Chapter 12 Galwell
Galwell
Galwell the Great could lift hulking hroxen over his head with ease. In his hometown, craftspeople would rely on him to haul
slabs of quarry stone to their workshops. When he was nine years old, he witnessed a team of horses stumble and overturn the
wagon they drew. The young Galwell dashed over and righted the cart with one hand.
Unfortunately, however, his power extended only to physical strength. Not emotional fortitude or the peculiar endurance politeness demanded.
Which meant that one hour of listening to Prince Ario of Vestriya rhapsodizing in verse over the beauty of the fried plum
blossom they’d ordered had left Galwell exhausted.
Hugh, impossibly, welcomed the silver-haired, lead-tongued royal with ceaseless encouragement, praising his poetical choices
while lounging in the booth, drinking dark rum.
Watching him, Galwell knew why Thessia loved her husband. He understood the other man’s virtues. If not of Galwell’s size,
Hugh was still muscular. He was rakishly handsome, undeniably. Yet it was when Hugh encouraged Ario most vigorously, or laughed
with real joy in quick, loud thunderclaps—when the seemingly effortless magic of kindness radiated from him—that something
leapt into Thessia’s eyes, like lightwings dancing on prairie nights.
It made Galwell smile.
The prince, however, had made him weary. Not to mention the prince’s pet snail, which had commenced introducing itself—himself, Galwell supposed—to the party. One of Galwell’s whole shirtsleeves had become slime-slickened by the time Galwell managed to coax the creature to return to the tabletop.
He was very grateful when Hugh clapped his arm around the royal’s shoulders and accompanied him home to the palace along with
Thessia, leaving Galwell, River, and Celine in peace. They soon went their separate ways, having no means to further their
efforts with the Deathrose Guild for the moment.
Galwell wandered the streets, lingering in the hardscrabble neighborhood. Wishing, perhaps, for the opportunity for some good,
honest heroism. People to save, disasters to divert. Even one overturned horse cart would do.
He found none. Discouraged, he turned toward home as Vestriya’s purple dusk descended over the stonework skyline.
Home was the villa Celine had procured for them in the city’s heart, on Thessia’s purse, of course. Old Illustria, the neighborhood
was called, where stone steps led up to graceful, elevated manor houses. The estates were enchanting, figuratively speaking.
Their columned entries, high windows, and expansive, sloping green grounds masterfully represented the oldest of Vestriyan
architectural styles.
One could not find such homes in Mythria. While the realms shared a language, their histories were unique. Vestriya, far older,
had generations more cultural riches and colloquial wisdom, and thus little patience for Mythria’s upstart idealism. Vestriya
held no reverence for the Ghosts, whose legends had grown only on Mythria’s shores. Heroism, it seemed, was not remembered
long in this land.
Mounting the final stone stair, Galwell continued into the entryway, past the statue on the dusk-shaded grass of the grounds. The statue seemed to smile when he passed. This feature of Vestriyan stonework rather unnerved Galwell, if he was honest. Which he was.
Inside the front hallway, rich red walls and sumptuous rugs welcomed him. Heading to his chamber, Galwell passed the expansive
common lounge, where maps of the realms overlooked soft leather furniture.
Galwell waved to River, who was reading there, upside down, her legs draped over the back of a large armchair, her head dangling
down toward the floor. She looked perfectly comfortable. Celine, who often retired earlier, was nowhere to be found.
He entered his bedchamber, not ready to relax, yet knowing he must. While the lack of opportunities for heroism earlier disappointed
him, quiet contemplation and dreamless sleep would suffice. His richly furnished room and its cream-colored walls hardly made
the prospect uninviting.
He changed out of his clothes and pulled on—yes, wondrous—the yellow silk sleep set decorated with blue eagles that Clare had packed for him. The stitches were magicked to keep out
heat. If Galwell could not enjoy good, vigorous heroism, he would enjoy his always-cool silken sleep clothes.
While perhaps not the stoic warrior garments he was used to, this sleep set was the most comfortable he’d ever worn. He also
quite liked the little eagles. They cheered him when he caught his reflection in the mirror as he applied the many facial
lotions Clare likewise insisted he pack. Remembering Grandhart’s urgent recommendation, Galwell smiled. You’re young enough you could start now and make a real difference. It was already too late for me when I commenced my skincare
journey. I must save you from my own mistakes!
Galwell was less certain about this particular insistence of Clare’s. However, he was happy to humor his friend, and the oils smelled nice. He started with the Vesper cream, following Clare’s recommended routine.
He’d just reached for the honeyjade oil when a fearsome scream split the night.
Praise the Ghosts! Galwell’s heart sang. How perfect! Someone is in peril!
Not that Galwell wished fear on innocent people. But this presented a chance for him to be the hero once more! Finally!
He abandoned the honeyjade oil and leapt from his window, down from the villa’s stately elevation and out into the city. He
hit the ground powerfully, with one knee and the opposite hand planted perfectly on the flagstone. While he’d never wished
that statues be made of him, he could concede that his heroic pose would make for an inspiring sculpture.
He stood, feeling his magical strength coursing within him—
“Please! No!”
Another scream shattered the quiet. Galwell ran toward the sound, not caring he was barefoot and in his golden sleep clothes.
Heroes cared nothing for appearances when someone needed help.
He rounded the corner and found the calamitous scene. A carriage had lost a wheel, and the horses, still attached to the heavy
wagon, were panicking.
In front of the window, a hooded figure menaced the carriage’s occupants with a crossbow.
The woman inside was crying out for help. Passersby offered none, fleeing past the carriage in selfish desperation. There
really was no heroism here! When no one honored the heroes of old, no one felt inspired to be like them!
Until now.
Galwell strode unhesitatingly in front of the crossbow-wielding figure.
“Put that down and let these innocents go,” he demanded.
Very well done, he commended himself. His resonant, low voice carried convincing confidence.
The hooded figure did not lower the crossbow. Not even a little. Not even one millionth of an iron.
Instead, the figure made no reply. Slowly, the crossbow moved to point at Galwell.
Very well, Galwell reckoned. Keeping his gaze trained on the tip of the crossbow, he called out to the carriage passengers. “Run! Now’s
your chance!”
He heard the clamor of their exit—and then the crossbow fired.
The bolt slammed into Galwell’s shoulder, the pain shocking him for a moment.
“You . . . shot me,” he exclaimed.
He hadn’t been shot since before his death. It didn’t hurt overmuch. Just a sting, really. But past the pain, he observed
blood seeping from his shoulder, from the ragged hole in his . . .
“You ruined my eagle sleep clothes!” he cried.
This would not stand! His only set! He lunged for the villain.
The crossbow wielder was fast, however. Not just fast—impossibly reactive. They leapt nimbly out of Galwell’s reach. When
Galwell swung out his leg, trying to sweep the villain off their feet, the villain jumped away with precision. Galwell punched—the
villain feinted easily to dodge the strike.
Was he losing his touch? No, Galwell consoled himself. This evildoer must have head magic of some kind. Perhaps they could
glimpse the future.
While Galwell contemplated how to fight someone who could predict his moves, the villain loaded another bolt.
“Don’t you even think—” warned Galwell.
His adversary fired.
The second bolt pierced Galwell’s thigh. With the painful puncture, blood spurted on yellow silk, swallowing blue eagle heads.
Now his pants were ruined!
“You,” Galwell gasped, righting himself, “shall pay for that.”
The desecration of the finest fabric he had ever known unleashed an unexpected rage in Galwell. He lashed out, landing one
heavy punch on the surprised villain’s shoulder, then hurling himself to the side before they could fire their next crossbow
bolt. Roaring in fury, Galwell leapt forward, managing to slam the other fighter to the ground. Sitting astride their torso,
he had the villain good and truly pinned.
While they thrashed uselessly, Galwell wrested control of his emotions. The blood from his wounds ran down his skin, and sweat
beaded his brow. He heaved calming breaths.
He felt good, though. Heroism, he marveled, is a hell of a healer.
His restrained opponent seemed to be shaking with fear beneath him. Good. He glanced down at their hooded form. Wait—were they shaking in fear or . . .
Laughter?
Galwell felt suddenly insulted. This villain had shot him twice, had tarnished his eagle sleepies ruthlessly, and now they
were laughing?
No, Galwell realized . . .
Not they. She.
“I didn’t think you had it in you, Galwell the Glistening,” she crowed.
In the same moment the figure’s hood fell, Galwell recognized her lithe proportions. None other than Vestriya’s princess of
crime was smirking underneath him.
“Mona,” Galwell exhaled.
“Ooh.” She pretended to shiver gleefully. “I love it when you say my name that way.” She propped herself up on her elbows, her face perilously close to his—nearly nose to nose—while he straddled her, still pinning her to the ground with his enormous form.
Was he dizzy? If he was, the cause was surely sanguinary.