Chapter 3
Chapter Three
The assassins attacked from the rooftops. The first arrow narrowly missed Avera as Gustav suddenly turned his mount and used his body as a shield. He grunted as the arrow slammed into his armor, denting but not puncturing it.
“Protect the First Princess,” bellowed Gustav as more arrows rained down.
Despite the enemy being high above, Avera pulled the small dagger at her waist. Not very long and not useful for much more than cutting up her food, slicing through twine, or hacking at the big wheel of cheese in the kitchen.
She’d have preferred her sword, but it was all she had to defend herself.
It should be known Avera had never actually faced a real foe, only those she practiced with in the training yard.
Luna remained steady as Avera gripped her weapon in a sweaty palm, her wide gaze trained on the assassins who rappelled from the rooftops. They were dressed head to toe in dark fabric and feature-covering hoods. The soldiers formed a square around her, blocking her from direct attack.
Much yelling and huffing occurred as the soldiers swung their swords.
The knights who’d never seen much action given Daerva’s peaceful nature did their best to counter the skilled assassins.
Two knights fell from their steeds as she watched, the attackers quick on their feet, their flashing blades even faster.
Gustav remained near Avera and growled, “Stay by me.”
Fine advice except for the fact the assassins, unmounted, slid between the horses to get close.
Luna shuffled away from Gustav’s mount as he parried the thin blade of an assassin.
The clang of metal filled the air, a more strident sound than that of the training ring where the wooden guards meant the swords thunked instead.
Chaos reigned as the nine soldiers fought the assassins, six attackers in all. It should have been an even match against trained knights.
The assassins were better.
A knight to her left parried as a man of slim build attacked him in a flurry of strokes so fast she could barely follow the whipping parries of blades as they slashed back and forth.
The soldier did his best to counter, but when his horse went down, he never had a chance to block the long dagger that stabbed him in the armpit where the armor didn’t cover.
As the soldier crumpled to the paving stones, the assassin advanced on Avera, and she licked her lips.
While she’d trained, she’d never actually had to put her skills to the test, nor had she ever actually drawn blood.
When the assassin lunged, Luna quickly stepped to the side and Avera’s reflexes kicked in.
She leaned down and slashed with her dagger, catching him in the sleeve.
The assassin recoiled in surprise but that was only a feint as his free hand grabbed at her ankle and yanked her from the horse.
Avera only narrowly avoided the blade that swept past, ducking under it.
She scuttled to give herself space, not just from the attacker but also from Luna who reared, hooves lifted high, ready to trample him.
He saw the danger and brought his arm back to strike the horse.
Avera saw red. She threw herself at the man, striking him in the midsection, ruining his blow.
The assassin recovered quickly, shoving at Avera, sending her stumbling a few steps.
The man came at her, his rapier moving quickly, but so did Avera.
She ducked under the swing, and as she rose, she aimed her dagger at his gut.
It slid in easily. More easily than expected.
The knife stuck and the assassin staggered back, wrenching it from her grip, leaving her weaponless, but only for a moment.
She snatched a fallen knight’s sword from the ground, heavier than her usual blade, but better than nothing. She took stock of the situation.
Four assassins remained—three, if the one with the belly wound died. Only four of the nine soldiers, including Gustav, still stood. Not good odds given the skill of the attackers.
Three of the assassins charged, aiming not for the soldiers themselves but their mounts.
The screams of the wounded horses added to the horror.
Luna whinnied and panicked when an arrow nicked her hindquarters, and she took off running.
Avera couldn’t blame her. She wanted to run, too, but the man she’d wounded lunged, still determined to kill her.
She did her best to defend herself, but the unfamiliar and heavy sword she’d procured didn’t move as she wanted. The assassin knocked it from her grip.
Avera retreated as he advanced.
Gustav took that moment to shout, “Run!” and threw himself between her and the attacker.
While a part of her wanted to stay and fight, standing her ground without a weapon would get her killed and that truly wasn’t on her list of things to do for the day, nor even that year.
Avera grabbed her skirts and swerved around and between those still fighting, racing for the empty bridge that spanned the ravine, the stone structure linking the city to the palace. It only occurred to her as her booted feet thumped on the stone causeway that she presented an open target.
As she turned to glance over her shoulder to check on the pursuit, she tripped and fell to her knees.
It saved her life.
The dagger thrown sailed harmlessly overhead before clattering to the stones. Would they try with arrows next? She’d rather not find out. She jumped to her feet and ran, zigzagging to make herself an unpredictable target. Another dagger clattered on the path, narrowly missing.
Her breathing turned ragged as she pushed herself to reach the palace and its implied safety. Surely if the assassins were busy attacking those left behind, she’d be fine once she reached the portcullis. Just a few more paces.
A scream cut short had her once more glancing to her rear, where she saw assassins on the ground and Gustav limping in her direction. The only one still alive.
The older soldier had a gash across his thigh. As he spotted her looking, he yelled, “Keep moving. Get inside in case there’s more.”
He assumed the palace was safe, but who was to say more didn’t hide within? Still, she had nowhere else to go.
Avera fled past the archway and the wide-eyed guards. Cowards who’d not left their posts despite the fighting. She raced through the bailey and pounded up the steps into the palace. The entranceway, usually full of lounging lords and ladies and a bevy of servants tending them, loomed empty.
Where to?
As if Gustav read her mind, she heard him holler from outside, “Go to the Queen.”
A good idea since her mother would have soldiers protecting her.
Avera’s footsteps echoed loudly as she raced for the flight of stairs that led to the second floor and the royal quarters. The guards at the top blocked her way with their spears at the ready. One of them yelled, “Halt!”
“Don’t poke me,” she yelled, racing up the steps. “It’s me, Avera.”
“Who?” exclaimed the guard. The one by his side must have whispered the reply because he then said, “She’s the queen’s daughter? She don’t look like the rest.”
A good thing there’d been witnesses to her birth or many would have claimed her a changeling, a child exchanged at birth for another.
Despite the mutterings that Avera couldn’t possibly be a royal, she’d been seen by many as she emerged from her mother with a thatch of dark hair, mauve eyes, and the royal birthmark that resembled a crown on her thigh. All of the queen’s progeny had it.
The guards didn’t budge despite knowing her identity. “We’ve been told to let no one pass.”
“I want to see my mother.” Not really. Avera knew better than to expect any maternal warmth, however, the queen represented safety.
“Can’t allow that.” The guard shook his head.
Before she could argue, Gustav entered and bellowed, “You’d better not be detaining the First Princess.”
“She’s the heir?” The guard didn’t hide his surprise.
“Damned right she is, and she might be queen before the day ends, so get out of her way, or else,” growled Gustav as he stomped up the steps.
“Yes, Grand Rook.” The soldiers saluted and stepped aside, letting Avera onto the second floor which held the private chambers of the queen, the First Heir, the Second, and the Spare.
The third floor was usually only for the children, but Avera still had a room there despite being too old since there weren’t enough chambers on the royal level.
While it would be tempting to hide in her suite, Avera marched directly to the double doors of her mother’s space—doors that hung askew—around which clustered numerous guards who all stood as a barrier between Avera and her mother.
“No one may pass!” announced a fellow with a grand mustache.
Avera halted and sighed. “It’s me, the queen’s daughter, Avera.”
“Who?”
Not again. Yes, Avera made a point of avoiding royal obligations but still, she’d lived here almost three decades. Surely by now everyone knew of her existence.
Clomp. Clomp.
She didn’t look because she knew Gustav strode in her direction. He’d set them straight.
“Why are you denying passage to the First Princess?” Gustav growled. “The queen requested her presence.”
“We don’t have a First Princess. Just a First Prince,” argued the mustached fellow.
“Who is dead, you imbecile, and you’ll join him if you don’t get out of the bloody way.” Gustav had no patience left and the soldiers realized it.
They parted to grant Avera access to her mother’s suite, not a room she’d visited often. As a matter of fact, it had been months since they’d last spoken.
Avera braced herself as she entered, and a good thing, too.
A stench permeated the room, that of offal—and death.
The massive bed draped in royal blue and gold had people clustered about.
Duke Petturi, Mother’s advisor, and a few other lords and ladies, as well as physicians waving thuribles emitting smoke that did nothing to quell the smell.