The Carnelian Tyranny: Savino’s Revenge (29 page)

“No, Your Highness,” Arrie said. His voice was gentle but firm. “As future queen of this country, we cannot have you running back into harm’s
way.”

There was a moment of silence before he finally turned to his father. “Well, do not just sit there—tell
her!”

“Now come on, Risa, you know he’s right,” Alessio said. “We can’t have our Supreme Ruler doing our dirty work. Now let’s all just sit down and come up with a
plan.”

“But I can’t just sit here and wait for more heads to roll! It was hard enough standing by and doing nothing while that madman took my c
rown!”

“Your Highness,” Tino suggested, “in my opinion, the wisest course of action would be to wait for King Bertoldo to arrive with his army. We shall be safe hiding out here until
then.”

“Tino, I have the amulet. Nobody can see me,” she said. “We have to find out what Savino is plan
ning.”

“Perhaps we should wait for Darian to return,” Helena suggested, pouring a cup of tea. “He will know what t
o do.”

The room became silent. She looked up at the others and stopped pouring when she saw their f
aces.

“What i
s it?”

Alessio touched her shoulder, coaxing her to sit. “Your Highness, I deeply regret to inform you that, unfortunately, your son didn’t make it,” he whisp
ered.

“What do you mean he did not make it?” Helena demanded, her voice shaky. “My son always returns from ba
ttle!”

He shook his head. “Not this time, I’m afraid. We know that His Highness’ men were ambushed by Savino’s warriors on the road to Abbadon. Not one of them has retu
rned.”

“And Da
rian?”

Alessio shook his head sadly. Helena broke down with emotion, weeping pitifully into a handkerchief as everyone watched, help
less.

Struck by compassion for the woman that should have been her mother-in-law, Marisa moved over next to Helena, wrapping her arms around the woman who had just lost her only son. Her heart ached as she thought about the special human being they had all lost. There would never be another man like Darian F
iore.

“I shall take her to lie down for a while,” Cinzia off
ered.

Marisa gazed at her uncle, exhausted. “Any i
deas?”

“Not
yet.”

“I shall take first watch,” Tino announced. He moved into the front room and stood near the window, keeping a lookout over the dark city str
eets.

“What are we to do?” Arrie asked in a hushed v
oice.

Alessio shook his head, staring at the floor. “This is one of the few times in my life when I just don’t have an an
swer.”

“What about King Bert
oldo?”

“They should be reaching Terracina in a few days, but it’ll take some time for him to muster the army and get ’em all here. But, even then, I just don’t know if it’ll be en
ough.”

“I didn’t see him at the corona
tion.”

“Neither did I. And I don’t know
why.”

“What’ll happen to Talvan and Matilda?” she a
sked.

“Talvan took an enormous risk in getting us out. He may end up paying for it. Same goes for Mat
ilda.”

“So what’s our next move? Get everyone on a ship to Terra
cina?”

“If I may be so bold, Your Highness,” Eman began, “Count da Rocha is no simpleton. Once our absence is noted, all eyes will be focused on routes out of the city. He would not expect us to stay here right under his nose. I believe we are the safest right where we
are.”

“But how could he do something like that?” Marisa asked, unable to delete the grisly images burned onto her retina. “I hate that
man!”

He shrugged. “Like I said before, this is a different world and he is rotten to the core. The sign posted to the left of the gate stated that a similar fate awaited all traitors of King Sa
vino.”

“You didn’t happen to
see…?”

“No. But we can only pray his head didn’t end up t
here.”

“It’s too horrible to even think about.” She buried her face in her hands, trying not to think about what had become of his
body.

Eman put an arm around her sagging frame, stroking his beard in silent thought. “You must look to Garon. He shall carry you through the dark days a
head.”

“But where is Garon in all this, Eman?” she asked pointedly. “Where was he when Darian was killed along with all those other innocent
men?”

“Nothing escapes His notice, dearest. And although He is loving, merciful and compassionate, everything happens for a reason even though we may not ever know why. But all is not lost. Have f
aith.”

Marisa didn’t res
pond.

“Do not lose hope, Your Highness. There is always
hope.”

She stood up. “Not anymore. I have nothing left and all of my hope is gone. I just can’t see the silver lining on this
one.”

“Ah, but the very definition of faith is to believe in something you cannot see,” he replied. “You must never abandon faith and hope for they are the placeholders where, in time, miracles can
grow.”

She turned to have her final word. “With all due respect, Eman, you didn’t just lose the love of your life. It would take a million miles of space to grow the sort of miracle I want. Now, if you would all excus
e me.”

She left the library and headed down to the cellar. No matter how much faith or hope she could ever muster, it wouldn’t change the fact that Darian would still be dead in the mor
ning.

CHAPTER 27

CARNAGE

The men rode on, staring numbly into the distance and imagining what they would find once they reached the city. Word had undoubtedly traveled back home that their regiment had been slaughtered by Savino’s warriors. They each hated to think what their wives and families had gone through, assuming that their men had been killed in ba
ttle.

Darian announced that they would be stopping at the cave where he’d spent the night alone after the ambush. It was the perfect shelter from the freezing night air. Once they were out of the mountains and back down in the valley again, the temperatures rose and the snow began to
melt.

The sun was only an hour or so from disappearing behind the hills when the mood turned slightly upbeat. If they managed to cover the distance without any more delays, they would reach Andrésis by the following evening and, on the day after that, they would be home. The scenery around them had once again changed into an old forest that seemed empty of life in its winter s
tate.

Noticing that the conversations had long since died away, he dropped his horse back a ways and rode next to Loris. “Tell me, squire, do you have a special
girl?”

The awkward teen avoided his gaze, flushing bright red as he stroke his horse’s mane. “Uh, not really, Your Highness. Not much time for that sort of thing, you
know.”

“At your age, what else is their time for?” Lord Aurelio asked dryly. The other men riding behind him roared in laug
hter.

“N-n-not that I am not interested in them,” Loris stuttered. “I just have not met any yet. Uh, that is to say, I have not met the right
one.”

Darian grinned knowingly. “Just give it a few years—you will. One day you shall find that special girl you have been waiting for and then, boom! Everything shall fall into place.” He swept his hand broadly across the heavens as if gazing into the young lad’s fu
ture.

“I do not think that will happen to me,
Sire.”

“That is precisely what I used to think, squire,” he said, winking at Adamo and Ilario. “But, you see, you do not even have a say in it. It might not happen right away, but, all at once, you shall look at her and, in that moment, lightning shall strike in your h
eart.”

“Lightning?” Loris eyed him with skepti
cism.

“Thunderbolts. And once it has struck, there is no going back. You cannot fight it and there is no escaping it. You cannot live without her and everything in your being just wants to protect
her.”

Loris looked around at the other knights, searching for confirmation that he was telling the truth. The men merely exchanged knowing glances, chuckling at his naï
veté.

“Consider this fair warning,” Darian said with a s
mirk.

They rode off down the road until at last the familiar mountain loomed just ahead in the distance. The sun had long set over the horizon and the sky had turned a clear, inky blue. The hoot of a single snow owl resonated through the woods as Darian lit a torch and held it in front of him, guiding them down the last mile or so of
road.

Rounding the final turn, the darkened mouth of the cave slowly came into view. When they reached it, the men dismounted and removed their gear from the saddles. Ilario and Adamo took the horses down to the river to drink while Aurelio gathered up some wood and got a fire going. The ceiling of the cave was high with cracks and crevices leading up and out, creating the perfect ventilation for their fire. The smoky scent of the burning sticks filled the cave, soothing the men as they rolled out their mats to sleep for the n
ight.

After they had eaten a warm supper from the leftovers they had taken from Abbadon, everyone sat around the fire, slowly sipping mugs of ale and settling in for the n
ight.

Darian stepped away from the fire and ventured outside of the cave. The trees were cloaked in shadow and somewhere in the distance, he heard the familiar sound of rushing water and the forlorn hoot of a lonely snow
owl.

Staring up at the moon shining through the clouds above him, he sighed deeply, closing his eyes. “Good night, princess,” he whispered so
ftly.

The next morning, the men stirred, waking up one by one. Baron Porfiro rose from his mat and rubbed his eyes, looking for Prince Darian. When he didn’t see him, he walked outside the cave and scanned the woods that had been covered with a fresh layer of snow sometime during the n
ight.

He spotted a set of tracks that led down into the forest, but, when he followed it to its end, there was no sign of the prince anywhere. Deciding to wait a little longer before setting out to go look for him, Porfiro returned to the cave where Count Vittore and Adamo had already built a fire and were putting some snow in a metal pot to boil for tea. He felt Loris’ eyes on him, watching the old soldier with curio
sity.

“Where is His Highness this morning?” Loris a
sked.

“Probably out walking, as is his custom,” Porfiro answered, sitting down next to him. “So, squire, tell me of your family,” he said in a gravelly voice. “What sort of work does your fathe
r do?”

“Well, my father passed on a few years ago. I have not seen my mother in over a
year.”

“Did you run
away?’

“No, Sire. My home is in Drychen Provence, in a small village. My mother sent me to Abbadon a year ago in the hope that I could find work there. We are
poor.”

“She must have been desperate, sending a young boy like yourself on such a long journey a
lone.”

“Aye. My father worked for a magister for several years. When he died two years ago of the coughing sickness, we had nothing left. I went into the village each day to beg, but when it was not enough for us to live from, she sent me to Abb
adon.”

Porfiro narrowed his eyes at him. “Your father worked for a magi
ster?”

“Aye.”

“What did h
e do?”

“He served as his courier, delivering messages and goods. My father was gone most of the time; the magister was very kind to me. He taught me everything about dagger-due
ling.”

“Dagger-dueling?” Porfiro rubbed his stubbly chin thoughtfully. “You are familiar with the ancient
art?”

“Yes, Sire. And I am quite good at it, even if I do say it myself,” he answered pro
udly.

“You’ll have to give me a demonstration some time.” He eyed the boy warily, tossing some sticks onto the fire. He was just an innocent boy who had not known what he was being drawn into. But the fact that a magister had trained him in dagger-dueling could only mean one thing; someone was intending for him to become a Drychen sorcerer’s apprentice. It was his duty to inform the pr
ince.

Nearly a quarter of an hour later, when Darian finally returned, the men were eating the last scraps of break
fast.

“Out collecting butterflies again, Your Highness?” Porfiro chuc
kled.

“In winter?” Darian answered. “Just taking my morning walk. My leg has been feeling stiff from lack of exercise. I thought taking a walk might help the healing pro
cess.”

“Walking is just what you need, Sire.” He turned to the young boy gently poking at the fire. “Squire, take the horses down and water them before we l
eave.”

“Aye,
sir.”

“Your Highness, may I have a word with
you?”

“Of course. What i
s it?”

Porfiro noticed the men watching them closely. “A
lone.”

“Certainly. Walk wit
h me.”

When Darian and Porfiro returned, the men stored everything on their horses and saddled up. Although they had much ground to cover that day, the fact that they were getting closer to Crocetta seemed to lighten their spi
rits.

That changed again; however, when they approached the Mychen Forest and the men began to grow anxious. Not because of the
rijgen
whom they knew were now all in hibernation, but because they would soon be returning to the horrific scene they had barely escaped a few days before. Each man secretly feared what he might find there at the base of the ancient t
rees.

For the next hour, Darian led them slowly through the woods that, at first, seemed peaceful. With almost no snow on the ground under the thick canopy of the trees, the small bits of white that were still left had begun to melt. But as they rode deeper into the forest, the silence there was eerie; the tension continuing to build until at last it could be sliced with a broadsword. Water dripped from the branches onto Darian’s shoulder, startling him. A few minutes later, he spotted the lifeless body of one of his men in the underb
rush.

Raising a fist into the air to signal the men to stop, he climbed down off his horse and unsheathed his sword. Ferns covered the upper half of the body, and its lower half seemed strangely twisted, the legs turned to an unnatural angle. He drew back the ferns and ga
sped.

Forcing himself to look away from the horrible sight, he shuddered as the other men strained to see, each of them turning away too in obvious disgust. The body had been decapitated, and there was no sign of its head. Darian combed the surrounding underbrush but couldn’t find it anyw
here.

Gone.

The men watched silently as he straightened the body, crossing the arms over the chest and covering the area above the neck with some ferns. Then he mounted his horse again and stared solemnly at the corpse. Why would someone remove the head? There were rules in wartime that every soldier followed. To die in the service of battle was honorable, but to desecrate another man’s body was dishonorable and incomprehens
ible.

He motioned for the party to continue as he walked alongside his horse. Soon they found another headless body, then another and then several more. Darian’s eyes moistened as he surveyed the collective carnage of the Mychen Valley. Bodies of men and knights were strewn everywhere, each of them missing its head. Pools of blood had frozen around the bodies, staining the ground in unnatural hues of red. There was a deathly silence that seemed far too peaceful for the horrific sight stretching out before
them.

Darian swallowed hard and turned to Loris. “Take a good look around you, squire. This is King Savino’s doing. Behold the handiwork of the man your uncle is ser
ving.”

The boy’s face scrunched up and he tumbled down from the saddle. He bent over, vomiting onto the side of the road not once but three times. When he straightened up again, his face was pale. He wiped his mouth with his sleeve, quietly surveying the gruesome s
ight.

Darian’s eyes stopped on a trampled, disfigured body; its head absent and clothed in the torn, battered uniform of a Crimson Knight. He weaved around the other corpses and kneeled next to it, touching the sword still strapped to the body. “No, no, no,” he moaned. “Oh,
Luca.”

“How can you tell?” Porfiro asked, his face twisted in dis
gust.

Suppressing a tear, he unsheathed the fallen knight’s broadsword. “This is the Paladin blade I had commissioned when he was first installed in the Crimson C
ourt.”

“Of course,” Porfiro said, lowering his head. “I am so s
orry.”

“He was my brother,” he whisp
ered.

Removing the scabbard from the body, he slowly rose to his feet. He stared down at the beautiful weapon, his gaze finally shifting to Loris. “Squire, it is yours now. Please tak
e it.”

As he laid the sword flat across the boy’s palms, Loris’ eyes widened in protest. “But this is the blade of a Paladin Knight! I cannot bear his armament of h
onor.”