The Warlord

Chapter 44: Calliope

Bastian has not returned yet, and for some reason beyond my comprehension, this worries me. Maybe it is simply his success rate; he has not failed Serestine before, so for a mission like this to keep him away for so long...

I cannot dwell on it. I must have faith in Bastian. If he does not come back within three days, I will take an escort and investigate the forest myself. There can be no more delay; I must find where the Forgotten Prisoner is, I must find out what is happening in Heaven.

I pace the length of the throne room, muttering under my breath, the gears in my head turning over and over. I do not have the resources to contact Morella, my warlord has deserted me, and the Forgotten Prisoner remains a mystery. Deep in frustration, I stare out the window, placing a hand on the cold glass. Something catches my eye; a swift, sharp, dark movement from below. One of the guards stationed in front of the palace doors falls to the ground. His head is missing.

I race out of the throne room and almost run into a servant. She yelps and starts to apologize profusely, but I cut her off.

"Gather the other servants and find a place to hide. Hurry!" I hiss.

She frantically bows and rushes off, racing to search for the other maids. I make my way down to the first floor, warning every guard and servant that comes in sight. Sounds of battle start to reach my ears, grunts and cries of terror, and steel cutting through flesh. I leap down the steps, dress billowing, a spell already being murmured between my teeth. The palace guards are locked in combat with a whirling, cloaked warrior. I rush forward, watching with remorse as the warrior cuts down guard after guard, their blade reaping blood and innocence. Reaching a hand out, I pull back a survivor and push him behind me, releasing a blast of magic from my palm.

"Go! Leave!" I shove the guard back, and he trips over his feet as he stumbles up the stairs, blood dripping from his head.

I stomp on a spear, lying next to a fallen guard, and flip it into my hand. The warrior has leapt back, and is now standing oddly still, head cocked to the side.

"Target found," I hear the warrior whisper, their voice barely audible from underneath the hood.

Then the warrior lashes out, swinging the sword with such brutality that all I can do is duck and dodge to stay alive. I parry once, twice, thrice, before their blade cuts the spear handle in half, forcing me to toss the broken tool aside. I fall back onto my magic, runes and circles coating my palms, light streaming from my fingertips.

My strength is not enough. The warrior fights like a demon, like a gale ripping through a forest, bending the trees and making the leaves ripple. The warrior leave slashes on my hands and violent, jagged tears in the sleeves of my gown. I am forced backwards, falling back on my heels, my will growing weaker and weaker. Finally, I trip over the stairs, humiliatingly falling into a bloody mess.

The warrior raises the sword for the final blow as I struggle to rise, struggle to survive. My breath catches in my throat as a glimmer of silver arcs through the air. It stops inches from my neck, from my trembling, quivering skin. The fear is so palpable that I am choking on it now, my insides oozing with terror. The air seems to freeze in this space of a second, me at the mercy of this intruder, of this stranger; the fate of Serestine hanging in balance by a precious, fraying thread.

Then the warrior pulls back the hood, and my chest seems to explode into a thick mass of emotions. It spills to the floor and pools around my sunken knees, and now I am drowning in it as it rises and fills my lungs. My warlord, my warlord is staring back at me. Her chocolate brown eyes are dead, glazed, more bronze than alive, but something is fighting in them, something of light and warmth. Her expression twitches, her mouth turning into a frown, her brow wrinkling as she stares down at me, as if she is trying to remember who I am. I raise a shaky arm, my mouth slightly parted, my gaze transfixed on her. I lean forward, reaching for her, reaching for my warlord, blind to anything and everything but her. My fingers touch her cheek, caress her cold, pale skin.

The point of her sword sinks into my throat.

I fall back, blood streaming and spraying.

My head hits the stairs, and through the cracks of my fast-closing eyes, I think I see the glint of a tear sliding down her face.