CHAPTER 292: WARRIOR THREE

Warrior Three

Kapua Castle

Hurried footsteps echoed on the stone stairs, shouts rising as the orange flare of lanterns swept across the landing and licked at the pitch-black corner. The lady had already struck, slamming the back of her head into her captor’s face, yet his arm still clamped around her waist. She screamed as she twisted, reaching for the blade at his belt. “Guards! Over here, help!”

“A mage!” The second captor did not hesitate and rushed her.

A dagger flashed like a line of silver. Her eyes widened. The gemstones had opened the dark to her. She set her weight on her left foot, both of her hands clamping over his forearm, locking it against her body. With her hips dropped and her shoe biting the stone floor, she drew on the might of both gemstones and heaved, hauling the brigandine-clad man from behind her and flinging him toward the oncoming attacker.

Her captor hit the floor with a heavy groan. She had missed her mark. The man on the ground shook his head, still reeling, blood pouring from his crooked nose where bone had met bone, but the second captor had already leapt at her.

With quick footwork, she slipped back. But his follow-up tore her clothes in a gash. The horizontal slash missed her ribs by a hand. He pressed harder, and she jerked away as the blade nicked the hem and opened it wider.

Sweat beaded on her face. She needed steel. Even with twin gemstones, her skin would not stand against sharpened steel.

Again, the man closed the distance with terrifying speed. Steel flashed. She slipped aside, but he had already switched the blade to his other hand. Terror shot through her as she dodged wide and nearly lost her footing. Her red dress tore at the hip, yet the man did not slow down and drove forward with a thrust. She chose to risk it and stepped in, meeting his advance. The blade slid past her as she struck low, kicking at the unarmored leg.

The man cursed in pain but leapt back, denying her any follow-up.

Yet her shout and the violent struggle had drawn attention. “There!” a guard roared, lantern swinging in his hand.

Her captor halted as two guards appeared, then another, each carrying either a halberd, a sword, or a spear.

The two closest moved on the intruders with weapons raised. Facing them, the man kept the dagger in his left hand and drew his sword with the right. The other slowly rose as well, pulling his own blade and taking his stance. “Come then, Nicopolan bastards, or is it Centurians?”

“Hard to tell these days. They lie in bed with each other all the same,” his comrade added.

They laughed as the guards, stung by the insult, charged with a violent yell.

A brutal fight ensued between them, two lightly armored intruders against three ringmail-clad guards.

Heaving for breath, she tried to steady herself. More footsteps echoed from below. Orange light from lanterns or torches swept across the pitch dark, yet none of it brought her any confidence. Her eyes turned toward the far corridor, and there she saw silhouettes.

She remembered how her guard had fallen to a bolt.

From the stairwell, four more guards arrived carrying torches and lanterns.

“Quick, there are intruders,” she told them, stepping back from the darkened passage.

Their faces tightened at the confirmation of an attack within the heart of the King’s castle. “How did they pass us?” one of them demanded as they climbed. ꞦΆＮŐ฿Εṧ

Instead of allowing them to join the fight against the two, the lady pointed down the corridor. “There’s someone there with a crossbow. He has already taken a guard.”

Even as she spoke, one of the fighting guards collapsed to the floor. A wet gurgle spilled from his throat where the artery had been cut. Curses and shouting followed.

The newly arrived guards exchanged glances. In silence, they recognized that a crossbowman was the greater threat. They nodded between them, and two sprinted down the corridor where she had warned he would be. Only a few steps in, one lobbed his torch forward, hoping to distract the hiding crossbowman.

It was a sound plan, but the crossbowman had already leveled his shot. A sharp snap cut the air, followed by a metallic clink, a wet thud, and a shocked gasp. The guard staggered, struck in the chest, the bolt punching through ringmail. “Shit! He got me.”

The second guard halted in shock, then lunged back to pull his wounded comrade to safety. “I’ve got you, I’ve got you.”

“A fucking crossbowman, for real,” the wounded man spat, clutching at the wound as he was dragged.

Their other two rushed to help, one muttering, “We need a shield.”

“We can block the corridor. They can’t get through,” the second guard suggested.

“Grab a chair,” the senior among them ordered.

With two guards fetching chairs from below and another tending to the wounded, the lady drew the fallen guard’s sword from its scabbard and forced her mind to focus. The gemstones granted her a certain power. Tapping into that strength, she manipulated the ethereal air around one of the captor’s heads, thinning it to a vacuum. Her technique was crude and wasteful, for she was no mage, but it worked.

The second man, the one who had nearly killed her, began to draw breath in ragged gulps. It did not bring him down, and he still traded blows with the guards, but confusion flickered in his eyes as his lungs filled, yet gave him little relief.

It was a sinister technique. The victim would not understand what was happening to him, only that each breath brought less and less air.

Realizing something unnatural was at work, the man cast a sharp glance her way.

She smirked in the lantern light, confirming his suspicion.

The man, fighting with sword and dagger in each hand, pressed on, trying every feint he knew to break her focus. But she did not need sight to hold the pressure. In desperation, he went wide and hurled his dagger at her.

She had anticipated it and slipped aside. The dagger skidded across the floor, and the thrower gasped as she did not break her concentration.

At last, after more than three minutes of strained focus, she began to wear him down. Breathless and erratic, he started to make mistakes. The guard facing him, wielding a sword, struck his arm and disarmed him. The intruder lunged, wrestling the guard to the floor, but the guard was quick enough to draw a dagger and drive it into his side, again and again.

Amid the howls of pain, the lady moved closer and thrust her spear into the man’s back, ending him. Blood pooled quickly around his body.

Seeing his comrade slain, the last intruder roared and fought with renewed fury, trying to strike down the halberd-bearing guard who had proved his match.

The guard laughed and jeered, “Howling like a dog now? Why not sit beside the Nicopolan and beg for scraps from my table?”

Enraged, the intruder pressed on, but he was outnumbered. The lady used the same technique on him while ordering the guards, “Take him alive. The King will want answers.”

The guards knew she had shared the King’s bed, and from her tone, she was accustomed to command, so they obeyed, wearing the intruder down to sap his strength. After several minutes, the man was beaten and captured.

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“You’ve done well,” she said from behind. “We’ve caught the Ghost.”

At the mention of the Ghost, the guards brightened. Even the wounded man with the bolt in his chest managed a smirk. They knew the reward would be substantial, or at the very least, they would avoid punishment, for somehow there had been intruders inside a locked castle.

From downstairs, two guards arrived carrying a short wooden bench, intending to advance slowly up the corridor and corner the crossbowman.

The fighting had roused many, who peered from their doors, but the guards barked at them to bar themselves inside.

As the two guards bore the wooden bench toward the darkened corridor, the lady turned to the guard beside the captive. “Search them. Empty their pouches. I want to know what they carried.”

He obeyed, dragging belts and satchels free, spilling their contents across the floor. She knelt and found one object that pulsed faintly with magic. Shaped like an earring, she lifted it and recognized the artifact as a communication device.

Watching her move, the guard with the halberd spoke. “Lady, return to your chamber. It’s not safe here.”

“No. I must speak with the King. I have something to report,” she replied, not expecting a challenge.

“You’re acting suspicious. Are you in league with them?” he pressed, his dislike plain at her tone of authority.

Only then did she see the distrust in their eyes, sharp and hostile. These were Centurians. Though she stood with them, she was not one of them. Just like her clan, ultimately, the Centurians cared only for their own.

“What is it?” a firm voice called from above. Heavy footsteps followed from the stairwell, along with a wash of bright white light. The King had arrived with his royal guards.

One guard hurried toward him. “Your Majesty, it’s dangerous. We have intruders.”

“Have you apprehended them?” the King asked, not slowing.

“We killed one, captured another, and are still chasing a third with a crossbow.”

“Get on with it, then,” the King said, prompting the guards to bow before rushing down the corridor behind the two with the wooden bench.

Flanked by his four royal guards, the King approached the captured man, stepping around the pool of blood. He glanced at the fallen guard and said, “Take him to the infirmary. He might yet live.”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” his royal guards replied, shouting toward the stairs for men to assist.

The lady curtseyed as his gaze fell upon her.

“You’re involved in this?” the King asked her.

“They attacked the guard who escorted me,” she answered.

“Are you harmed?”

“Only my clothes.”

The King nodded and gestured for her to stay behind him as he faced the captive. “Only robbers and thieves strike at night. Does your master have no honor?”

The man, nearly the King’s age, sneered. “To think you’re not even Nicopolan. You’re nothing but an impostor.”

As they held him, one of the royal guards stepped forward and drove his fist into the man’s face. Another followed, then another. The blows were savage. His already broken nose collapsed, his lip tore open, and his front teeth shattered under the strikes.

Despite the beating, before the King could speak, the man rasped, “Tell me, is that your name really, Nico? Your mother must have adored the Nicopolans—”

That insult earned him worse. The royal guards fell upon him with such fury that even the lady turned away. They were loyal beyond question, and loyalty, in them, made them merciless toward insult.

A commotion rose from the corridor. She turned her gaze, expecting a crossbow bolt, but it was not that. One of the guards shouted in panic, “Fire! The Great Hall is burning!”

This time, the whole castle awakened.

One of the royal guards moved toward the sound. “Douse it. Draw water from the cisterns and wells.”

Meanwhile, the King crouched near the beaten man. “Is this what you meant to do?”

The man’s expression was ruined and hard to read, but through blood and broken teeth, he managed, “You’re a walking dead man.”

Just as the royal guard drew back his fist, another guard stumbled in, gasping for breath.

“The hall is on fire,” the man reported. His face was blackened with soot. “The benches, the tables, the doors. No one is getting out.”

The report stunned everyone, but the King remained calm as more warnings poured in.

“My King,” his lieutenant called, having forced his way through the confusion. “The way to the cisterns is blocked by burning debris. It’s too hot, even with poles to push it aside.”

“How could they burn everything? Find an exit,” one of the royal guards ordered.

“This isn’t the work of just three men,” another blurted out, causing a flash of frustration in the ranks.

The King finally said, “Even if the halls are burning, we can still get out through the balcony. Fetch the ladders.”

They moved quickly to prepare for that, but a young servant stumbled forward, halted by the royal guards, and reported in a shaking voice, “Your Majesty, the balcony has burned down.”

“Impossible!” the guard barked at such a claim.

The servant flinched but forced out the words. “They’ve set the wooden beams, doors, and frames on fire. My superior tried to push it open, but it caught him. It was oily... sticky.”

As if to prove him true, fresh shouts rang through the corridor, warning cries rising into panic. The dim passage came alive with sudden light, washed in the glare of fire.

Slowly, smoke and heat poured through the halls, driving coughs from every throat. Still, the castle’s occupants, many of them Nicopolans, rallied, smothering flames with soaked woolen blankets and heavy coats, desperate to slow the blaze.

With her clansman having found her and tending to the injured girl, the lady dared herself to step forward. “Your Majesty, I beg a moment. This is a communication device taken from the intruder. If you allow me, I might secure a way out.”

Believing her to be a mage, the King nodded. “Use it. Find out who sent them, and get us out.”

...

As the order to move upstairs spread and people began to climb to escape the heat and fire, the lady removed her own earring and set the dwarven one in its place. A faint buzzing stirred inside her head.

“Warrior Three, report.” She did not hear it through the earpiece, but inside her mind.

But even before she said anything, the psychic link was enough for the one on the other end to sense the recipient had changed. “Who are you, woman?”

“The question is ours. We’ve defeated your men. Now, identify yourself,” she said aloud for the King and the royal guards to hear, while channeling it mentally through the device.

A click of tongue came in reply. “Ah, poor them. So they ran amok against the plan. Sigh. They always overdo themselves. Bold but foolish... I’m going to miss them.”

“Who are you, old man?” she demanded.

“It’s Lord to you, woman,” came the reply, the authority in his voice unmistakable even from afar.

“Lord of Dawn—”

“I do not speak with strays. Give that piece to your King, or I shall burn the castle from the air.”

His chilling threat forced her to reconsider, and she removed the earpiece, turning to the King and to the many eyes upon her, guards, retainers, scribes, and servants alike, all waiting.

“It’s the Lord of Dawn. He wishes to speak with you,” she said, offering the device with humility.

“Your Majesty, this might be a trap,” his advisor warned, still in his sleeping robe.

“Where is the royal mage? Fetch him at once,” an old scribe demanded.

One of the guards answered, “The mage is with the Captain of the Guard, seeking ways to entrap the Ghost.”

A weak, defeated sigh passed through the gathered men.

The King snorted, shook his head, and took the earpiece from her hand. “Show me how it works,” he said firmly, silencing his advisors.

“Your Majesty, you need not place it in your ear,” the lady said. “Hold it in your palm. And remember, you must think your reply. It does not take words spoken, but thoughts.”

“Interesting,” he remarked as he took the earpiece. Soon, he felt a faint pulsing in his head. Then something clicked, and he sensed the man on the other end.

“Good evening. Do I address the one who calls himself King of Nicopola?” the voice asked.

“Indeed. And do I address the Lord of Dawn, Avery?” the King answered.

A low chuckle passed between them, carried clear through the device.

“I expected a deeper voice from one who claims to be first among equals, O Centurian-born,” the other mocked.

“And I expected steadier breath from a lord so long in the saddle,” the King returned.

They laughed again, but this time with poison beneath it.

“So, you captured my men. Congratulations.”

“And you set fire to my castle.”

“It was mine before,” Lord Avery reminded him.

“Emphasize on before,” the King said, slow and deliberate.

The old Lord snorted. “So then, what is it you seek?”

“A deal.”

“I am listening.”

The King steadied his breath. “A king does not kill a king.”

The old Lord scoffed. “I am not one, mind you.”

“You could be, with my support.”

“I have no wish to pay that price. Nor will I be seen in your company.”

The King dismissed the harsh remark and pressed, “Every man of power needs an ally in these days. Be as wise as your years allow. Whether you seek a throne or not, you’ll have my favor in light or in shadow.”

“Sadly, O Centurian-born, you are in no position to bargain.”

“How senile. Have you forgotten how many depend on me? Do you wish to see a hundred thousand hungry souls march upon your barony? Because they will. If not this year, then the next. I alone have kept Nicopola stable. Without my kingdom, the warlords and their people will be at your gates.”

The other end fell silent for a moment, as if weighing the words. “Lower your ballistae and come to the tallest tower.”

With a faint smile tugging at his lips, the King said, “My advisors will need assurance.”

“As do I,” came the reply, edged with clear irritation.

“Dear Lord Avery, you hold our lifeline.”

“And you hold my heirloom. I want the earpiece returned.”

“You have a bargain," the King reassured him.

A low chuckle passed between them, and both severed the connection.

The King turned to the lady and to his gathered men, who had crowded into the Grand Hall where he usually dined. “We move to the tower.”

With renewed vigor, they made for the tower. The Royal Guard carried chests of gold and jewelry, the spoils of Nicopola. Others hauled bags and smaller coffers, believing they too would be saved. Yet there had been no word on how many Lord Avery would take. Still, there was no other path. They were trapped in the castle, and the heat and smoke were rising, creeping into every corner.

Just as they believed their King had won them escape, they reached the top. A guard pushed the door open for air, then froze. The others followed his gaze. Beyond the blazing roofs of the castle, past its walls, Kapua burned.

Flames rose in several quarters of the city, coloring it in orange and red. There was panic in the streets, people fleeing in confusion.

Lord Avery had not struck at the King alone, but at all who had fought under his banner. This was his revenge.

***