Jerrod awakened abruptly to the sound of swords ringing. Dizzy, and fighting the urge to return to sleep, the young knight shook the sleep from his eyes, trying desperately to concentrate. The sounds were coming from outside his chambers, in the hall. Before he could catch his bearings Jerrod leapt from the bed, and raced to the entryway of his chambers. He reached the door and put his head against the stout oak, listening intently. There was nothing, not a sound. He heard the quick patter of servants’ footfalls along the corridor outside, and then nothing. He waited. He could hear heavier foot falls in pursuit and muffled cursing, again, nothing. He waited. Finally, there was a clash, and then a cry. Jerrod’s mind raced, questioning, searching for answers and finding none. It occurred to him that his page had not returned. Then his face paled in horror, tonight was the coronation! He had nearly slept through it, and now, something terrible was happening, and here he was, still barely dressed.
Quickly, Jerrod ran to his dresser put on a fresh tunic and donned his sword belt. He stopped then, and replaced his ancestral blade with another from his armory, a non-descript short sword. If there was fighting in the keep, a long sword would only be a hindrance. He went to his bedroom and peeked out the narrow window of his cell. It was pitch black outside. The window was high, and two feet deep into the wall, making it difficult to see what if anything was happening below. But again, his ears told him more, a sharp whinny, the class of steel on mail, shouts, the keep was being invaded! Duke Oakfir dared rebellion.
Jerrod listened at the door, sword unsheathed, dirk clenched between his teeth. He waited for a lull in the action, then opened the door quickly, and closed it behind him. He waited for a full minute with his sword drawn, hearing only faint shouts, seeing nothing. Knowing his duty was the Prince, the knight trotted toward the royal chambers, the sheath of his short sword slapping against his thigh.
The corridors were strangely empty now. Every so often, he observed a ripped tapestry, torn from it’s rigging, or slashed at haphazardly. Jerrod’s quarters were in what was commonly called the barracks, a slur to the knights in residence, who couldn’t afford nicer rooms. But other knights, and minor lordlings like himself were housed here. Most seemed deserted now. A few doors were ajar, but most were locked tightly. He could hear boisterous laughter from one, but the crest on the door was House Kraken, a house known for it’s wiley and unscrupulous knights. Other doors, like House Mercator had been busted open, splintered wood careening crazily like teeth of some wild and woolly giant. House Mercator was a small but loyal vassal to the Prince. Jerrod had only passing acquaintance with the knight. He peered inside, but saw only similar destruction within. The prince, he thought reluctantly, is my priority.
He continued his way, winding upward to the nicer rooms. A few times he saw a body, a man at arms, guard or servant caught at the wrong place, and time, broken and smashed to pieces against the heavy marble walls. The blood was in some cases already gummy and drying.
Jerrod fought a rising sense of panic. What if he was too late? What if the Prince had been deposed, executed, more likely held captive? Greater too was an almost stifling sense of shame. In his prince’s principal moment of need, Sir Jerrod Brinkford had been prostate on his pallet, he a sworn knight of the Prince’s personal guard. He fought down the rising bile, and concentrated on the mission ahead. Ahead he could hear the clash of arms again. Perhaps it wasn’t too late, maybe he could save the Prince. Maybe he could still find an honorable death, fighting to fulfill his oath.
Ahead were a set of stairs, leading around, a poorly lit circular staircase. A basinet came crashing down the stone stairs, dented by a mighty blow, the once circular helmet came spinning to a halt at Jerrod’s feet. He dashed up the stairs sword drawn. At it’s head, a soldier lay face-up, his torso halfway down the stairs. His head was bent incorrectly, and his eyes were already glazed. Jerrod leapt over the felled man, calling the Prince’s warcry, “For the Eagle! The Eagle!”
Jerrod beheld a bloody sight. The hallway was narrow, maybe ten feet across, at least ten dead men were downed, leaning against the walls bleeding their last, or no longer bleeding at all. A few men, in orange and grey tabards were finishing off the last guardsmen living. Jerrod’s cry took them by surprise, and he came amongst them blade hacking at limbs and upturned faces. The first barely knew what hit him, his hand was severed and it fell, still attached to his mace. Jerrod did not stop his charge, he surged against the surprised soldier, shouldering him to the wall, and piercing him with the dirk in his other hand. The next one had time to whip around, but could only manage two parries before Jerrod’s fierce attack made him fall back, tripping on the outstretched arm of a corpse. The knight of the green dragon dug his blade deeply into the man in passing, disabling the soldier before he’d the chance to rise.
The last soldier stood ready, having finished another guard a moment earlier. This fellow was bigger and burlier than Jerrod, with a grizzled beard and a jagged scar across his cheek. He grinned and raised his mace to Jerrod’s overhead strike. His blade bounced against the heavy metal, ricocheting violently. Jerrod fell backward with his blade, and tripped over the soldier he had just stabbed. The large soldier screamed and came forward quickly, mace raised to smash the young knight beneath him. Jerrod rolled out of the way at the last instant, using an abandoned spear to prop himself up, plunged his dirk into the calf of his assailant. The man roared and tried vainly to swat the knight with his bloody great mace. Jerrod rolled back the way he’d come, this time easily avoiding the poorly aimed mace. He spun around on his side and kicked at the back of the man’s knee as hard as he could. The large man collapsed falling just over Jerrod. The young knight scrambled back, finally attaining his feet again. Panting roughly, he picked up the spear and threw himself forward with it. The grizzled soldier had just enough time to sit up and take the weapon full in his chest, he gargled blood, coughed and sighed.
Jerrod retreated for a moment, trying to catch his breath. Grey and Orange, he thought wildly, grey and orange—House Salamander was aligned with Duke Oakfir. House Salamander had been beaten! The contest honest, the winner clear, House Salamander owed vassalage to the Prince now. Yet here they were, slaying the House Guard, all eagle men. The hallway was quiet now, except for the shallow breathing of the man he’d disabled. Jerrod didn’t bother to question him, already moving forward.
A small scratching noise made Jerrod turn defensively back toward the stairwell. Nothing. But Jerrod was, despite his youth, was a patient man, and finally he observed that one of the guardsmen still breathed. He approached the dying guard and bent down, wiping blood from a gaping wound on his forehead. Before Jerrod could utter a word, the man spoke, his last words rattling and gasping.
“The Queen, save the Queen.”
Jerrod snatched his sword and dirk and ran forward, heading toward the Queen’s chambers, leaving the man to expire on his own. Down a long gilded hallway, littered with bodies and washed with blood, into the Hall of the Falcress. The hallway ended abruptly, the young knight paused at the threshold. Peering around the corner, he observed that the entryway to the Queen’s chambers was guarded by two unkempt soldiers. They wore no livery, only leather jerkins with metal discs sewn into the fabric. One had a spiked short axe, the other a wicked curved blade. They seemed to be common mercenaries. A season’s campaign was all the practical experience Jerrod had. Mercenaries were warriors by profession. These two looked none too trained, but both had many more years then he did. Jerrod hesitated, his resolve wavering, sweat streaming down his face. Finally, his oaths of fealty overcame his fear. He charged silently into the Hall.
Once again, surprise gave him the edge. He sped out around the corner and entered the ornately decorated Hall. He was spotted immediately and one of the mercenaries fell back in a defensive posture, landing on the foot of the other. The second soldier, cursed loudly and spun into a small table holding a tall Kjargaad vase. The finely crafted urn tottered as the delicately carved wooden table collapsed under the weight of it’s new cargo—the wildly panning mercenary. Table, vase, and soldier crashed to the floor. Jerrod charged with blade over head, his eyes intent upon the posture of his adversary. The man feinted and dodged left, toward him. Instead of pursuing the first opponent, the young knight planted a hearty kick in the knee of the fallen man, who yelled as shards of the priceless vase fell like small knives around him. Jerrod didn’t recover quickly enough and took a swipe to his side, cutting through his serviceable doublet and slicing his ribs. Jerrod fell back circled his opponent. Meanwhile the other mercenary had recovered and had his arm under him bracing to stand. He had to act fast. Jerrod wasn’t sure if he could take the two together—and he’d already lost the element of surprise.
Jerrod bellowed, allowing anger and outrage to boil within him. Months of bloodshed and heavy campaigning, all to be undone by a coup in one night! Where were the guards? Where were the knights sworn to protect and defend the royal chambers? He seized his anger as his master-at-arms had taught him, and directed it into full frontal assault. His barrage of quick cuts, wore out the scimitar carrying guard, whose single bladed weapon could only parry on both sides. When Jerrod had breached the man’s guard, he ran the man through, unceremoniously jerking his blade out before the spiked ax of the other fighter could reach him. The guard fell, blood oozing out from the hole in his stomach, his face ashen, and blood tricking from his mouth. The other mercenary apparently thought better, seeing his comrade dead, he turned, and ran to the other end of the hall.
Jerrod was fine with that. He threw open the doors of the queens chambers, and to yet another horror. The queens room was torn asunder, and a group of liveried soldiers gathered in the far corner. At least five dead Kingsmen had earned the honor of defending the queen to the death. They lay strewn about, hacked, and bled to death, surrounded by torn curtains, pillows severed and ripped apart, priceless sculpture and gilded moldings shattered and littering the floor. He had only a moment to gather this all in, when he heard the scream of a woman.
The soldiers had gathered by the dais, and were taking turns on a woman. There was no way to be sure from this distance if it was the queen. They wouldn’t dare, he thought. Such an act would be despicable, even for a house as vicious and unscrupulous as House Crane. None of the Great Houses would stand for that sort of treatment, it was beyond the pale, unheard of.
“I’ll kill you! I’ll kill you all, I swear it on my mother, and on the King, and on any God you can name. I swear I’ll—” It was the voice of the Queen, Jerrod knew it immediately, ragged and breathless.
His vision focused and he observed that the woman being raped was not the queen, but one of her handmaids, a young girl, maybe fifteen. She was being held by two men, but she was totally limp, half-naked, in the brightly lit room. Another was crouched over her, his trousers down around his ankles. Jerrod’s rage knew no bounds, and he bellowed again, a raw, inhuman sounding cry. The young knight, still bleeding, charged forward, crossing the gap and nearly beheading the rutting man in uncontrollable bloodlust. Blood fanned across the room, and covered the young girl. The other men turned in anger and surprise, drawing their weapons and circling about him. There was something puzzling about these men, though Jerrod in his frenzy couldn’t tell it. But these men were obviously trained, and once the shock of seeing their sport end so abruptly wore off, they turned toward him with military precision, fanning around behind him and cutting off his retreat.
Fine, he thought, let it end then, my vows complete, my rest earned. Jerrod lay about him with sword and dirk, but it was to no avail. There were too many men, and more were coming in. He took a cut on his arm, then a cut to his thigh. Then finally, a rapier pierced his side. The dirk snapped, and when finally he lost his blade, the end was a highly raised wicked looking halberd, slicing downward at his bowed and bleeding head.
“Halt!”
A commanding voice called from the entryway to the Queen’s chambers. The blade swung away cutting a gouge in the marble floor beside the young knight. The queen sighed audibly behind him, she and her trembling handmaiden still captive. So he had failed, he thought. Though his vision was fading, Jerrod could see the ring of steel open up, allowing a finely clad figure to observe. It was then, in Jerrod’s last conscious moments that he connected the dots, the rage and the pain of his wounds fading as his mind detached and prepared to wander away. These soldiers were liveried, under direct employ and service of none other than the finely clad lord before him, the ruthless Rudy Steel.
“The young knight of the Reach, alone, and undone.”
Jerrod tottered and fell to his knees. As the darkness enclosed him, he had one last cogent thought: Rudy Steel and Queen Hintrose were scions of two powerful Andrayan houses, and their houses had sworn blood feud against one another. A wave of despair swept him into unconciousness with one last thought. He had failed again.
Quickly, Jerrod ran to his dresser put on a fresh tunic and donned his sword belt. He stopped then, and replaced his ancestral blade with another from his armory, a non-descript short sword. If there was fighting in the keep, a long sword would only be a hindrance. He went to his bedroom and peeked out the narrow window of his cell. It was pitch black outside. The window was high, and two feet deep into the wall, making it difficult to see what if anything was happening below. But again, his ears told him more, a sharp whinny, the class of steel on mail, shouts, the keep was being invaded! Duke Oakfir dared rebellion.
Jerrod listened at the door, sword unsheathed, dirk clenched between his teeth. He waited for a lull in the action, then opened the door quickly, and closed it behind him. He waited for a full minute with his sword drawn, hearing only faint shouts, seeing nothing. Knowing his duty was the Prince, the knight trotted toward the royal chambers, the sheath of his short sword slapping against his thigh.
The corridors were strangely empty now. Every so often, he observed a ripped tapestry, torn from it’s rigging, or slashed at haphazardly. Jerrod’s quarters were in what was commonly called the barracks, a slur to the knights in residence, who couldn’t afford nicer rooms. But other knights, and minor lordlings like himself were housed here. Most seemed deserted now. A few doors were ajar, but most were locked tightly. He could hear boisterous laughter from one, but the crest on the door was House Kraken, a house known for it’s wiley and unscrupulous knights. Other doors, like House Mercator had been busted open, splintered wood careening crazily like teeth of some wild and woolly giant. House Mercator was a small but loyal vassal to the Prince. Jerrod had only passing acquaintance with the knight. He peered inside, but saw only similar destruction within. The prince, he thought reluctantly, is my priority.
He continued his way, winding upward to the nicer rooms. A few times he saw a body, a man at arms, guard or servant caught at the wrong place, and time, broken and smashed to pieces against the heavy marble walls. The blood was in some cases already gummy and drying.
Jerrod fought a rising sense of panic. What if he was too late? What if the Prince had been deposed, executed, more likely held captive? Greater too was an almost stifling sense of shame. In his prince’s principal moment of need, Sir Jerrod Brinkford had been prostate on his pallet, he a sworn knight of the Prince’s personal guard. He fought down the rising bile, and concentrated on the mission ahead. Ahead he could hear the clash of arms again. Perhaps it wasn’t too late, maybe he could save the Prince. Maybe he could still find an honorable death, fighting to fulfill his oath.
Ahead were a set of stairs, leading around, a poorly lit circular staircase. A basinet came crashing down the stone stairs, dented by a mighty blow, the once circular helmet came spinning to a halt at Jerrod’s feet. He dashed up the stairs sword drawn. At it’s head, a soldier lay face-up, his torso halfway down the stairs. His head was bent incorrectly, and his eyes were already glazed. Jerrod leapt over the felled man, calling the Prince’s warcry, “For the Eagle! The Eagle!”
Jerrod beheld a bloody sight. The hallway was narrow, maybe ten feet across, at least ten dead men were downed, leaning against the walls bleeding their last, or no longer bleeding at all. A few men, in orange and grey tabards were finishing off the last guardsmen living. Jerrod’s cry took them by surprise, and he came amongst them blade hacking at limbs and upturned faces. The first barely knew what hit him, his hand was severed and it fell, still attached to his mace. Jerrod did not stop his charge, he surged against the surprised soldier, shouldering him to the wall, and piercing him with the dirk in his other hand. The next one had time to whip around, but could only manage two parries before Jerrod’s fierce attack made him fall back, tripping on the outstretched arm of a corpse. The knight of the green dragon dug his blade deeply into the man in passing, disabling the soldier before he’d the chance to rise.
The last soldier stood ready, having finished another guard a moment earlier. This fellow was bigger and burlier than Jerrod, with a grizzled beard and a jagged scar across his cheek. He grinned and raised his mace to Jerrod’s overhead strike. His blade bounced against the heavy metal, ricocheting violently. Jerrod fell backward with his blade, and tripped over the soldier he had just stabbed. The large soldier screamed and came forward quickly, mace raised to smash the young knight beneath him. Jerrod rolled out of the way at the last instant, using an abandoned spear to prop himself up, plunged his dirk into the calf of his assailant. The man roared and tried vainly to swat the knight with his bloody great mace. Jerrod rolled back the way he’d come, this time easily avoiding the poorly aimed mace. He spun around on his side and kicked at the back of the man’s knee as hard as he could. The large man collapsed falling just over Jerrod. The young knight scrambled back, finally attaining his feet again. Panting roughly, he picked up the spear and threw himself forward with it. The grizzled soldier had just enough time to sit up and take the weapon full in his chest, he gargled blood, coughed and sighed.
Jerrod retreated for a moment, trying to catch his breath. Grey and Orange, he thought wildly, grey and orange—House Salamander was aligned with Duke Oakfir. House Salamander had been beaten! The contest honest, the winner clear, House Salamander owed vassalage to the Prince now. Yet here they were, slaying the House Guard, all eagle men. The hallway was quiet now, except for the shallow breathing of the man he’d disabled. Jerrod didn’t bother to question him, already moving forward.
A small scratching noise made Jerrod turn defensively back toward the stairwell. Nothing. But Jerrod was, despite his youth, was a patient man, and finally he observed that one of the guardsmen still breathed. He approached the dying guard and bent down, wiping blood from a gaping wound on his forehead. Before Jerrod could utter a word, the man spoke, his last words rattling and gasping.
“The Queen, save the Queen.”
Jerrod snatched his sword and dirk and ran forward, heading toward the Queen’s chambers, leaving the man to expire on his own. Down a long gilded hallway, littered with bodies and washed with blood, into the Hall of the Falcress. The hallway ended abruptly, the young knight paused at the threshold. Peering around the corner, he observed that the entryway to the Queen’s chambers was guarded by two unkempt soldiers. They wore no livery, only leather jerkins with metal discs sewn into the fabric. One had a spiked short axe, the other a wicked curved blade. They seemed to be common mercenaries. A season’s campaign was all the practical experience Jerrod had. Mercenaries were warriors by profession. These two looked none too trained, but both had many more years then he did. Jerrod hesitated, his resolve wavering, sweat streaming down his face. Finally, his oaths of fealty overcame his fear. He charged silently into the Hall.
Once again, surprise gave him the edge. He sped out around the corner and entered the ornately decorated Hall. He was spotted immediately and one of the mercenaries fell back in a defensive posture, landing on the foot of the other. The second soldier, cursed loudly and spun into a small table holding a tall Kjargaad vase. The finely crafted urn tottered as the delicately carved wooden table collapsed under the weight of it’s new cargo—the wildly panning mercenary. Table, vase, and soldier crashed to the floor. Jerrod charged with blade over head, his eyes intent upon the posture of his adversary. The man feinted and dodged left, toward him. Instead of pursuing the first opponent, the young knight planted a hearty kick in the knee of the fallen man, who yelled as shards of the priceless vase fell like small knives around him. Jerrod didn’t recover quickly enough and took a swipe to his side, cutting through his serviceable doublet and slicing his ribs. Jerrod fell back circled his opponent. Meanwhile the other mercenary had recovered and had his arm under him bracing to stand. He had to act fast. Jerrod wasn’t sure if he could take the two together—and he’d already lost the element of surprise.
Jerrod bellowed, allowing anger and outrage to boil within him. Months of bloodshed and heavy campaigning, all to be undone by a coup in one night! Where were the guards? Where were the knights sworn to protect and defend the royal chambers? He seized his anger as his master-at-arms had taught him, and directed it into full frontal assault. His barrage of quick cuts, wore out the scimitar carrying guard, whose single bladed weapon could only parry on both sides. When Jerrod had breached the man’s guard, he ran the man through, unceremoniously jerking his blade out before the spiked ax of the other fighter could reach him. The guard fell, blood oozing out from the hole in his stomach, his face ashen, and blood tricking from his mouth. The other mercenary apparently thought better, seeing his comrade dead, he turned, and ran to the other end of the hall.
Jerrod was fine with that. He threw open the doors of the queens chambers, and to yet another horror. The queens room was torn asunder, and a group of liveried soldiers gathered in the far corner. At least five dead Kingsmen had earned the honor of defending the queen to the death. They lay strewn about, hacked, and bled to death, surrounded by torn curtains, pillows severed and ripped apart, priceless sculpture and gilded moldings shattered and littering the floor. He had only a moment to gather this all in, when he heard the scream of a woman.
The soldiers had gathered by the dais, and were taking turns on a woman. There was no way to be sure from this distance if it was the queen. They wouldn’t dare, he thought. Such an act would be despicable, even for a house as vicious and unscrupulous as House Crane. None of the Great Houses would stand for that sort of treatment, it was beyond the pale, unheard of.
“I’ll kill you! I’ll kill you all, I swear it on my mother, and on the King, and on any God you can name. I swear I’ll—” It was the voice of the Queen, Jerrod knew it immediately, ragged and breathless.
His vision focused and he observed that the woman being raped was not the queen, but one of her handmaids, a young girl, maybe fifteen. She was being held by two men, but she was totally limp, half-naked, in the brightly lit room. Another was crouched over her, his trousers down around his ankles. Jerrod’s rage knew no bounds, and he bellowed again, a raw, inhuman sounding cry. The young knight, still bleeding, charged forward, crossing the gap and nearly beheading the rutting man in uncontrollable bloodlust. Blood fanned across the room, and covered the young girl. The other men turned in anger and surprise, drawing their weapons and circling about him. There was something puzzling about these men, though Jerrod in his frenzy couldn’t tell it. But these men were obviously trained, and once the shock of seeing their sport end so abruptly wore off, they turned toward him with military precision, fanning around behind him and cutting off his retreat.
Fine, he thought, let it end then, my vows complete, my rest earned. Jerrod lay about him with sword and dirk, but it was to no avail. There were too many men, and more were coming in. He took a cut on his arm, then a cut to his thigh. Then finally, a rapier pierced his side. The dirk snapped, and when finally he lost his blade, the end was a highly raised wicked looking halberd, slicing downward at his bowed and bleeding head.
“Halt!”
A commanding voice called from the entryway to the Queen’s chambers. The blade swung away cutting a gouge in the marble floor beside the young knight. The queen sighed audibly behind him, she and her trembling handmaiden still captive. So he had failed, he thought. Though his vision was fading, Jerrod could see the ring of steel open up, allowing a finely clad figure to observe. It was then, in Jerrod’s last conscious moments that he connected the dots, the rage and the pain of his wounds fading as his mind detached and prepared to wander away. These soldiers were liveried, under direct employ and service of none other than the finely clad lord before him, the ruthless Rudy Steel.
“The young knight of the Reach, alone, and undone.”
Jerrod tottered and fell to his knees. As the darkness enclosed him, he had one last cogent thought: Rudy Steel and Queen Hintrose were scions of two powerful Andrayan houses, and their houses had sworn blood feud against one another. A wave of despair swept him into unconciousness with one last thought. He had failed again.
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