The King's Blood (5 page)

For a second the entire kitchen fell silent. Everyone turned very cautiously, lest a dress go up in flames, to the infiltrator in their midst.

She gulped quickly and tried to shrink back down, but the eyes followed that as well. Instinctively, she stepped back towards the lamb carcass, as eyes surveyed her shoes still coated in meat juices.

"He's dead! The King's dead!" a girl, not much older than Ciara burst into the kitchen. She didn't recognize her but the trappings suggested a handmaiden, probably one of the Queens who got lost in the maze of hallways and lucked out. Scepticar save the rest.

"It was them monsters, the ones with the unblinking eyes!" the chef called out from deep in the walls, wedged somewhere behind the flue.
 

"No, they was men. Unholy men, who the Underlord turned their arms to blades."

"I keep telling you, it was a dragon. A giant dragon stormed the hall and chewed the knights to pieces."

"Ain't no such thing as a dragon, no more."

The woman, old enough to have grandchildren, turned on her challenger and shoved the girl hard. "Are you calling me a liar?"
 

"If the girdle fits!"

At this point a fight would have broken out if either had enough room to pull a fist back and do anything but glare while mumbling, "Why I oughta!"
 

Ciara covered her ears with her hands, a headache already threatening with the echoing cacophony of conflicting stories. She needed to think, and the only way to think was away from the brain drain. There were only two ways out of the kitchen. One was past the sea of servants who, only by the strength of Scepticar, would she be able to part and led straight to the great hall.

Turning to her left, she fumbled around baskets half full of apples left by a witch beginning to regret her orchard purchase to take out one measly stepdaughter. Tossing the rotting fruit into the hearth, the green orbs bounded into the hissing fire releasing a strange red mist as each ignited. Her fingers dug around the edges of a door caked in soot and the black bits you can never get off the stovetop no matter how hard you scrub.

Putting her shoulder into it, she popped the door open and raced up a set of stairs lain empty because they led directly to the haunted apartments. Back when the Castle was a far more bustling place, before the Albrant's hit a bit of a bad patch investing in the wrong wars, the entire wing of the castle served to house the servants. Most stacked three to a bed if they were lucky.

But as plague, calls to battle, and Dunner princes promising them unlimited wealth if they just "send a few hundred coins to secure a cart" claimed the servants, the apartments fell into misuse and eventual disrepair. It was Lord Albrant's father who finally closed the entire place off, saying it was haunted or something idiotically believable that would deter bored children and teenagers who spent their whole lives stirring spoons in sauce pans.

The dust was thick, like dancing wisps in the low light, coating Ciara's tongue and making for her lungs. She coughed as quietly as she could, and pushed the door back, realizing that in her haste she'd forgotten a lantern. Whatever beam of light emanated from the kitchen and bounced up the staircase would have to be her guide through the maze of broken lives. Widening the door instead, she put one hand to the edge of the room and, finding a sturdy bed post, shuffled along.
 

In the silence of the dead, the roar of whatever dragon demons were attacking the great hall was amplified. She could almost make out some words filtering through as she inched along, her fingers dusting bed frames, dressers, and old dolls.

"...get 'im..."

"...where's the bo..."

"...walrus....coo...coo..."

Shit! Her boot smashed into a bed crashed on its side from the frame half rotted away. She stopped, counting her breaths and praying that whoever was looking for a walrus hadn't heard. But the clatter of battle was more overpowering than a girl stubbing her toe.

Carefully moving to the middle, she shuffled out, almost to the door and the actually lit hallways. As her fingertips touched the knob, a creak cried out behind her. She paused, afraid to turn around. Another creak, complete with some crackling as wood splintered apart, lapsed to a small whine at her intrusion. Rising on her tiptoes, she cautiously lifted the latch and leaned gently into the door. Nothing happened.

Oh no, no, no. He didn't board it up again, did he? It'd been years since she'd been dared by her brother to sneak into the haunted wing and got a resound scolding by her mother and a much quieter nod of admiration from her father.
 

Leaning again into the door, she prayed that it was simply stuck thanks to warping wood. The bed behind her remained silent, the ghosts watching the living girl for now instead of getting freaky on it. Again the latch gave in, and again the door refused to budge. She shoved a bit harder, pushing upon it with her hand, then her whole shoulder.

Turning her back to it, she bounced on her heels, cursing everyone and every god she could think of, and, in a final fit of rage, she kicked the door as hard as she could.

That was the signal. With one final crack, the entire termite riddled bed came crashing down, its posts auguring through rotted boards and shattering. The front half hung precariously over the new hole, threatening to bring sleep to some unsuspecting head.

Ciara held her breath, hoping that would somehow reverse time and keep that gods forsaken bed from smashing through the floor. Through the background thumping of her heartbeat, she heard voices, very interested voices, giving very pointed orders. She rushed back towards the kitchen door, wishing she'd closed the damn thing in the first place and missed the broken bed leg now laying across her path. Her shoe; however, did not and she crumbled, leaving a Ciara shaped hole in the dusty floor.

The voices outside grew louder. Footsteps that were
 
once background noise became evident. Crawling into the darkness, Ciara's form receded into the shadows behind a long rotted chest. She turned, afraid to watch the latch on the door lift. The clink of it falling repeatedly with each failed push broke upon her shattered nerves. Ciara bit down on her tongue to stifle a scream, her only hope was to pray they'd give up on the wedged door and move on.
 

Grunts, the kind only men can give while trying to do anything from hauling logs to opening a jar, answered from across the room.

She looked to the kitchen door, its light not touching her. If she risked it, she might be able to make for it before they got it open, but if they caught her she'd be as exposed as she could bloody well get.
 

Slipping her hand beneath her skirt, her palm found a familiar leather hilt and she drew out the dagger her father insisted she keep on her at all times. It was a sharp blade but she feared it would do little against dragons. But if they were coming for her, she'd make them work for it.

The door frame rattled, kicking more dust up and obscuring what little light reflected off her dagger. She scrunched in tighter at the sound of stretching wood. Hinges popped, falling to the floor with a clank.

"Ee..." her hand flew to her mouth before another 'e' could escape.

One final grunt and the door burst from its frame, sending unbidden light cascading amongst the disturbed remains. A shadow entered. She tried to shield her eyes but they refused to focus as the shadow raised a torch ripped from the wall into the penetrating darkness.

As the shadow stepped forward, the light from its arm bounded about the room, hunting. Ciara steadied herself, ready to launch to her feet the moment it walked close enough. Another shadow appeared behind it, much smaller than the first and hung about the door frame, but her eyes were only upon this one.

While torchlight swung to the far side of the room, lingering on the bed now resting comfortably between floors, she sprung. Or she tried to. Her skirts caught on her boot and she rolled, crashing into the shadow.

It rocked back on its feet but remained upright, thrusting the torch instead of its sword towards the intruder. Ciara looked up into what she feared would be the eyes of her murder and screamed.

"Father!"

"Cia?" the man dropped to his knees and scooped the girl into his arms, letting his sword clatter to the ground. "Oh, thank the pantheon you're alive."
 

"I heard the screaming and the kitchens were full of servants all babbling. I thought I could help by making it through the apartments, but the way was blocked and..."

He kissed her head, the way he'd always done after a scary bedtime story to help ward off any monsters. If only it could work this time.

"Cia," he tried to pull her face to his. "Cia, you have to listen to me. They've killed the..." he turned to look at the shadow still clinging to the door frame, "they've killed a lot of people."

"Who has?" as far as she knew it was still dragons with swords for arms.

"The Emperor's men. The gate was opened; by whom I know not. I fear there is a snake amongst the grass. Cia, I need you to do something for me."

She nodded, the tears finally falling free of her eyes no longer overburdened in terror, "Anything, whatever you want."
Just don't leave me.

Asim sighed and motioned to the shadow by the door. As it inched closer Ciara realized it was a young boy, one who had his fancy clothes blotted in blood, "You must get him to the north of the pass. To Tumbler's End. The northern army rests there, they will take charge of the boy after that."

She wiped her face with the back of her hand, coating her sleeve in snot, "Okay, but you'll come with us, won't you?"

Again he hugged her tight, "I must get to Albrant. Things are very dire."

Ciara broke free of his hug and glared at him. "You can't get rid of me on some pointless errand, this is my home. I'll defend it to the death!"

His mouth slackened as the battle warrior slid away to become a mournful father, "I know you would, but what I request of you is vital. What I am asking is because I can trust only you. Please, my Cia," he picked up the boy's slack hand and placed it inside of hers, "take him to Tumbler's End, to the army's camp."

She looked into a small face, almost as black as hers in the hopeless room. The boy refused to make eye contact, keeping his head low and not uttering a sound as strangers decided his fate.
 

"I'll do it."

Her father stood then, helping his daughter rise, "Good. I see you still have your dagger, I only pray you will not need it. Keep off the roads and as much out of memory as possible. The castle is swarmed, but Scepticar willing, the Emperor's men will not notice a pair of young servants."

Ciara nodded, her hand still wrapped around the boy's, watching as her father picked up his sword coated in lamb drippings. He did not sheathe it, which would have made her mother mad and instead turned once more to look upon his daughter for what he feared would be the last.

Kissing her upon the head again, he said, "It will be all right," and walked steadily towards the light of the hall and out of her life.

CHAPTER FOUR

S
words clattering against shields, other swords, the walls and, more disturbingly, something soft and gushy faded into the background as Ciara pulled the boy down the stairs into the kitchen.

Things had gone from panic to full blown stampede mode with word of the invading dragons somehow fitting through the narrow passage ways and making towards the kitchen. Every available basket, pot, pan, potato, and the giant roasting spit had been piled up in front of the door. The invading dragons were going to either have a mess to wade over to attack the servants or a very nice appetizer before the main course.
 

She shook her head, there was no getting anywhere past that mass and even if she could, it would simply lead back to the hall where this all began. Even through the faces distorted in fear she tried to find the familiar one that could make anything right, be it brown butter turned black, a woolen sweater that could now fit the original sheered sheep, or the need to sneak past enemy lines with a wet limbed boy who refused to raise his eyes.

But, her mother was nowhere to be found amongst the crowd. The thought of her caught in the path of the invaders clutched at Ciara's throat but her father had been there. If that were the case, he would have protected his wife and not some nobleman's bastard. Content in that bit of round logic she pushed into the larder, pulling the boy with her. His fancy shoes slid on the lamb juices and he fell into a face full of mutton.

Crying like a small bird that just slipped from the nest and landed in front of the cat, he tried to scramble up, but the sight of so much blood seeping onto his hand caused him to panic even more. Ciara grabbed both of his hands and raised him up, finally looking into a muddled pair of blue quartz.

"Calm down. You're overreacting."

As what happens to anyone that's ordered to calm down, the boy panicked harder, waving his hands around and screeching, the lamb's blood growing stickier in the desert of the kitchen. Fighting back the urge to shudder at the gore, she firmly took his right hand in hers and closed her fingers tight, "I'll get us out of here. No matter what."