Emily French - Ironheart

“The battlements are out of bounds. How did you get here?” he asked, with deep notes of iron grating on one another in his voice. “And more to the point, why?”

“I couldn’t go downstairs because of the guards, and I didn’t want to climb out a garderobe shaft ’cause they smell so awful, ’n’ I came up here instead.” She moved closer, scowling. “I tried to get up there.” She pointed into space out a crenel. “But I’m not big enough. But you’re here, so you can—”

Leon flinched, and said, between closed teeth, “Forget it.”

He paused at a buttressed arch and turned to look into the vast hollow before them. From this angle, no lights shone, not even faint ones. It was black as a cave. Only the immensity of air, palpable as a beast, betrayed the cavernous gulf beyond.

Fear clenched his heart with an icy grip. How had he gotten into this? He grasped the merlon with one hand, to keep from shaking, and felt sandstone crumble under his fingers. He pulled back by instinct.

“Flamed rotted-out pile of—” He caught back a swear-word.

She turned her head and looked at him. Then slowly she began to smile, her eyes anxious, but her grin growing wider. She was contemplating mischief, he was sure of it.

“Are you afraid?”

“Of course not! I have an arm of steel and a heart of iron!”

“Oo-oh, how wonderful. Are heroes always so strong?”

“Of course.”

Leon sweated. Heroes are always strong, and they never run away, he told himself. And that was a worry. He was scared and breathless.

“You’re bigger than me.” A sudden pale glance, starlit. She smiled. “Can you see over the top?”

He nodded foolishly, and again she laughed. He thought that perhaps he had never heard a lovelier sound. “Of course.”

“Well?”

He was more than a little unnerved. Breath came short, in shameful panic. At the same time, his heart leaped into his throat and stayed there. Does she know? He cast her a sideways glance. A dimple winked in her cheek, but she stood there, dark eyes wide, full of faith and innocence; real, and not an illusion. It was surely the weakness that was the illusion—

Leon snapped into focus with a shudder. “Disabuse yourself of such notions. ’Tis not yet dawn.” He was arguing with himself more than with her. He turned to face her, feeling his face flush. “There will be naught to see,” he said, surprising himself with his vehemence.

“Oh,” she said wistfully, as if dashed in her expectations. However, she was not demolished, for she stared at him with bright blackberry eyes, and went on. “I was rather looking forward to—well, this grand occasion…the wonder and excitement…it’s dull in the nursery…I have to make up my own adventures—” she talked rapidly as if to ward off his saying anything “—being a boy, of course, you don’t have to make up little pictures in your head of what it’ll be like when you’re all grow’d up.”

“I never said I didn’t dream, but the future is clouded, and there’s no way to foretell or change it.”

“Nonsense! Close your eyes. Tight. Imagine for yourself what it’ll be like when you’re a knight.”

Leon shrugged, stunned by this abrupt assault and uneasy about its possible consequences, but did as he was bid, his hand resting lightly, prudently, on the sword hilt.

A searing flash burned his eyes. The sharp crack of lightning—or deadly magic—barked beyond the castle walls, then bugles blared and he felt the pounding of heavy hooves through the ground.

It was a trap! Nay, it was sorcery, and everyone knew sorcery was an evil used by heathens of old. For all he knew, it was a trick to distract him from his watch. It wouldn’t have been the first time a child was used as bait in a trap. What can I do? he asked himself. His brain recoiled from the prospect of being the agent of assault, or worse, by failing his duty…

“No!” he protested with more determination than he felt. But the enchantment held him fast. There was no choice but to go with it.

Combat surrounded him, fire and smoke and the clamor of battle in all directions as far as he could see and hear. His helmet was gone and he could feel the gashes in his steel chain mail. His skin was torn in many places and blood covered his body. Flames spouted from the siege wagons, and some tents had caught fire. Rain kept the wagons from becoming an inferno, but the unburned canvas kept the rain from extinguishing the fire.

Then he saw the banner, the rampant lions outlined in gold against the bright red field, now trampled in the earth, torn by sword and dyed almost black in the blood of the young soldiers who followed it. He couldn’t tell whether it was rain or blood running into his eyes, but his vision blurred to nothing.

Caer Llion! Where are you?

He flinched suddenly at the touch of a slender hand and turned to see a small figure standing before him. This one was not armored like the knights, nor tall nor broad enough to be a soldier. This was no manly fighter, but a woman!

“You are hurt,” she said. A deep cowled hood shaded her face, and her elfin features seemed to glow and fade in the reflected light of the flames.

“The battle is lost,” he whispered fiercely, straining to control his disbelief. He gasped for breath.

“You and your men fought well.”

“And died well. I must claim vengeance.”

“You’ll get no vengeance riding alone into that nest.” The girl-woman took his arm and began to lead him away, though there was no way to tell which way to go. “And you, my golden knight, you have a destiny to fulfil. Hold on to me and you will live to fight again. I will protect you.”

He nodded his head, confused. How did this woman think she could do such a thing? He peered into the shadows of her still-raised hood. She let the hood slip back far enough for their eyes to meet clearly. Her eyes were brown, soft and deep, and he felt lost in them, lost in wondering what he had not seen.

The question seemed quite unimportant as his eyes saw more and more shadowy forms appearing, only to flee in all directions and be followed by great waves of horsemen and their riders. There were no individuals—only bodies, armed and unarmed, eager to slay and keep on slaying.

He squinted, not quite seeing their faces, and always the riders passed the two figures without seeing them. He heard the screams of men caught by lance or mace or hoof, but he felt the soft protection of magic, invisibility created by the girl-woman that now cloaked him.

A damp wind swirled around him, and he felt a slight chill. The air smelled of masonry. His reason told him he was on the battlements, but his irrational self said he must have tripped for a minute, then leaped forward a full decade or more.

“What is it? What did you see?”

Leon opened his eyes. He blinked and the vision was gone. The inky blackness of the night was giving way to a softer gray. Had the vision been an image of reality?

“Nothing much, and nothing certain,” he answered, turning on his heels, but the muscles in his legs trembled despite his determination to stand firm. “Except the prince is coming, and so is bad weather.”

“That’s important!”

“If my knowledge of ritual is accurate, at your age, you should still be abed, and not wandering around the battlements. These are not the most friendly of parts,” Leon replied, the edge of his voice as sharp as his sword.

“You try to frighten me,” the girl said in a voice that sounded like music tinkling on his ears. “But I am not afraid.”

He rounded on her angrily. “Are you questioning my courage?”

“Not your courage, never that. You can finish anything you start.” She looked Leon squarely in the eyes as she spoke. He sought some hidden message there, some gleam of witchcraft, but instead the raven-black depths showed him she was even more uneasy than he was himself. Now all those images seemed ridiculous and absurd. Some of the tension left his body.