Lughus offered him a swift kick to the abdomen, before pivoting to block the Miller’s awestruck counter.
With another roar, Fergus joined the fray, catching the Willow’s bow between his jaws. Like a wild beast, he whipped his head back and forth in an attempt to pry it from the archer’s grasp. Seeing an opportunity, Brigid quickly wiped the blood from her cheek with the back of her hand, and with a forward roll to gain momentum, leapt through the air at the Willow’s exposed back. Both daggers bit deep just above the shoulder blades, slipping through the seams in the lamellar. With a wail of pain and anguish, the Willow cried out, toppled to the ground, and fell still.
“Dibhor take you, Blackguards!” the Miller hissed at his comrade’s fall. He lashed out with his mace in a series of heavy blows. Lughus stepped lightly away, parried, and counterattacked, scoring a hit to the Guardian’s upper arm. With a grunt, the Miller reset his footing and began another succession of swings, each one powerful enough to crush the skull of a boar. Again, Lughus lightly circled back in a wide arc and swung Sentinel just as the Miller recovered his footing. The blade failed to reach any vital spot, but echoed like a blacksmith’s hammer upon the Guardian’s steel helm, knocking it to the ground. At once the man leapt back in panic, his curly, dark hair matted with sweat against his brow. He glared at Lughus with wild-eyed hatred and zealous hysteria.
“How dare you take arms against the Order that raised you, you traitorous, black-hearted dog!” He snarled. “To defy the will of the Guardian-King is a sacrilege–a sacrilege that shames your holy ancestor!”
“Your men burned my lands and murdered my people–to say nothing of what you did here!” Lughus said coldly, leaping forth to take the offensive. “The Galadins will not stand by idly while Kredor bullies his way to an empire–nor will any of the Brock!”
“Then you will die–you and all Broken bastards!” the Miller screamed. “Alan, now!”
Lughus spun on his heel just in time to see the Dwerin archer had reclaimed his feet and let loose an arrow from his bow. At such close range, and with Lughus engaged with the Miller, the young man probably thought he couldn’t miss. But, in keeping with everything Brigid had ever told him about her cousin, Lughus knew that overconfidence was hardly the least of Alan Beinn’s weaknesses.
With a swift shifting of his feet, Lughus crouched and the arrow went wide. In a flash, he parried the Miller’s follow-up blow, knocked him back, and with a swift turn of his blade, separated the Guardian’s head from his neck.
The fall of their commander instantly spilled the wind from the sails of the remaining kingsmen and Dwerin knights. The sudden arrival of Velius and his men down one of the dilapidated side alleys shattered their courage completely. Now, they fought only to escape, to carve whatever path would most conveniently allow them to flee.
At the sight of the Guardian’s fall, Lughus paused for the briefest of moments. Until today, he had never actually seen a Guardian die in battle before. Even the Chough, the commander of the Andochan army attacking St. Golan’s–once beaten, surrounded, and abandoned by his fleeing forces–had surrendered. To watch one die–and the accumulated knowledge of generations of bearers of the title die with them–was a strange sensation. To be the direct instrument of such a demise brought a strange guilt, as if in ending the man’s life, he had not only taken a life, but set an entire shelf of illuminated manuscripts on fire. For one raised to hold knowledge in such high esteem, it was deeply troubling.
But isn’t every man’s life the same? Aren’t we all but single volumes in the vast and endless library of human existence?
While lasting only an instant, in his moment of reflection, Lughus had forgotten Alan Beinn. The Miller’s assistant was quick to seize the moment and fit another arrow to his bow. A wide leer spread across his lips that Lughus knew was not out of any sense of comradely vengeance for his fallen superior, but rather the blunt urge to inflict suffering and pain.
Of course, in his zeal to commit cruelty, Alan too left himself unguarded. There was a sudden flash of steel and Alan’s bowstring snapped. The sudden release of tension caused the wood to violently lurch back and Alan squealed as the willowy shaft slipped from his grip. In a panic, he bent to recover it, but a swift kick to the rear sent him sprawling.
“Hello, cousin.”
Alan hurried to right himself. “Brigid!” he seethed.
Lughus paced forth to stand beside her, and they were joined at once by Fergus. With a light touch, Lughus patted the hound on the top of the head as the golden hound raised his hackles and uttered a low, menacing growl.
“I imagine this is the last place you expected to find me,” Brigid said, “Particularly how our last meeting ended.”
“You mean when that coward Blackguard refused to fight me?” Alan smirked. “Actually, we’d all heard you survived. That you found refuge with the heretic barons in the Brock.” He gave a derisive chuckle. “What is it they say now? That you’re [sleeping with] some baron or other?” His eyes shot to Lughus. “Is that him? I suppose it’s true that opening your legs opens plenty of doors!”
Lughus’s grip tightened on Sentinel and he made to rush forward to split the wretched bastard on his blade–just as he’d envisioned a thousand times since the day Brigid told him of her life at Blackstone. “You craven bastard–” he seethed. “Slaying you would be like lancing a boil from the bloody continent!”
“No,” Brigid said, calming the storms in his eyes with the softness of her sapphire gaze. “His blood would only tarnish your blade.” She turned back to face Alan. “Besides, ” she added, “He’s absolutely terrified right now, and like any cornered vermin, spitting poison is his only defense.”
Alan’s face twisted into a sneer, but Lughus could see now that she was right. Alan was terrified–and helpless–but that did not make him any less capable of sowing evil.
Still, with a sigh, Lughus relented and sheathed his sword. Alan was Brigid’s kin. For the moment, he would leave it to her.
“Glad to know you’ve not completely taken leave of your senses,” Alan said with what bravado he could muster. “So what are you going to do to me? Kill me like you killed our uncles?”
Brigid gave a weary sigh. “Actually,” she said, “I’m going to let you go.”
“What?” Lughus asked, nearly in unison with Alan.
“We both know that it was not I who killed our uncles,” she said, “and the last thing I want is to have anything in common with the man who did–and we both know who that is.”
“I believe it was actually a joint venture,” Alan said, “A betrothal gift perhaps. You know, out with the old blood and in with the new? They just took it somewhat too literally.”
“We will see to Dwerin’s troubles in due time,” Brigid said. She sheathed her daggers. “Now be gone with you. Slink back to whatever hole you crawled out of and nurse your bruised ego with delusions of divinity. The Brock is closed to those who would abuse its people in the name of the Guardian-King.”
“Funny that you still think you can return to Dwerin,” her cousin said, “or that you think anyone would even notice your return. Apart from the rumors of you killing our uncles, few enough–commoner or noble–even know who you are–or were, rather. Lady Josephine has been quite adept at erasing your very existence. The special teas the whores drink aren’t half as effective.”
At this, Lughus had finally had enough. He grabbed Alan by the tabard and lifted him to his feet. Brigid may have found a way to tolerate Alan’s continued existence, and out of respect to her, Lughus promised not to end Alan’s wicked life.
But he could still beat him.
And so he did, driving his fist hard into the Young Sheriff’s vulgar mouth. In his fury, he nearly mistook the sound of Fergus’s growling for his own. For a fleeting moment Alan’s facade broke and he shriveled like a worm in the high summer sun.
“I would feed you to the hound,” Lughus said, “But you would only make him sick.”
For once, the Young Sheriff had no nasty retort and with a hard shove, Lughus threw him backwards, sending him sprawling to the cobblestones.
With the arrival of Captain Velius and his legionnaires, the remaining enemies had quickly broken and fled for the mountains. Now, not far off, a bevy of war horns announced the impending arrival of General Navarro, Sir Balric, and the rest of the Fighting Fifth.
“Run for your life,” Lughus seethed.
With as much dignity as he could muster, Alan collected himself and slowly backed away. However, like all weak men Lughus had known, Alan could not depart without making some show of viciousness masking as strength.
“Tell me, Baron,” Alan said with feigned nonchalance, “when you [kiss] Lady Frigid does she just [sit] there like a dead fish, or does she cry out to wake the dead like her mother?”
Lughus’s hand tightened again on Sentinel, but as before he felt Brigid’s hand on his shoulder.
Alan grinned with malicious glee. “My money’s on the former, but you never know. Sometimes it’s the quiet ones who turn out to be the biggest whores.”
Sentinel’s blade flashed out and Fergus readied to leap.
“Ignore him!” Brigid insisted, “Lughus, he is nothing!”
Again, the general sounded his horns and Alan paced back another few steps. “You’ll find the Baroness and her daughters in the ruins of the castle further in,” the Young Sheriff said, “I told the stupid Miller we should have our way with them, but he looked at me like I was a mad man. I guess not everyone has my martial acumen.” He laughed. “Well, [forget] him anyhow. He’s dead.”
Lughus took a deep, bracing breath. “Alan?” he called.
“Yes, Baron Doggy?”
The storm clouds in Lughus’s eyes flashed. “Brigid’s mercy has spared your life today,” he said, “but the next time we meet will be the last.”
Again, Alan’s facade broke briefly until once again, he conjured his smug grin. “I look forward to it!” He offered a final arrogant chuckle, then spun on his heel, and fled.
Lughus watched him go. Beside him, Brigid breathed a heavy sigh and hugged his arm. “I know what you’re thinking.”
“That the world would be better off if he were dead?”
She nodded. “I don’t doubt it,” she said, “but to simply murder him…” She shrugged. “I don’t want that on your conscience.”
Lughus sighed. “But by letting him go, have we allowed him the chance to sow greater evil?”
“His actions are not ours.”
“I suppose.” His jaw tightened and for a long moment, he was silent. “I don’t like how he spoke about you.”
“Oh Lughus, let him spew his nonsense.” She gave his arm one final squeeze. “I believe that in the end, Alan’s own wickedness will return to him tenfold,” she said, “and who knows? Perhaps it will be by your hand? Only, let it be in the heat of battle and not when he is already lying defeated and helpless. Else, we become like him, if only by the tiniest of measures.”
At length, Lughus gave a nod and kissed the crown of her head. “Let’s see if there is any truth to what he said about Lady Agathis. Then, once General Navarro reaches us, we can set about securing the mountain pass.”
Justin D. Bello 