Damsel Knight (28 page)

They limp and shuffle down onto the armoury roof. Then they sneak to the back where the lower roof has a better view of what's happening below. Ness puts his hand on her shoulder several times to remind her to slow down, even though he must be as impatient to see as she is.

A steady whirring sound replaces the whining and banging. It's close. Whoever it is should be right underneath them.

Holding her breath, she leans around the barracks wall to look. There's...darkness. Nothing else. She fights the urge to swear as colourfully as Ness had.

Ness pulls her back by the scruff of her tunic. Looking at her sternly, he places a finger to his lips. Worry creases his brow, betraying his true feelings.

Raising a finger and thumb in a neat zero, she shows him her findings.

With a disbelieving look, he peeks himself. He's drawing back with a curious purple shade to the little skin colour she can make out in the pale darkness, when they hear it.

"Almost got it I think. How deep does it have to go?"

"As deep as you can make it. The deeper it is, the more likely it will work."

"And no one will get hurt, right?"

Boone sprawls half on top of Ness in her need to see what's happening. She knows those voices. The darkness stays, but she sees now it's no ordinary darkness. It's too solid. She clutches Ness's arm hard.

This is worse than she'd thought.

The solid black flickers, revealing three dim figures and one ghostly glowing child. Neven, Alice, Timon, and the head druid. Only, she heard that voice. It's not the head druid.

Alice bends to the toddler Timon's height. He looks less substantial than he had before. His chubby brown face is almost see through. "She gave her word. They'll save as many as they can."

The head druid turns, a sad smile on his face. "And we'll use the crystals to restore you. Everything will be fine sweetheart."

The voice is the quavering tone of an old woman. One she recognises. Claudia - the witch.

Chapter 29

"I don't want to use those crystals," Timon says, body ageing up a couple of years. The shift is less smooth than before. It reminds her of paper crumpling before it finds the right shape. His fingertips drift into white mist. "I don't."

Boone pushes herself off the roof. There's just enough space to roll away the impact of her landing. Stopping right next to the wall, she gets to her feet and draws her sword.

"What spell did you use to make them help you?" She asks the witch with the druid's face.

Surprise shows on all their faces, even her fake one. Triumph sets Boone’s blood on fire, even through the ice cold shock of seeing Neven with HER. That is, until she realises the witch is holding a sword in her hand - a familiar sword.

It's a small plain thing, except for the dark rust covering it from hilt to point. Ness had washed the blood off his hands, but for some reason Alice hadn't washed the blood from the sword she'd taken. Dragon’s blood. The same thickness as the strange liquid she and Julius found in the city wall.

That must be what they need to break the spell on the wall.

“A very simple and very powerful spell,” the witch says. Her right eye is hard pale blue, while her left has the sharp brown of Mattis’s eyes. “The truth.”

Alice steps forward with Timon. The girl’s hands cling to the thick green dress she’s wearing, like a child clings to a doll when scared. “You should’ve stayed asleep. It’s safer.”

Behind them, Neven keeps his eyes on the machine in his hands. It whirs softly, a bright red crystal glinting from the base as the inner shell spins around and around. Magic and machinery merged together to dig a path through the thick wall.

If it wasn’t about to kill hundreds she might be impressed.

“You should go back to sleep.” Timon reaches for her; his body a confident boy of ten.

Boone swings, but the dragon steel passes through him like cutting through mist. He doesn’t slow his pace, expression strangely compassionate, as if trying to be reassuring.

Reacting instinctively she puts out her dead hand to stop him getting closer. He may have his memories, but his nature is more lost one than human. One strong grip and the plant’s effects will seem tiny in comparison.

He stops, staring at her pale hand in fear. He backs away so quickly, she can’t say whether he used his feet or drifted like the lost ones do. “Mama.” He moans, the sound filled with fear. His body jerks and crumples until he’s two years old, little arms wrapped around a chequered tunic. “Mama. Her hand!”

The witch looks up, her mismatched eyes widening. The blood covered sword raises threateningly over her head as she steps away from the wall. “You stay away from him. Don’t you touch him!”

A figure drops from the roof, barrelling into the witch’s legs and knocking her to the ground. The sword flies from her grip and smacks against the large stones of the wall. A heartbeat later the figure - Ness - is on his feet. Grabbing Neven around the middle, he somehow manages to limp his way backward into the shadows of the barracks. Neven fights all the way, legs pinwheeling in the air. The machine slips onto the grass, its whirring fading to silence.

Timon stands near Alice, pudgy toddler hands clenched together, obviously fighting the urge to cling to the girl. Alice looks about her, eyes rolling in fear. Then she moves, hopping over the prone witch to grab the sword.

Boone moves. Jumping over the witch, she tackles the girl.

A sharp elbow connects with Boone’s stomach, surprising her into loosening her grip. Alice scrambles out from underneath her, breath coming in quick gasps. The princess grasps the fallen sword, her attention fixed on the hole Neven made in the wall.

The girl’s determined, but Boone has more than enough history of her own of being stubborn. She lunges forward before the girl can get too far, reaching under the hem of the dress to grasp an ankle.

Alice yelps and falls back to the grass. The princess leans around, sword held tight like she’s thinking of using it. Then the arm wilts, her shoulders slump. She may be determined, but she doesn’t want a fight.

Boone doesn’t want one either.

Fire erupts in her left leg. It hurts as bad as when the lost one put his sword through her shoulder. Only that was spine chilling cold. This is searing heat that stabs all the way down to the bone, scraping against it in a way that makes every bone in her body quiver in horror.

Alice moves backward, the ankle slipping from Boone’s grip. The princess’s  rosy cheeks stand out against her pale face, clear enough to be seen even in the soft light that reaches behind the armoury. Her green eyes take on the dark tone her father’s do when he talks of serious matters. She’s saying something - yelling it. Boone can’t make out the words.

She glances back in what feels like slow motion. Taking in the witch’s furious face. Her withered hand gripping the hilt of the knife sticking out from her leg, just below the knee. It’s Boone’s knife. The one she wears on her belt.

Julius was right, she thinks disjointedly. Her awareness of her surroundings is terrible. She needs to work on that.

She turns her eyes back to Alice, only to see the girl grasping the sword again, her attention on the wall. The girl’s bottom lip quivers.

The velvet dress strokes against her hand as the princess moves away. No!

Boone grabs the hem blindly. Her good hand falters, its grip too weak. But the dead hand, that closes around the thick velvet, like a vice.

“Let go, boy!” That she hears. The wavering voice is punctuated by a tearing feeling and a new wave of agony blazing up her leg.

She grits her teeth, and tells the numb hand not to let go.

Alice uses her sleeve to tug at her fingers, trying to dislodge them. Fat tears gather at the girl’s chin, dripping onto Boone’s face. Alice’s lips move rapidly, but Boone’s ears only make out the odd word here and there. ‘Crystals’ and ‘right thing.’

Timon nervously kneels by Alice’s side, trying to take the sword. His fingers drift through the metal, no matter how much his brow furrows in concentration. He’s not the same boy they met in that shed. Somehow she knew that. He’s changed.

The pressure leaves her leg, and while the pain stays, the relief is enough to take a much needed breath. The air tastes horrible - of panic and fear. She gulps it down greedily. The alley lightens as her head clears. Dawn is on its way.

The barbarians will lose stealth as the light grows, but the battle will be just as bloody. How could it not? Men of the circle will fight until their last breaths, more to spare their honour than their women, though they’ll fight for them too. Her father said men of the north were fierce warriors. The circle call them cowardly savages. Whatever the truth, once they’re inside they’ll fight to their last breaths too. Trapped, it’s their only chance of survival. The circle doesn’t take prisoners.

There’s no choice. She can’t let them in.

A shuffling sound behind her. A groan. It takes her too long to piece together what it means. The witch - Claudia - is getting up. She’s changed too. She’s weaker. But she thinks the woman will have strength enough for this.

Boone pulls at the dress, trying to put Alice off balance. The girl wavers, half crouching.

She swings for the sword with her good arm. The movement sets off fireworks behind her eyes. She misses.

The witch stumbles to her feet, takes the sword from Alice’s hand. The girl sinks to the ground, continuing to weep.

The witch walks to the wall on slow arthritic limbs Boone would be able to outrun on any other day. If she had her sword the woman wouldn’t have gotten far. Boone might baulk at hurting Alice, but she’d chop the legs off the witch without hesitation. But she’d dropped the sword before tackling Alice, and it’s somewhere to the right, out of reach.   

There’s nothing to do - except…

Every twitch sends those fireworks exploding inside her skull. And if this is going to work, it’s going to need a lot more than a few twitches. Gritting her teeth, she pushes herself to her hands and knees. Pain flares. Blackness threatens to crush her.

She can do this. She has to do this.

Inch by inch, she drags her leg forward along the grass. A sickly spinning connects her head and stomach, making it seem as if the two are doing some kind of dance inside her, swapping places and twirling each-other around like some enthusiastic pair of newlyweds. Reaching back, she grasps the hilt of the knife with her dead hand. That hand won’t hesitate. It will do as she tells it to, without giving her time to change her mind.

The witch reaches the wall.

Boone pulls. The knife comes out with a slick ripping sound. Bright white blinds her, turning her whole body as numb as her arm. The pain is visceral, cutting through every part of her. She gags.

Her body keeps moving.

The dead hand transfers the knife to the feeling hand. It must be quicker than she thinks, because Alice has no time to react before she levers her weight on her dead arm, leans back and lets the knife fly.

It sticks right between the old woman’s shoulder blades.

An eternity passes in a second. The witch stops, looks back at her surprised, then collapses to her knees. Timon starts screaming ‘Mama’ ‘Mama’ over and over again in his wailing baby voice. Alice’s face turns shocked, then angry.

“What did you do?!” She screams, not hiding any of the fire in her words. Slamming a hand down on the ground next to Boone’s face, the princess gets to her feet.

This time there’s no energy left to stop her.  

Boone collapses onto her forearms, head barely staying upright. Her head swims as she tries to think of a solution. Think. She has to think. No knives to throw, not even a stone. Timon’s frantic pleas drill into her brain like Neven drilled into the wall.

Her leg hurts. She wants her father.

The old woman gets to her feet. Alice rushes to steady her. The knife juts out. The material below it is stained dark with blood.

She did that. And she has to do more if she wants to stop the barbarians. Ness is gone. There’s no one else.

Except there is - and she bets he’s listening.

“Gelert.” Her voice is weak. Dropping the rest of the way to the ground, she concentrates on summoning more air into her lungs. “Gelert. Gelert!”

“Stop it!” Alice snaps. “He can’t get in here. He can’t stop this.”

A horn blares. The sound of an attack.

“No he can’t,” comes a voice from above. “But he does have friends who can. Step away from the wall before I put an arrow in your head.”

Julius stands tall on the roof of the barracks. Above his head a deep red flare lights up the pale sky. It gives his lithe figure an eerie look. With his long hair and the large bow in his hands, he looks more barbarian than the barbarians themselves.

The witch hisses, lifts the sword to the hole.

“I think not Claudia.” The sword shoots from her hands, burying deep in the soil several feet away.

Boone can’t find the energy to lift her head from the cool grass, but she knows that voice. The King.

“Did you really think I won’t notice when my own daughter disappears from her chambers?” King Robin says in a scornful tone. “You should know better than that dear Claudia.”

The witch turns around to face him, leaning heavily on the frozen Alice. “That’s your view of women in a nutshell, isn’t it Robin? You think you care for them, but you don’t trust them.”

“And tell me what you’ve ever done to change that view?”

The witch scowls. There’s something not right about the illusion of the head druid’s face over hers. A shine travels down the fake cheek, disappearing and reappearing. It hesitates in mid-air somewhere below the fake head, then falls to the grass. Another follows it. Tears. “Tell me what you’ve done to let me?”

“You tried to kill my daughter.”

“You killed my son!”

Timon looks back and forth between them, wide eyes staring out of a toddler’s face. He huddles as close to his mother as he can without touching her.

“If I’d known you were going to bring him back, I’d have overseen the execution myself instead of ordering it.”

Claudia half slumps against the wall, unable to hold herself up even with Alice’s help. “He did nothing wrong. All he did was help. The girl was dying.”

“He broke the rules.” The King steps forward, until Boone can feel his presence beside her. “By doing so he condemned her baby to live with the mark of magic. Something that infected their line for generations.”

“And they lived for generations because of him.” She juts out her chin defiantly. “I’m proud of my boy.”

“Good.” The air takes on a tang, like the taste you get in your mouth before a lightning storm. “Maybe that’ll make it easier to say goodbye.”

The witch screams out ‘no’ at the same time as the princess. Behind them the dead boy shakes as his skin - or what passes as skin - lights up with symbols. Blue, white, gold, red. Every layer is etched in careful patterns, like the lines of the witch’s carvings. They remind her of butterfly wings, delicate flowers, the dress her mother had worked on for three straight nights and days, that she’d ripped tripping over a rock.