Questing Sucks (Book 1) (61 page)

I’m a dead man!

Down and down he plummeted. The concrete courtyard, where only moments before housed several thousand Kingdom soldiers, now seemed to grow in size as the ground came closer to turning Patrick and Saerith into mush. He braced himself for the end.

“Sellos Rahl,”
a voice whispered in Patrick’s mind. The voice sounded like Saerina’s but it was deeper and purer. Moments before hitting the ground, a warm blanket of air enveloped Patrick. It felt like falling into the arms of angel. His descent slowed, and Patrick landed next to Saerith with a painless thud.

Saerith twirled his blade and grinned at Patrick. “Were you frightened?”

Patrick waited a moment to catch his breath before speaking. Sweat fell from his face and his heart drummed in his chest. For a moment, he worried he’d soiled himself, but then sighed when he realized it was just more sweat.

“Not at all,” Patrick said. “I knew that would happen.”

“Sure you did. So, are you ready to do what men like us are best at?” Saerith asked.

“You know I am.”

Saerith tilted his head, and cupped his hands over his eyes. “It’s hard to see from here, but my sister is watching us. Somehow, I’d rather be out fighting than back up there dealing with her and commander Marshall’s craziness.”

“I just hope those two get along.”

“I’m sure they’ll be fine.”

 

 

“It’s mine!” Saerina shouted. The feisty princess again tried to snatch the dagger from Alan. Who did she think she was? She grabbed at it and Alan stepped to the side, laughing as Saerina overshot and almost tumbled to the ground. Fortunately for her, Rebecca steadied Saerina before she injured herself.

“You can have it back when I’m sure you won’t try to kill me with it,” Alan said. “Every time I do something you don’t like, you try to end my life.”

Saerina sucked air into her chest, and her cheeks expanded. Alan wondered if she had any idea how cute she was when she was angry. Alan knew her type, oh yes he did. She didn’t like to show any emotion, but when she did, she was simply too cute to leave alone.

“If I wanted you dead, you oaf, you’d already be lying on the ground. Do you have any idea what, or who, I am? If only you knew…”

Alan barked a laugh. Was the Elven princess really attempting to win the argument by blowing smoke out of her arse? “So tell me, then.”

Saerina glanced over the walkway. “I guess they’re far enough away. You.” Saerina pointed at Rebecca. “Please leave.”

Rebecca shrugged. “Fair enough, I don’t want to get involved in…whatever this is, anyway.”

Rebecca trotted away, but not before Alan got a decent peek at her well-shaped rump in motion. Saerina must have caught him looking—either that, or there was a dog somewhere nearby making those snarling noises.

“I will not beat around the bush, commander Marshall. I am a Goddess.”

Alan snorted and then rolled his eyes. “Yeah, sure you are. And I’m the Dwarven king. I’m just a bit tall for my species.”

Saerina slapped him across the face. It stung a little, but it amused Alan. “You will respect me,” she said. “I am not lying to you.”

“Oh, really?” Alan twisted his face into a diagonal, lopsided grin. “Then how come you’re not floating around in the sky or something?”

Saerina poked Alan in the chest. “I’m an Elf, too. I’m not a major Goddess but a minor one. I am a direct emissary to Helena herself.”

Alan tried to keep a straight face. Was Saerina being serious? Maybe her brother was right after all. Maybe she was a nutcase. Alan nodded along with her explanation. “If you say so.”

“This staff,” she said, again pulling up her sleeve to reveal the smoking tattoo. “This signals me as being marked. With this, I prove myself to all who know about the mark. But whether or not you believe me is irrelevant—whether or not you respect me, however, is. Other than that silly Elf, you are the only person to ever disrespect me. I’m growing sick of it.”

Alan tried his best not to chuckle, but the normally stone-faced woman was too damned fun to mess with when angered, and Alan’s chuckle only made her further flustered. She growled at Alan, and rather than deter him, her anger made Alan even more amused.

Saerina puckered her lips and scrunched her face. “Oh, you make me so angry sometimes. If you weren’t vital to this battle, I’d have you howling in pain. I’d leave you twitching on the floor while I—”

He couldn’t help himself. She was too adorable. Alan grabbed her by the waist and pulled her into him. His lips silenced her puckered face, which only moments ago flapped about with complaints and demands. Part of him wondered how furious she’d be once she had the chance to react—perhaps she’d try to kill him for real this time.

Instead, she kissed back with a forcefulness that rivaled his own. She ran her hands up over his shoulders and cupped his face. They were cold, but they were also somehow comforting. She pushed him back for a moment.

“Gods, Human. If you’re going to kiss me then do it properly. What, did you expect me to scream? You’ve no idea what I’m made of.”

Alan needed a moment to take it all in. He recoiled at the unexpected rush of emotion, but she grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and pulled him back towards her. Her soft breath tickled his stubble, and in a moment of horrifying realization, Alan lost his composure and fell under the sway of her volcanic eyes.

“So, after all this time, all it took to fell the great Alan Marshall was a kiss? I’ll have you seeing stars.”

Alan croaked, but he knew he’d fallen under her spell. Only, it wasn’t magic that enchanted him. It was her gaze that entranced him, the way her succulent lips covered his own. She kissed him again, and Alan could feel himself falling for her. If he didn’t pull away soon, he’d be completely under her power. The woman was mesmerizing—in a way that Alan hadn’t been ready to fight against. The taste of her lips made his knees go weak.

Oh no she doesn’t
, Alan thought.
She’s not winning this one without a fight.

Alan stopped retreating and pushed back, slamming Saerina into the guardrail and wrapping his arms around her. Could it be that the very same woman he’d shaken his naked, drunken rump at so long ago was now the woman to put him in his place? Never! Catapult fire rocked the kingdom’s walls, but both Alan and Saerina ignored it.

“You said it yourself,” Saerina whispered. “There’s nothing either of us can do for now. Why don’t you prove to me that you’ve got the right to call yourself a man. But I should warn you. If you don’t turn away now, you will inevitably fall in love with me, and then I’ll delight in breaking your heart. I’ll consider it revenge for all you’ve put me through.”

Alan squeezed her hips and whispered into her ear. “Oh? And what makes you think I would love a snobby little Elf like you?”

Saerina nibbled on his ear, and then spoke through clenched teeth. Her hot breath on his earlobe almost caused him to collapse. “Because,” Saerina said. “I think you already do.”

 

 

Ghell raised his hands to filter out the sunlight. He knew what he saw but he didn’t believe it. Were the Kingdom men mad? Or was this another of Alan’s traps.

No,
Ghell thought.
No matter how brilliant Alan Marshall is, he cannot defeat my army with his paltry numbers.

“I don’t get it,
Larik
. Why are they leaving the relative safety of their walls? If they attack us head-on, they’ll be dead in a few hours.”

The Drashian grunted. “Perhaps it’s another bluff?”

“No, no,” Ghell said. “He knows I won’t fall for that a second time. The only thing I can think of is that the Kingdom forces are prepared to make one final charge rather than wait for their death.”

“So you think it’s an honor thing?”
Larik
asked. “That they’re coming to meet us in battle and forgo waiting for the inevitable?”

Ghell shook his head. “We can’t be certain, but at any rate, there’s no need to take chances. They’re clearly coming after our archers. Have them fall back and replaced with our infantry. If they want to duke it out, then by all means, let them. Our master will be glad to have taken Hahl this quickly.”

Ghell allowed his delight to show on his face. Soon, he’d have three of the most valuable heads in the world. commander Marshall, Prince Patrick, and Prince Saerith, all of them would be his to claim. Ghell trembled with excitement as he watched the Kingdom men charge.

Watch, commander Marshall. Watch as I burn your city to the ground.

Chapter 55: Rock and Fire, Part I

 

When the men cheered, for a moment, Patrick believed it all might’ve been worth it. Everything from the ridiculous battle plan to his first encounter with Sehn—everything that had happened or would happen, all of it seemed justified when Patrick and Saerith stepped out of the gates to find themselves greeted by the thunderous applause of both the Human and Elven men and women.

Many lifted their blades high into the air. Horses reared, and sergeants removed their hats and bowed. Several soldiers turned away, but not before Patrick spotted the moistness in their eyes. What he and Saerith were doing was unheard of. Princes did not fight on the front lines with their men—it was a rule as old as combat itself.

Yet, Patrick’s blood boiled at the thought of battle. All those years training with the blademaster at the royal palace, all those sleepless nights grunting in pain on his mattress with bruises covering the length of his body—the memories rushed forth in Patrick’s mind, combining to create a sense of pride that welled in his heart.

A stable boy arrived to give Patrick and Saerith horses, and the two rode to the front of the formation to meet Rillith. The man saluted and then laughed with his usual rumbling grunt.

“Their archers have already pulled back, and we haven’t even started moving yet,” Rillith said.

Patrick sighed. “That’s what I told Alan. No matter how fast we are, we never had a chance of hitting their archers in the first place. If we charge now, all we face is death.”

Rillith tilted his head slightly as if evaluating Patrick. After a moment, he said, “And yet you don’t seem to regret your actions. You want this, don’t you?”

He knows me better than I know myself,
Patrick thought.

“Can you blame him?” Saerith asked. “Commander Marshall is determined to coordinate this battle by himself, leaving us to sit back and watch while our people die. Anything is better than that.”

Rillith grunted. “Agreed.”

Patrick inhaled at the same moment a breeze off the mountains hit his face. It revitalized him. In the distance, the enemy’s archers scrambled away from the frontlines in a hurry while their own cavalry and swordsmen took up the forward positions.

“I’m allowing it,” Patrick said, to the apparent surprise of Rillith and Saerith. They gave him a hard look in return.

“Allowing what?” Saerith asked.

Patrick pointed to a spot behind the gathering black-armored men. “I’m letting them get their archers to safety. It’s too late to catch them, anyway. Truth is, we were destined to die here, weren’t we? We might as well die while proving the honor inherent to every Kingdom man and woman. Let’s meet them head on, and we’ll show them what it means to face a Seven Pillar’s soldier in combat.”

Saerith and Rillith both laughed. “I like the way you think,” Rillith said.

Patrick waited until the last archer had fallen behind the enemy’s formation then turned his mount to face his men. There was a surprising variety of faces. Some belonged to young women, others to mothers that ran bakeries and tailoring shops. Some men still had the barely recognizable stubbles of youth—others were scarred, veteran warriors.

When Patrick raised his head to speak, all went quiet. Not a single soldier stirred, and even the mounts hushed. The rustling of the breeze hitting the grass was for a moment the only sound, and Patrick, after struggling to think of any meaningful words, said the only thing he could think of.

“We all know why we’re here, and we all know what’s at risk. What do you say we skip the speech and give hell to the bastards that have invaded our land?”

There was a pause, and then together, the warriors of the kingdom shouted their approval. They raised their fists into the air and howled their resolve. Men and women alike shouted the name of their prince. “For Prince Patrick! For the future king! Glory to all who fight in Helena’s name!”

Patrick faced his horse back towards the direction of the enemy, and he waited. If the black-armored animals wanted a fight, then Patrick would give it to them.

“Why aren’t we attacking?” Rillith whispered. “They’re still not completely organized. Why are you allowing them to get into proper formation?”

“Because,” Patrick said. “I think you and I both know that there’s no coming out of this alive. If we’re going to die here, then let’s at least do it properly. I’ll have a legitimate battle, starting with the one thing I haven’t had the opportunity to do.”

Rillith opened his mouth to raise question, but Patrick didn’t give him the chance. He kicked his horse in the sides and took off at a gallop towards the middle of the field. Rillith and Saerith both shouted at him to return, asking him if he was crazy or delusional. Patrick ignored them and leaned forward on his mount. The warm wind hit his face as he rode, and just before entering the range of enemy archers, Patrick tugged on the reigns. The animal stopped short at the halfway point between his soldiers—watching him from in front of Hahl’s gates—and the enemy’s.

As expected, not long after Patrick halted, the front-most enemy swordsmen parted to allow a man riding horseback to pass. His gelding, covered in jewels and rezza-silk fabric, took off at an equal gallop towards the middle of the field where Patrick waited. This must’ve been Ghell. Patrick could tell by the look of sadistic evil in his eyes. Ghell rode with his back straight and his head high, confidence in every stride.

When Ghell arrived, Patrick’s horse grunted, and Patrick had to prevent himself from chuckling. It seemed Patrick’s animal and Ghell’s hated each other as much as their riders did. Patrick forced his horse to calm down and then circled around the enemy commander. The two did not speak for a moment while their animals sidestepped each other. Patrick evaluated the man.

There was a sickness to him. Patrick wasn’t certain how he knew, but there was something very wrong about the commander. Patrick’s skin crawled at the sight of him. It was like an animal sensing prey on an instinctual level. Ghell seemed to take notice of Patrick’s disgust, and he smiled.

“I know you’re not here to surrender,” Ghell said. “So, what is it, then?”

Patrick refused to be intimidated by the man’s glare. He kept his voice passive, despite the heat that burned within him.

“It’s simple,” Patrick said. “You’ve attacked my people without provocation, and you’ve slaughtered innocents without pause for thought. Through all of it, there’s one thing I’ve never been able to do.”

“Oh? And what’s that?”

Patrick remained firm as he answered. “As is my right as prince and future king to the Kingdom of the Seven Pillars, consider this my official declaration of war.”

Ghell exhaled in a cross between laughter and a sigh. “So that’s what you wanted. Make it official, huh? Put some of the control back into your own hands? Well, you can drop those allusions, my prince.” He spat on the ground. “Whether you officially declare war or not means little. Nothing changes. Do you think meeting me out here somehow makes you my equal? Because it doesn’t. Do you think you gain some form of honor by fighting in the field instead of in your homes? You don’t.”

Ghell rubbed his hands together and grinned. “In a few hours’ time, I’m going to have your head on a platter—literally. I will put an apple in the mouth of your severed face and have my men laugh at it.”

It took everything Patrick had not to shiver and vomit at Ghell’s words, because the man spoke the most probable truth. Patrick was in fact, going to die. But he didn’t allow fear to take him over. He glared defiantly at the enemy commander.

“We’ll see about that,” Patrick said. “There will come a time when you will regret making an enemy of my kingdom. Perhaps not today, but when that time comes, it will be your head on a platter.”

Patrick didn’t give Ghell the chance to respond. He tugged on the reins and spun his horse around, dashing off to rejoin his army. He didn’t need to look over his shoulder to know that Ghell was doing the same.

Saerith and Rillith stared at him transfixed when he returned. “Have a good chat?” Saerith asked.

Patrick ignored him. “Listen up!” he shouted. “On my signal, I want an organized charge. We’re taking the fight to them.” Men in the front row passed his words backwards, and Patrick spoke in intervals to ensure there was no confusion.

“Cavalry, slam into them hard. The rest of you clean up. Make them suffer!”

“Hoorah!” the men cried. Distantly, Patrick heard the sounds of the enemy banging on shields and shouting their own battle cries.

Patrick grabbed tighter on the reins. There was no sense in putting it off any longer. With one last look over his shoulder at the Pillar of Hahl, he waved, signaling the advance. He ordered his mount to charge, and within seconds, everything was in motion.

Rumbling resounded over the earth, as the Kingdom’s Cavalry rode into battle with the rest of the soldiers following behind. Saerith and Rillith rode to either side of Patrick, and neither of them spoke while they charged.

The enemy’s cavalry, double the size of Patrick’s own, rushed forward to meet them. At first, they were small dots, distant. But they grew in size at an alarming rate. Each step Patrick’s horse took forward was met by a matched step forward from the enemy. The distance closed, and Patrick inhaled. This was it. This was war.

On and on the horses hooves beat into the ground. Now, the two forces were close enough to make out the color of the enemy’s eyes, their faces hidden behind the black armor. A few more steps and Patrick drew his blade, as did Saerith, Rillith, and the rest of the soldiers. The distance shrunk to only a few yards, and Patrick braced himself for impact. He needed to be in the front. He’d show his men that he wasn’t afraid to die for his people.

Finally, Patrick’s horse came within inches of another rider, and Patrick shouted at the top of his lungs and clashed. The sound of steel on steel filled the area with a ringing sound. Men shouted and groaned, but Patrick was too busy to see who lived and who died. The man he met was not a man, but a boy, perhaps no older than seventeen years of age. Fear lit up in the boy’s eyes.

Patrick’s horse bit and snapped at boy’s while Patrick fought with the rider. He swung at the boy’s head, but the boy raised his blade to parry, pushing Patrick’s blade to the side and returning with a swing of his own. Patrick twisted in the saddle, narrowly avoided having his head lobbed off. While the boy’s arms were extended from the attack, Patrick lurched forward in the saddle and ran him through, piercing his stomach.

Blood trailed from the boy’s lips, and he fell of his mount and landed onto the soft grass. His helmet slid off, and Patrick’s heart filled with dread. He had been wrong. The boy wasn’t seventeen years of age—he might not have even been twelve.