Michael Mathias - Kings, Queens, Heroes, and Fools

General Spyra took his time and weighed Lord Gregory’s statement in his heart. Already he knew that, even if his wife was proven to be innocent of Lady Trella’s accusations, the woman would never love him or respect him as she had before. A man who didn’t fight for his wife’s honor wasn’t worthy of her love.

He almost did it. Even after the Westland lord had declined the challenge. He almost drew his blade. Common sense kept him from it. All along he had known that it was too good to be true. Lady Mandary loved him a little too much, a little too perfectly, always catering to his pride while gently prying information from him.

Fighting a tear, and the dead weight of a lifetime of hope pulling at his heart, he cursed out loud and called for the guards to come. What a fool I’ve been, he told himself.

Thinking that her husband was going to have Lord Gregory put in chains, Lady Mandary said, “It’s about time you came to your senses. These greedy Westland nobles just want your seat.”

“I suppose you’re right, my love,” General Spyra said to her as a pair of Valleyan guardsmen stepped into the room. “It is about time that I came to my senses.” Then to the guards he said, “Take her to the upper cells and treat her well. She may be a traitor, but she is still a lady.”

“You coward,” she yelled at him as the guards grabbed her arms. “You’re a fool, a buffoon. Wraaagh!” She spun and twisted free of the men holding her. She was far stronger than either of them thought possible. Her golden ringlets began to grow thick and grey and her chubby cheeks deflated to pale spotted leather-like skin. Her wide proud shoulders drooped, and her breasts sagged to her belly. In a matter of seconds she transformed from the plump young Lady Mandary into the old wrinkled Dakaneese swamp witch that she really was. Her long nails raked one of the guards across the eyes. He brought both of his hands to his face while the other guard was fighting through his shock to draw his sword. She sent a sizzling blast of static into his chest that sent him staggering backwards. The smell of burnt flesh quickly filled the room.

The marsh witch whirled on the open-mouthed General and began barking out the words of a spell. He was entranced by her sudden transformation, sickened that he had loved such a thing. He had kissed that rotten toothless mouth and run his fingers through that matted gray mop of hair. She smelled of decaying fish and looked as if she were older than the Maker. It caused him to heave. Suddenly leaning over, he was vomiting on the floor.

The fiery red streaks of magic that shot forth from her fingertips passed right through where his head would have been had he not gotten ill. She was cackling loudly now, and in the process of bringing her razor sharp claws down across the General’s back when Lord Gregory made his move. Drawing his sword, he took two steps then made a chopping swing that left him way over extended. He felt his sword tip bite into flesh, and heard the witch’s howling scream, but his breath was forced out of his lungs as he hit the hard stone floor squarely with his chest. The world filled with exploding white stars for a moment. When he opened his eyes, he looked up and saw the anguished General’s tear-streaked face as he pulled his sword out of the witch’s gut. The shining blade was covered in thick black blood. When the Lion Lord rolled over to push himself up, he saw the clenched hand and forearm that his sword had severed from her body. As he stood, he looked at the General. He saw an embarrassed, heartbroken man who was about to crumble. “I’m sorry, sir,” was all he could manage to say, but he said it as sincerely as he could. Then to the bloody-faced guard that was huddling over his fallen comrade, “Go. Find a healer for him, if it’s not too late.”

“I’m a fool,” said General Spyra after the guard was gone. He was trying desperately to hang onto at least a scrap of his dignity. “If you’ll excuse me,” he managed to say before turning. After a few paces he stopped and drew in a deep breath. “Can you have your wife recount exactly what the traitor told our enemy,” he asked Lord Gregory without looking back.

“Aye,” Lord Gregory answered. “Why?”

“If we know what they think we are about, we can change our plans and regain the element of surprise,” the ever dutiful General said before walking away.

“Aye,” Lord Gregory replied with an unseen nod of respect. He wanted to say something that might ease the heartache the General was feeling, but he could think of no words that would help. “I’ll go to her immediately.”

“Lord Gregory,” General Spyra turned this time. His wet swollen face showed the depths of emotion he was feeling. He started to say more, but the look he saw on the Lion Lord’s face suggested that words were not necessary. They exchanged curt nods of understanding, and then Lord Gregory went to find his wife.

General Spyra scrunched up his face and roared through clenched teeth. After glancing at the young Valleyan guard, who was possibly dying on the floor, he kicked the marsh witch’s corpse in the face with sickening force. He let his sword fall from his grasp and clatter to the floor, then hurried away to find a private place where he could let loose his anguish without shaming himself further.

Hyden felt himself being lashed and pummeled, but the blows were nothing compared to the pain in his abdomen. He was falling, and the blackness around him was absolute. He couldn’t tell which way was up, which way was down, or if he was conscious or not. Even after he became oriented to the cold stone floor under him, he was confused. For what might have been moments, but could have been days, all sensation, save for pain, stopped for him. His agonized state was eventually disturbed by an insistent scuffing sensation along his arm. When he swatted at it, it responded with an irritated meow. Hyden’s eyes blinked open to see that he was still in darkness. He reached out with his mind and felt the warm prickly lyna that was trying to wake him.

Hyden couldn’t see the creature, but he remembered it from when it had woken him on the dungeon floor.

He felt chilled, and his skin turned to goose flesh. Strangely, he noticed that his gut didn’t feel as if it were on fire anymore. Further investigation reminded him that his muscles and tendons, and maybe even his blood, were saturated with venom. His hair felt like icy needles prickling into his scalp, and he began to shudder. He was weak. His body felt as if it were melting into mush from the inside out. He knew he should have been hungry. He hadn’t eaten in days, the thought of food made him retch and he went into a coughing fit that lasted far too long. By the time he had his breath again, he found he could make out subtle shades in the blackness. He sat with his knees drawn up into his arms for a long time, trying to gather his thoughts. The lyna wiggled up against him, content to preen and purr. Eventually, Hyden cast the little ball of light into his palm. Its dull glow barely illuminated his face, and he soon began to feel like some sort of bait, so he extinguished it. He closed his eyes and sought out Talon but couldn’t find his familiar. He tried to find the hawkling’s vision with his eyes open, and though Talon didn’t connect with him, he found that his eyes focused into a crisp sort of clarity, even in the darkness. He found that he could see the edges of himself and the shape of the lyna lying beside him. It wasn’t much, but it was something.

“We found the darkness, Spike,” he rasped to the creature. “Now it’s time to find the light. We have to hurry, though, the stuff inside me is going to melt me into a puddle.”

The fact that his voice didn’t reverberate reflected the vast emptiness he was in. As he stood, the lyna hunched and stretched. Hyden wanted to do the same, but was afraid he wouldn’t snap back into shape if he did. He slowly turned, peering into the emptiness, searching for a sign, or a glimmer of anything that might indicate which way he should go. As he looked, he wondered where his brother had gone and why he hadn’t killed him. He only vaguely remembered falling out of the garden yard and battling. He forced the thoughts out of his mind because he loved his brother fiercely. Thinking about him made him sad. He couldn’t afford to wallow in emotion. He could actually feel his body breaking down.