Parasite Soul (17 page)

“Destroy
it!” shouted their commanding officer, brandishing his sword but showing no
inclination to lead the charge.

“Where’s
Cap’n Feldmann?” wondered one ratty little fellow, clearly hoping for a
counter-order.

“
Kill it
!”
the senior officer repeated, red-faced and furious in the face of tangible
reluctance. “And take the lad!”

Simon didn’t
wait to see whether the soldiers followed their orders. He kept running,
even though his legs were now burning beneath him and wouldn’t hold him
long. He angled through the small, empty marketplace. Shutters
flicked open as curious eyes watched him pass. As to whether the
stares of his former neighbors were sympathetic, hostile, or just interested,
he didn’t have time to speculate. Panting hoarsely, he passed beneath the
long, murderous shadow of the gibbet where his father had died, and veered
uphill toward the cornfield. He was rewarded by the sound of cries behind
him: shouted orders and clanking armor, piercing yowls. The wendigo had
been forced to engage the guards.

He was going
to get away.

Slowing,
Simon dared to peer over his shoulder. The king’s men had encircled the
snarling creature, which was clutching an arm, freshly torn from its luckless
host. Two soldiers lay dead in the street.

Good,
Simon thought fiercely.
Let them rip each other into chunks
.

Violence and
confusion were his last impressions of Brand. Instinct told him he would
never see the only home he had known ever again. This was not how he
would have hoped to remember it, but there was nothing for that now. As
viewing the corpse of a loved one could stain even the fondest living memories,
he knew that this one afternoon would blight his nostalgia until the end of his
days.

With a
silent farewell to his father, his home, and his life, he slipped into the
cover of the cornfield.

Prince Anton Stallix of Quell was passably easy on the eyes, Tiera
decided, but he was exceptionally tedious. He had little on his mind save
for hunting, boars specifically, of which he claimed to have singlehandedly
slaughtered a great many - despite the fact that he looked like he’d have
difficulty bending a willow branch without assistance. Having been
obliged to tolerate his vacuous rambling at a number of feasts since his
arrival, and now again, she now leaned upon the parapet and fantasized about a
gust of wind strong enough to sweep him off the great Vingate Bridge and into
the tepid, filthy waters of the channel below.

Diamond mines
, she reminded herself
before she could substitute herself for the imaginary wind and perform the deed
herself
. Think of Quell’s diamond mines
.

Prince Stallix was just nervous, she told herself, which didn’t
improve matters as anxiety was hardly what she looked for in a mate.
Still, the man hadn’t left his isolated hermit kingdom in years; he had no idea
how to behave in Cannevish society. Twitchy and introverted, he clearly
expected betrayal at every turn. His wilderness adventures were undoubtedly
designed to boost his sense of machismo, as he seemed more likely to belong to
a quilting circle than the brotherhood of hunters he described over and over
and bloody
over.

“Had you not been there, you could scarcely imagine the size of the
brute,” the prince was saying, peeling a colorless wisp of ethereal hair from his
forehead and tucking it into his hideous conical hat. Whatever else came
of the proposed partnership between Cannevish and Quell, Tiera had decided, an
exchange of fashions was not in the offing. “Enormous! Hair like a
porcupine’s quills! Tusks which could choke a shark! He was backed
into a corner… you never saw such hate in a beast’s eyes!”

Tiera yawned. She made no attempt to disguise it. Even
the peasants scurrying along the edges of the canal below were more intriguing
than this man.

The prince carried on unruffled. “Even with the certain blessing of
Avana, I knew my skills would be put to the test.”

Avana was the goddess of the hunt in Quell, Tiera vaguely recalled;
a false deity, as any true-blooded Cannevishite knew. She said nothing,
allowing the man the silly foreign delusions he would be forced to repress once
their union was sealed. Tiera was no devout worshipper of Vanyon – she
didn’t see the point. As royalty, she imagined she was guaranteed access
to his Hall without any great effort on her part. The Cannevish clergy
would never accept the prince’s blasphemous notions, however, and nor would the
masses.

“Fortunately, I had my father’s spear, the same legendary weapon
that…”

“Fortunate indeed,” Tiera interrupted, smiling coldly. “And
I’d love to hear all about it, but we have more pressing concerns.”

Prince Stallix drew himself up indignantly, pursing his lips.
Tiera thought he might burst out of his tights, which left so little to the
imagination that they were hardly necessary in the first place. Her first
thought had been that, no matter what his failings, her lover-to-be was at
least well-endowed. Further introspection had led her to consider that if
he stuffed his tights the way he padded his hunting tales, she expected to find
very little down below.

“And these concerns?” Stallix asked stiffly.

Tiera waved a hand dismissively, frowning. She’d momentarily
forgotten that the prince’s concerns were not aligned with her own. The
transgressions of the insolent peasant dragonslayer didn’t interest him, save
of course as the catalyst for the politics which would allow Cannevish and
Quell to unite. He could not comprehend why Tiera was so upset at having
been rejected by a commoner.

“You must put aside this rustic’s ill manners,” he said, as soon as
he’d figured out what was preying on her mind. “His short-sightedness is
typical of the common folk. The man was a lack-wit , and it is not seemly
to allow one so lowborn to prey upon your mind.”

Tiera smiled tightly. She said nothing. Perhaps the
prince’s words were well-intentioned, but that didn’t matter. No one –
no
one
– rejected the hand of Princess Tiera Minus. No one found her
lacking in comparison to her own handmaiden. And, if she was honest with
herself, any man capable of slaying a dragon – which the foppish Anton Stallix
most assuredly was not – was a man who piqued her interest, even if that man
was a peasant.

“My concern,” Stallix continued, brushing invisible lint from the
sleeve of his red velvet jacket, “Is the sword. I can hardly be expected
to be seen in public with an item of such shoddy, vulgar craftsmanship.”

Tiera’s left eye twitched. “You’ll only be seen with it once,
my prince, at the ceremony. Further, you’ll be some distance from the
crowd, and our metalsmiths can affix a more suitable pommel to it.”

“Unacceptable,” Stallix returned rigidly. “My entire legend
hinges upon this moment. Shall it be spoken far and wide that Prince
Stallix of Quell slew a dragon with a blade that a common guardsman would
disdain?”

Prince Stallix of Quell is astonishingly fortunate that it will be
said that he slew a dragon at
all, Tiera thought,
but she did not say so. “Father’s heart is set upon the blade being used,
as it bears the scars of such use. The authenticity of the sword’s scars
cannot be disputed; only dragon’s blood could have caused such damage.
Perhaps father can be talked into allowing a more pristine blade to be
presented, but know that skeptics will mutter.”

Stallix snorted. “Let them.”

“Perhaps while locked in mortal combat with his foe, my prince had
his own blade struck from his hand and was forced to snatch up another from the
bodies strewn about,” Tiera suggested.

Stallix’s eyes lit up.

“Yes,” he mused, scratching his beardless chin. “Yes!
That would do nicely. A dramatic flourish. The public would love
that. I shall work it into my narrative.”

You’re welcome
, Tiera thought sourly
.
First the peasant does the work for you, now I write your story. Is there
anything you will be providing this union
?

“It is a fine day,” Stallix noted, staring skyward, his spirits
suddenly high.

“Indeed.” Tiera sought for an excuse to return to her
chambers. This infernal stroll - with this primping peacock and a mixed
entourage of his servants, hers, and an assortment of uneasily segregated
soldiers - had neither been enjoyable nor worthwhile. “However, perhaps
my prince would excuse me. I have duties I must attend to.”

“Of course.” Stallix waved her away. Tiera wanted to
snap his delicate hand off and choke him with it. Instead, she smiled
coldly and beckoned imperiously to her retinue, who were adept at reading her
moods and trailed her with eyes averted.

She doubted Stallix would miss her presence. The two of them
had failed to strike even the dimmest and most fleeting of sparks. This
in itself infuriated her, as for all her beauty and wiles she appeared to be
unable to captivate any of her intended paramours, from the lowborn to the
noble.

I intimidate them
, she thought savagely
as she swept toward the palace, townsfolk scattering in her path.
They
are afraid of me. Neither of them are man enough to embrace what I could offer
.

By the time she returned to the palace she was in a foul
temper. She strode imperiously through the courtyard, guardsmen and
stablehands alike swiftly assessing her mood and busying themselves with menial
tasks of sudden importance. As she marched into her father’s court, the
sight of the unkempt General Gharletto standing at insolent ease in the king’s
presence did not improve her disposition. Whatever the general and his
liege were discussing, it could wait.

“Have you found him?” Her strident interruption provoked a flurry of
knowing glances amongst the courtiers. King Minus arched an eyebrow, his
expression disapproving, but he did not berate his daughter in front of the
assembly. A later, more private discussion would not be pleasant, Tiera
knew, but she didn’t presently care.

“If you refer to the peasant lad,” Gharletto responded, without so
much as a
m’lady
, “We have indeed.”

Tiera’s heart skipped a beat. “Did you bring him back?
Is he dead?” She hoped the fool hadn’t executed Simon already; she needed to
watch the light leave the ill-mannered buffoon’s eyes.

“No and no,” Gharletto admitted with unusual reluctance. He
looked to the king, who nodded nearly imperceptibly. “There has been a
development.”

“A development,” Tiera echoed coldly. Behind her, she could
sense her handmaiden flinch. Farrow understood that another long,
grueling day lay in store for her.

“The lad,” Gharletto tugged at his unruly, beggar’s beard.
“Has proved more difficult to take than we at first imagined.”

“
Difficult to take
?” Tiera snapped, incredulous. “He
killed a
dragon
! How much imagination does it take to understand
that a man who
killed a dragon
might be
difficult to take
?”

The general cleared his throat loudly. Tiera recoiled
theatrically from the wafting stench of his breath.

“The lad,” he continued at length, “
Did
return to his
hometown as anticipated, but we could not have foreseen the alliance he’d
forged with a monster of some sort. Between them, they wiped out nearly
an entire troop of soldiers. Only two men survived the attack.”

“Then they were incompetent! Have them put to death!”

King Minus intervened. “These survivors managed to kill this
monster. They are to be commended, not harmed.”

His tone brooked no argument. Tiera furiously contemplated the
worn luxury of the carpet.

“We have placed men at every checkpoint in the kingdom,” Gharletto
said. “If the lad tries to pass, he will certainly be captured.”

Tiera’s tongue seemed to move of its own accord. “How about
you
take the field and capture him
yourself
?” she said before she could stop
herself. A series of gasps echoed about the throne room, which instead of
silencing her, only fueled her temper. “Your men have proven themselves
incompetent, and it had been countless years since your own last great
feat! Maybe it will take the greatest…” She sneered slightly. “…of
our warriors to stop a dragonslayer.”

Gharletto stared. King Minus stared. Fans fluttered
wildly; the couriers didn’t even dare whisper. Tiera knew she’d gone too
far. A vivid recollection of her childhood, feeling her father’s lash
across her shoulder blades, sprang unbidden to her mind. Nonetheless, she
stood her ground, trembling but defiant.

“You will
not
speak that way to the general.” When Minus’
voice was at its softest, the man was at his most dangerous. This was one
of those moments. “You will apologize immediately.”

Tiera’s tongue balked, dry and uncooperative. The assembly
held their collective breath. Tiera loathed their judgmental gazes.
None of them were fond of her. She imagined each and every one of them
was enjoying this moment, her pending humiliation, despite their expressions of
careful neutrality. In the safety of their own halls this evening, they
would laugh loudly at her expense.

Just as she was wrapping her mind about some pretense at apology
which wouldn’t taste
too
bitter in her mouth, Gharletto stepped forward.

“The princess is right,” he said grudgingly, his tone indicating
that he felt exactly opposite. “This youth has made a mockery of my
forces. He is wilier and more capable than I should have given him credit
for, and perhaps a sorcerer if he can command a beast such as this monster my
men slew. He requires my attention.”

This was a show of diplomacy Tiera wouldn’t have expected from such
a ragged man, and her brow creased with irritation. His false humility
had won the sympathy of the king and the court and left her looking like a
fool.

“So be it,” Minus said at length. “You will bring me his
head.”

“I want to be there when he dies,” Tiera interjected immediately.

“You will bring me his head and take no further chances with the
man,” her father overruled her. She subsided, red-faced and
furious. Farrow flinched away from her scalding gaze.

“It will be done.” Gharletto stumped out of the hall, looking older
and more worried than Tiera had ever seen him.

Good
, she thought viciously.
A
legend has to earn his place, and father has preserved yours too long by
putting you out to pasture
.

“Father,” she began, as innocuously as she could.

“You are dismissed.” Minus interrupted, his expression severe.
“We will speak later.”

Chin tilted defiantly, Tiera swept out of the chamber, Farrow
pattering anxiously after her. Dozens of eyes burned insultingly into her
back. She dismissed their owners as inconsequential; the court wasn’t
currently her greatest concern. She couldn’t decide if she wanted Gharletto
to kill the peasant and sate her grudge, or for the reverse to occur so that
the kingdom – and her father - would come to understand how pathetically
obsolete their great war hero really was.