Royal Champions Vs. Evil Minions Round One
Angelica’s dungeon cell had transformed into a luxurious bedroom overnight.
The straw mattress had been replaced with a feather one and with soft, cotton sheets.
Six brightly colored pillows covered the small cot, with one stuffed dragon toy overseeing the fluffy hoard.
Colorful, fragrant candles lined every surface, chasing away the smell of mildew and damp soil.
At least three orcs had rotated shifts to watch her, each wrapped around her finger easier than a silk ribbon.
All she had to do was lower her lashes and pout her lips, and they hurried to see to her every need.
Instead of demanding her release, she emphasized how long her stay would be, how often they would be in each other’s company.
All of that would probably stop, now that their captain had discovered how they’d spent their shifts.
He stared down at Angelica, thick, muscled arms crossed over an equally impressive chest. A wide nose, thick jaw, and heavy brow gave his face a timeless strength. Hard intelligence glimmered in his black eyes. He would not be as easily swayed as his subordinates.
Holding up the broken remains of the hand mirror, he asked, “Who gave this to you?”
Angelica batted her lashes. “A lady never reveals her secrets.”
He snorted and tossed the gilded handle aside. “Your wiles won’t work on me, Princess. All of that”—he gestured to the pillows, the bedding, the candles—“needs to go.”
She watched his oversized hand reach for the keys on the belt. The gifts the orcs had brought her were all small or flexible enough to slip through the bars. Since she wouldn’t willingly give up her comforts, the orc captain would need to enter the cell to take it all back.
The key slipped into the lock … and immediately back out as the orc removed it and stepped out of reach.
Angelica hadn’t realized she’d tensed in anticipation, but the orc had caught it. She forced her body to relax back onto the cot, to pretend unconcern.
“I see what you’re doing,” he said, narrowing his eyes.
“Of course you do. Only a smart, perceptive man such as you could become a captain.”
He snorted. “Most people wouldn’t call me a ‘man.’”
“What would they call you?”
He bared his teeth at her, the grim expression framed by two thick tusks. “A monster.”
“Please.” She rolled her eyes at the paltry attempt at intimidation. “I’ve fought monsters. Giant centipedes, devilfish, creatures who run on hunger and instinct. Orcs don’t fall into that category.”
“Most of society would disagree with you. Even your own kingdom disdains us.”
“There aren’t any orcs living in Calamity,” she informed him tersely.
He stared back at her silently.
It took her a moment to understand the truth she’d revealed with her own statement. Why were there no orcs in Calamity? Or the rest of the Desolated Lands? Because the Kingdom Defense Spell kept them out. “Has the Good Wizards’ Council classified orcs as ‘evil?’”
“Orcs are warriors,” the captain said. His grimace faded away into a weary sort of acceptance.
“As soon as we can stand, we learn to wield a sword. Most orcs kill someone before their tenth birthday. We’ve been chased out of every home by knights and angry townspeople.
They call us much worse things than ‘evil.’”
Angelica fell quiet as she considered this conundrum.
How many people—human or otherwise—had been exiled from the Desolated Lands because of the defense spell?
Could any of them be invited back in? Possibly if they proved their innocence and good intentions, but these orcs worked as minions for an evil mage, so they would automatically be rejected.
Even if she tried to bribe the captain with a little shop somewhere in Calamity, a secure future, it would be an empty promise.
“You aren’t evil,” she said, confident in her assessment.
He arched a thick black eyebrow at her. “I work for an evil mage.”
“Yes, but you and the others have treated me kindly. No one truly evil would do that.”
“They gave you a few pillows!”
“And candles.”
He stared at her for a long moment, then shook his head in disbelief. Crossing his arms again, he leaned one shoulder against the cell door. The keys at his hips jangled as they struck the metal bars. “Anyone ever tell you you’re unbelievable?”
She stood and sauntered toward him, grabbing one bar with her left hand. “Only as a compliment.”
The captain stayed perfectly still, his eyes never leaving her face. “No more luxuries or friendly visits. From now on, I’m ordering the others to stand guard at the end of the hall, so you can’t corrupt them with—”
“Yes, yes, my feminine wiles.”
He grunted, then turned to walk down the hall.
“Wait!”
He paused.
“What’s your name?”
Quietly, like he was giving her a personal gift, he said, “Fyodor.” Then he stomped down the hall before she could say anything else.
Once he was out of sight, Angelica held her prize up to the light: a full ring of keys.
There were no minions guarding the second-story entrance into city hall.
There were also no stairs. A vine-covered steel balcony hovered several feet above Fitz and Delilah’s heads.
More vines spilled out of a hole in the middle.
Once, there might have been a ladder, but either time or the evil mage had removed it.
Fitz sighed. “We’ll have to find another way—”
A clawed hand on his shoulder cut off his whispered words. “I can get up there,” Delilah insisted. “If you give me a boost.”
Fitz looked between Delilah—barely taller than five feet—and the steel balcony—at least ten feet above them. “Absolutely not. You’ll fall and break your neck. Possibly both of our necks.”
“I’m a cat, I always land on my feet.” Ignoring his sputtered indignation, she pressed down on his shoulder and ordered, “Crouch down.”
“If you get us killed,” he muttered, but obediently crouched to offer her his back.
Instead of climbing on, she backed up several feet.
“What are you—” Fitz looked over his shoulder, his eyes widening when she suddenly sprinted toward him.
One of Delilah’s feet planted firmly into his back, using him as a springboard to launch herself at the wall. The weight and force of her step sent Fitz sprawling forward across the ground. His glasses came loose and slid even farther, out of his reach and sight.
Without them, the world was a blurry mess. All he could see was the vague outline of a determined figure clinging to the ivy attached to the wall. She stayed there for a moment, testing to see if the plants would hold her.
Fitz fumbled around on the ground until he found his glasses—unbent and only slightly smudged—and stuffed them back onto his face. One arm missed his ear, but he left it for now, wanting both of his hands free to catch Delilah when she inevitably fell.
Except she wasn’t falling, she was climbing. After the initial pause, she’d found her footing and was rapidly crawling up the wall. Her problem now was that the hole was in the center of the balcony, at least three feet away from the wall.
This couldn’t possibly end well.
She didn’t once look at the ground as she launched herself through the air.
Fitz held his breath and braced himself for impact.
The top half of Delilah’s arm caught on the edge of the hole. Her body started to slide down and she yowled in alarm. Any nearby guards would certainly hear her.
“I’ve got you,” Fitz whispered, positioning himself directly below her. “Come down, we’ll find another way in.”
Delilah ignored him and gripped the edge of the hole with her other hand. The balcony creaked with every inch of movement. With immense effort, she hoisted herself up and through the opening, disappearing over the edge.
A few minutes later, the end of a rope dropped through the hole and coiled at Fitz’s feet. He yanked on it and it seemed to hold. “Well, that was easy,” he muttered. Hand over hand, he began to climb.
Delilah’s head poked out through the hole to check on him, her fluffy hair spreading out in a wide fan. “Hurry up,” she whispered.
“I am climbing as fast as I can.”
“It’s not fast enough—” A startled yelp cut off Delilah’s chastisement, and her head suddenly disappeared. The balcony rocked and rattled above Fitz, first leaning toward one end, then the other. Something green and round zipped over the hole and collided against the wall with a cry and a thump.
Fitz released the rope immediately, dropping to the ground. The rope rapidly recoiled, disappearing over the edge.
“The fish wriggled off the hook!”
“You keep fishing, I’m playing with the cat—”
The ‘cat’ yowled in anger.
Two seconds later, a round little body was tossed over the side of the balcony. The imp tumbled through the air, screaming in fear.
“You can fly, dummy!”
“Oh, right.” The imp stopped midair. It didn’t even need its wings to fly, it could simply float by sheer force of will. Still hanging upside down, it spotted Fitz and pointed a clawed hand at him. “Fish!”
The shout reminded him of childhood teasing. “Fitz,” he corrected automatically.
The fight continued above their heads, punctuated with several types of screams: feline, impish, and metallic.
If they kept it up, the rusted balcony might fall to the ground. Would Delilah still land on her feet if she was trapped in twisted metal?
Fitz drew his bow from his back. “Sleep,” he ordered as he nocked an arrow.
The imp stuck a green tongue out at him. “You’re not my master, you can’t tell me what to—”
The arrow stuck straight into its rounded belly, the purple fletching still quivering from the motion.
The force of the hit sent the imp rolling backwards through the air until it floated to a gentle stop.
It looked down at its chest, pawing at the arrow.
“That hurrgh.” The word ended in a gurgle.
Its head drooped to the side as it fell asleep in midair.
“Uh-oh.”