Chapter 22 #3
She could have run, escaped the menace, but that would mean leaving Gustav and Josslyn behind. Rather than be a coward, with her dagger in hand, Avera whirled and ran for the man holding Josslyn.
The knight’s eyes widened. “Halt or I’ll—”
Josslyn stamped her booted foot atop the soldier’s.
Despite his footwear offering some protection, he yelped and loosened his hold on her.
As Josslyn squirmed free from his grip, Avera moved in, her dagger extending which took the soldier by surprise.
Before he could raise his own weapon, she’d stabbed him through the chest.
So much for not killing her own people. Then again, he’d left her no choice.
With one soldier down and a second engaged with the captain, she chose to help Gustav who did his best to fend off the pair with a sword in one hand and a dagger in the other.
Despite his age, he could still fight, his movements a blur as he blocked thrusts and swings.
Still, he couldn’t keep parrying the two knights forever.
Make that one knight. The drunken soldier succumbed to a slash that opened up his torso. As he dropped—one threat less—it left Gustav facing the sober soldier.
“You are a traitor to the crown,” snarled the remaining knight.
“Says the man trying to kill his rightful queen.”
“She is not our queen. She isn’t even Daervian. Anyone could tell just by looking at her,” shouted the knight as he parried a stab by Gustav.
“She is Queen Calixte Voxspira’s daughter. Orphaned by the pretender you call king. You are the one in the wrong,” Gustav declared, advancing with a flurry of strokes that sent the other knight stumbling to defend.
“Behind you, little queen.” The shout from the captain had Avera turning and instinct sent her ducking. A good thing as a hand—or was that paw?—tipped in long claws swept past without doing damage.
The monster hissed in her direction as it began swiping its arms, trying to catch her with every slice. Avera parried, grunting at the impact as she blocked. Her blade did not slice through its armored skin. Didn’t even scratch it from what she could see.
A victorious Gustav came to stand by her side, huffing with exertion but unharmed. “What are those?”
“I was gonna ask you,” she replied as she once more deflected a blow.
The second monster emerged from the chapel and came for them, choosing to engage Gustav. Avera panted as she kept parrying, unable to cause any damage, feeling herself tiring, knowing she would lose this fight. Especially once the third one emerged.
Would the altar keep sending them?
To her surprise, the captain suddenly darted in from the side, his silvery blade flashing as he weaved it against the creature. It glowed each time he struck, the hue of it similar to that of the amulet she used to have. More astonishing, his weapon actually could cut the monster’s flesh.
Despite being injured, the monster didn’t relent. Peppered with cuts and gashes, it kept snarling and hissing as it attacked.
A fourth monster emerged and noticed Josslyn, weaponless, wringing her hands.
This had to stop. Avera ran for the chapel. Would destroying the altar get rid of the monsters or at the very least stop their spawning?
As she entered, more smoke had begun to rise from the basin.
She raced for it, noticing more than half the moisture in the basin was gone, indicating the source of the threat—the puddle—couldn’t produce endlessly.
At the same time, too much monster-making fluid remained.
Despite fearing what it might do on contact, she slapped her hand in the water.
The intense cold of it had her sucking in a sharp breath.
The discomfort paid off as the forming creature dissipated, the threads of fog splitting apart before evaporating. She slapped at the water again, gritting her teeth in preparation for the intense chill. Only a small puddle remained at the bottom.
She went to slap it only to pause as its dark surface turned cloudy, then bubbled, the remaining water pooling strangely to form a face at the bottom of the basin. It reminded her of a basic drawing, circles for eyes, a nose that was only a fat blob. A mouth whose lips split apart to whisper.
“Did you really think you could escape, bastard queen?”
“Zhos? But how? You’re stuck under that frozen lake.”
“I might be trapped but I am mighty. My influence is growing. Even now, some of the melted lake, the water imbued with my essence, spreads across the land. Soon, I will be free.”
A frightening thing to learn, although it most likely explained how Benoit met Zhos. “You’re going to stay trapped. Once I find those stones—”
Laughter interrupted, a low, gravelly sound that sent shivers spiking up and down her spine. “As if you can stop me. I should let you go on that fruitless quest. It is certain death, but then I’d lose the satisfaction of seeing the end of the Voxspira line.”
Doubt wanted to taint her reply, but she remained head high and strong. “I will succeed, and you will remain in your prison. And then I will oust your puppet, Benoit, and take my rightful place on the throne.”
“Never,” it hissed, and she realized then it had distracted her as a noise at her back had her dropping without thought. The monster that had followed her missed, its swipe of claws whistling overhead, but it tried again.
Time to end these creatures made of magic and spite.
She rolled to her feet and dashed to the altar, slapping her hand to remove the last of the water which did nothing to rid her of the creature, just Zhos and his annoying words. The thing rushed her, only its lack of speed enabling her to evade by springing to the top of the altar.
Not unscathed. A claw caught the rear of her thigh, tearing through breeches, leaving a bloody, burning scratch. She ignored the sting to turn her sword upside down and dropped to the altar, slamming the pommel into the basin.
The impact vibrated up her arm, but the damp bowl didn’t even crack. The monster hissed, grinning as it saw its imminent victory. It recognized she had nowhere to go, no weapon to fight it.
A sword entered its back and the tip emerged through its belly before ripping upwards. The monster had no time to do anything but die. As it fell, she saw the captain standing behind, looking grim.
“I thought you were running away,” she riposted as she sat on the altar, holding in a wince as her injured leg protested.
“A smart man would have,” he grumbled.
“Are the monsters outside dead?” she asked, sliding from the bone altar, leaving a smear of blood behind.
“Yeah. They might be resistant to regular steel, but my blade of wolfframm cuts through anything. Even evil conjurations. It helps they’re slow.” Said with a grin.
“Where did you get your sword?” she asked. It would be handy to have if she had to face more Zhos creations.
His smile faded. “It was my father’s. He gave it to me before he sent me away. And before you ask, weapons made of wolfframm are rare. Only a few were ever forged, and of them, this is the only one I’m aware of that made it out of Verlora.”
“Maybe I’ll find one when I visit,” she said pertly. She began heading for the door only to realize he was staring at something behind her.
Not more monsters! She quickly turned, only to see the altar beginning to fall. The spot she’d just sat on crumbled, flakes of bone dropping to the floor. The basin cracked as chunks fell. The entire thing collapsed in mere moments.
A frowning captain glanced at her, then the ruined altar. Did he realize the destruction began where she’d left blood behind?
Didn’t matter. She had more pressing things to deal with. She exited to find Gustav sitting on the ground, a hand pressed to a wet spot on his side.
“You’re injured,” Avera cried, dropping to her knees beside Josslyn who rummaged through her pack.
“’Tis but a scratch,” he grunted. “Lyn’s insisting on a bandage.”
“Because you’re an idiot who would rather bleed out than admit he’s hurt,” huffed his sister.
While the two bickered, Avera, with lips pursed, wandered to each of the knight’s bodies. Their deaths were on Benoit’s head. They’d just been following a false king’s orders.
She knelt to open the pouch at the waist of the sober one. She pulled forth some parchment and noticed the drawings Josslyn mentioned.
“That looks nothing like you,” drawled the captain, peering over her shoulder.
“Doesn’t matter what the picture shows. As you noted earlier, it’s kind of hard to hide my complexion and hair,” she grumbled.
“Who was your father? Did your mother ever say?” he asked.
“Basil Currosa, a Verlorian diplomat of that time.”
“Basil Currosa?” he repeated.
She glanced at him and noted his face, or more its lack of expression. “Supposedly. Do you know him?”
“Possibly.” A guarded reply.
She fumbled at her neck to draw forth the chain with the locket. She opened it to show the images within. “Is this him?”
Rather than answer, he snapped, “I must get back to my ship.”
Despite his rudeness, and the fact he wouldn’t help her, Avera had manners enough to say, “Thank you for saving us from those creatures.”
“Guess you owe me now, little queen.”
With that, he strode away, a daunting figure, but also an annoying one. His refusal to give her passage stung. She couldn’t let his refusal deter her from acting, though. There would be other ships. Some that might be more amenable to a deal.
The question being, would the next one arrive before more soldiers—or monsters—did?