I
Thunder roared over the battlefield, ignored by the violent masses below. Stone bodies cracked and shattered. Men screamed and died, their cries a discordant melody to an arhythmic clatter of metal and rock. They fought like every moment was their last. The White pawns pushed forward in the screaming wind and rain, their boots battering the muddy plains as they advanced, taking more ground every turn.
Vasyl weaved through the Black army, the fury of battle raging ahead of her as she limped towards the front lines, her old shattered leg threatening to buckle beneath her with each wincing step. The few pawns around her that took notice spared only a pitiful glance, as if a fool’s death was due her. Vasyl ignored them. They were ignorant. They had no idea what she had discovered, a decommissioned soldier deep in the mines, deeper than anyone had been before. Light and sound were muted by the savage power that toiled within her. It was a beast rattling its cage, waiting to be unleashed. The enemy thought nothing of her approach. Just another Black pawn, come to die. They should have cowered.
Vasyl closed her eyes, clasping the pole of her halberd as she released the raging energy to flow within her. It overwhelmed her in an instant. Ravenous. Deep blue energy flickered out from the cracks in her leg and leaked from her eyes. Her vision narrowed. The pain in her leg vanished. She faced the enemy. Her halberd streaked through the rain, casting droplets from its icy metal edge.
White pawns hurtled back. For a moment the battle stopped. Energy crackled around her ebony marble fingers. Enemies and allies alike stiffened in death, primal fear etched permanently in their faces.
Cowards.
She unleashed the beast, carving swaths of men from the enemy forces like chaff, her halberd the Reaper’s scythe. Pawns shattered. The tides shifted.
With every kill, her power swelled inside her. Her movements became a rhythm, a dance of death. A wake of corpse statues lay behind her and the pawns around her were too slow to escape. She was losing herself.
A hulking man stormed towards her, his broad arms wielding a stone-breaker hammer and his eyes burning with hate. Unphased, Vasyl matched him, charging forward with her halberd poised like a lance. The brute didn’t back down. His mistake.
In a heavy arc, the stone-smasher swung, but the lance was faster. Vasyl tore through him, skewering a hole in his abdomen. His fierce eyes faded and his joints became rigid, frozen in a sculpture of dying rage. Heedless of the enemy forces that surrounded her, Vasyl relished in her power, placing a bare hand on his white armor. Deep blue energy flickered out from her fingertips and blasted him to rubble.
The surge of energy shook Vasyl to the core, her teeth rattling and her fingers going numb. Her ears rang. She felt the reservoir within her drain. Still, the White pawns kept their distance but they would not retreat. Some sick idea of honor held them in place, bound to the will of their tyrant, but it did not hide the fear in their features. Vasyl wished that they would spare themselves, but if they would not fall back, they would be shattered.
The beast within her took control. The pawns became one blurred collective face, an expendable asset. Slaughtering them was too easy. Every second played out at once, one hundred deaths with one swift stroke. This time it was Vasyl’s turn to fear. She feared whatever it was that took hold of her. She feared that it wouldn’t let her go. She feared to be without it.
White pawns crowded her, trying to contain her as if they knew her power was waning. They were hesitant to get close, their polearms held in front of their shields like the quills of a desperate animal. Vasyl looked back the way she had come, surprised to see how deep into enemy territory she was, how many corpses she had left sinking into the mud behind her. Her power wouldn’t last much longer. The test was a success, she could fall back, but the power that consumed her wanted more. She breathed heavily, desperate to keep fighting, but if her power ran out behind enemy lines, she wouldn’t make it out alive. Still, her hand reached out to grab the head of one of the polearms, surging power through its length. Crack!
The entire line hurtled back, the explosion sizzling the rain. Vasyl’s numb fingers shook and her vision blurred. Pain replaced the power that was draining within her. The pain of every blow she had unknowingly taken and the void that was growing inside her. It was agony, but she turned and fled.
II
Distant storms rumbled in dark billowing clouds over an endless rolling landscape, checkered farms extending out from the city’s walls and into the horizon where far-away mountains slumbered. The White king stood, hands clasped behind his broad velvet-draped back as he overlooked his kingdom from the balcony. Bask studied his majesty’s regal profile, finding nothing in the aged monarch’s indecipherable cast. A web of cracks marred the right side of the king’s pale marble visage, gold filling glistening in the fading sunlight. Some attempted to hide their flaws, Bask had noted, but the king wore his scars like a badge of honor. Despite the rook’s hulking size, the king still had a greater presence. Like a storm, the king was distant. Cold. One couldn’t know what toiled in the storm clouds.
Something entered the room behind them and Bask’s hand instinctually gripped his war pick. It was the bishops. They glided into the adjacent room with easy grace, their flowing white cloaks billowing silently and their pointed hats remaining level to the opulent floors. The currents that influenced their movements were unknown to Bask, but he turned to study them as they took an unusual path across the room, diagonally from the entrance.
Schuld, Bask’s twin brother, stood on the king’s other side, ignorant of the bishops’ entry. Instead, he watched the clouds with naive amusement. A child in a brutish, hulking body, traces of a smile were always present on Schuld’s lips and there was a large chip in his chin to accompany it. Despite their differences, Bask could always feel the bond between them, and the King felt safe within it. On either side of the war map, the bishops spoke in unison.
“My liege.”
Their voices echoed upwards into the vast gold vaulted ceilings, long faded before the king turned to address them.
“What is your news?” he spoke, his voice crackling, his anticipation subdued. “Have we taken Cephor?”
The bishop pair traded a glance. Luft spoke first.
“We have taken Cephor.”
The other spoke, “But the Black army has taken Geethri.”
The king clutched his scepter. “Confound it! For every city we take, we lose another!”
Anger from the king was rare, it frightened even Bask, but it was the disappointment evident in his tone that scalded. All had prayed for Geethri’s security. If the city had been kept from enemy hands there could have been an end to the war within reach, but every city that fell extended the conflict. The king rubbed his beard.
“How is that possible? Geethri was not lacking in defense.”
The second bishop spoke, “One of their pawns, my liege, they wield a power, unlike anything we have ever seen.”
Luft continued for him, “She took out nearly three hundred soldiers single-handedly, turning the battle in Black’s favor.”
Stroking his beard, the king paused for thought. The grim news did not appear to affect him, but Bask knew that he had compartmentalized it. It was too much to tackle at once.
“The pawns will not retreat?” he guessed.
Luft shook his head. “To retreat would dishonor their country and their king. They will fight to the bitter end for you, my liege.”
The king descended the short flight of stairs from the balcony and approached the war map, hazy fading sunlight outlining his features. Bask stayed put, but remained wary. A grid of provinces was laid out on the map, a square inset within a large granite octagon and trimmed with bronze. Cities and armies were represented by stone pieces. The king surveyed them carefully.
“If they will not retreat, then send them to siege Eichfor.”
“But they will be slaughtered,” the other bishop said. His brother glared at him before bowing apologetically,
“It is a waste of resources, my liege. It will only prolong the inevitable”
“It is better that their lives are spent in valor than wasted on the walls of a city already lost.”
“Of course, my liege.” The bishops’ echoed.
Bask knew it would change little where the pawns were slaughtered, but this king was different from the last. To him, pawns were more than numbers, and they deserved a fighting chance, even if it was small. His bond made him a deity, and yet he remained humble. Still, his ways were mysterious. The wrinkles carved into his face told of a lifetime of warfare. Decades of fighting to end a war his predecessor had started.
Those wrinkles softened when the king saw his family arrive- Intruders Bask had already deemed harmless when they entered the room. The queen approached, the prince sprinting ahead of her to tackle his father’s ankles. The child was small and roughly formed, like an unfinished sculpture, but it didn’t stop him from nearly toppling the king in his embrace.
“Father!” he cried, “we saw ducklings in the pond!”
Luft interjected, “Apologies, your majesty, we will deal with this interruption.”
“Nonsense,” the king said, lifting his son into his arms. “This kingdom is short on innocence. If there is no use for it in the war room then we are in dark times indeed.”
The queen smiled. “I apologize, I didn’t realize you were in a meeting.” She nodded to Bask. He saluted. The queen had respect, even for the guards.
“Lucena, you are welcome always,” the king said. The boy sat in the crutch of his father’s arm, a curious expression on his face and an idle finger in his mouth. “This war concerns all of us. Especially young Alek. Its outcome decides his way of life.”
The queen lay a gentle, ring-laden hand on his arm and he relaxed a little, releasing the tension in his shoulders. Family presence seemed to lighten the king’s burden. It was a side of the king that few in the barracks had seen. The soldier pawns would never have believed it, even if Bask had proof. The king had compassion. To the people, he was a mechanism of war. But Bask knew the king in ways even the queen did not. Bask was the bodyguard of a god. Every hour spent at least within earshot. But in truth, both men had the same power, the same bond, bestowed by the same sacred waters. One at birth, and one at matrimony. One formed and shaped, fully submerged with his brother, and the other ankle-deep, holding hands with his lover.
The passion between the king and his wife was clear to all who saw them together. It was clear to the waters too, and for that, they were granted the status of gods. Their bonds were the most powerful anyone had seen in centuries. Even a rook’s strength paled in comparison to the king. Even the strongest among them. Even Bask.
“How do you suggest we proceed, my liege?” Luft said. “If we can conquer Eichfor, we may have a footing in the province.”
The king waved his hand, “I do not assume that will be possible.”
A flash of light sparked in the corner, and Bask’s war pick was in his hand before the king could shield his eyes. A knight phased through the wall, careening into the room at a blazing speed and tumbling to a stop before he could hit a pillar. Even Schuld was in front of the king, a protective hand thrust outward. Wheezing, the knight stumbled to his knees. He would have needed to phase through half of the palace to build up the speed he had.
“At ease!” the king barked. “It’s Staun!” Bask and his brother stepped back, still on alert. “What news have you from behind enemy lines? Where is your twin?” the king asked.
Bask witnessed the once bright competitive spirit he had sparred with countless times in a light he had never seen. The young knight’s face contorted into sorrow. He began to weep, his words strangled in his throat.
“She killed him… My Brother is dead.”
“Who?” Luft inquired, “Who killed him?”
The white-plated knight shuddered, sparing a worried glance at the boy in the king’s arm. A decision flashed in his features. He feared how the news would affect the boy. Bask feared the worst. “She was just a pawn. But her power… I don’t understand.” His body shook, “She’s coming. She’s coming here…”
“What do you mean?” Luft said.
The knight met the king’s eyes, his words barely uttered,
“She’s coming to kill the king.”
III
Vasyl curled up into a ball, pain racking her body. Cramps in every muscle pulled her tight like a drawstring. She ground her teeth, trying not to scream. Her dark stone cell seemed to narrow in on her. It was crushing her lungs. She couldn’t breathe. Every minute she was without her power she felt her body waste away, her nerves weakened and her muscles decayed. With a shuddering breath, Vasyl released the tension, only for it to rise again before she could recover. A cold stone hand rubbed her back, attempting to soothe her.
“Just breathe,” Khail said. He acted the perfect husband, but he was ignorant. He didn’t have a clue what power she had wielded. He had no idea what it felt like for such power to be taken from your grasp. Even now she yearned for it. Without it she was nothing. A tear in his eye, Khail kissed her neck,
“You’re going to be okay. I won’t let them use you again.”
Vasyl didn’t have the heart, or the strength, to tell him that she had volunteered. She couldn’t part her lips. He wouldn’t understand. War to him was like a storm that passed naturally without the interference of mortals. No. War is a disease. War won’t end until the infected are purged.
Metal bars rattled as the cell door opened, a Black pawn guard in the doorway with a ring of keys and a long pole hammer over his shoulder.
“Visit’s over, Khail. The queen demands an audience with her.”
Khail squeezed Vasyl’s hand tightly before relinquishing his grasp, a thousand unspoken words on his tongue. Impatient, the guard shoved him roughly out of the cell and turned back to Vasyl.
“Get up,” the guard sneered.
It took nearly all the strength she had to peel herself from her cot. Her cracked leg flared out in anguish as she stood, shakily. Breathe in. Breathe out. One aching step at a time, Vasyl limped from the cell and the guard stood aside. Waiting in the hallway, Khail watched helplessly as she was taken away again. A weapon. His words were cheap. Hollow. He made no effort to stop them from using her again. But what could he do? What could compassion accomplish?
…
The Deep stood open, a cavern of unfathomable size, dark and damp. Almost ethereal. Decommissioned soldiers worked by gemlight, strung up in harnesses on the high grey limestone walls where clear water trickled. Stalactites the size of watch towers dangled from the ceiling. Vasyl’s nose twitched at the humid, earthy air. Between it all, a deep presence thrummed, emanating from the Core of the Mines.
Only part of its spherical, luminous blue surface had been excavated, but the Core already dwarfed everything, making the miners that carved it out from the wall look like insects. None dared touch it. None but Vasyl.
The thrum of its presence turned her over to its power. She wanted to breathe it in and let it fill her. She wanted to feel its energy pumping through her body, stimulating her every muscle and sharpening her focus, flooding her with energy and amplifying her mind. The sound of a gong interrupted her thoughts. In moments the miners had vanished from the room and only the sound of dripping limestone accompanied the core’s hum.
“Vasyl,” a smooth voice said, larger than life in the vast chamber. The Black queen stepped lightly across the damp rock, her robes billowing behind her as she approached the core, where Vasyl was waiting. The Guard shoved Vasyl to her knees. Without sparing a glance, the queen addressed her.
“Do not forget your respect. Despite your power, you are still my subject.” Delicate veins of white flowed across the curves of her black marble face, her eyes carved with diligence.
“Yes, my queen. Of course,” Vasyl croaked.
“You are aware, no doubt, of the intruders in our city?” the queen said.
“Of course, your majesty. It was I that slew one.”
“But not both.” The queen’s eyes narrowed.
“No your majesty. They were the White king’s knights. And my power was already nearly depleted when I faced them. It is a miracle that I survived.”
“You are lucky. Yes,” the queen said, running her hands through her hair, “lucky that you are essential.”
“Your majesty–” A hand struck Vasyl across the face.
“I do not want to hear your groveling! I only want your obedience.”
Vasyl bowed lower to the ground, but she did not speak. She could feel the thrum of the Core only an arm’s length away. It took everything she had to resist reaching out and siphoning its energy.
“You are the only one we can trust with this power,” the queen said
Vasyl’s sneer went unseen. The queen didn’t trust her, Vasyl was the only one who could handle the power. The miners who discovered the core had died the moment they touched it.
“Because of your failures, the enemy will be expecting your arrival in Daywen.”
“What are they expecting me to do in Daywen?”
“They are expecting you to assassinate their king.”
A thousand sensations prickled Vasyl’s mind. A million possibilities.
“You aim to end the war, your majesty?” Vasyl asked.
“If you succeed.” The queen sighed, “I believe the White armies will falter without their ruler. To them, he is a god. Last time there was a powerful heir ready to replace him. Now there is none. Once the king is gone the entire kingdom will flail helplessly.”
“And then we defeat them, with one swift stroke.”
“Only, if you succeed.”
“‘I will not tolerate failure,'” Vasyl quoted the queen’s own words back at her, a grin cracking across her face. It was time to end it, once and for all.
IV
Lucena felt the allure of the currents as she traversed the palace, pulling her along. Her steps light, she made swift progress across the vast palace floors. The rush of air played with her long silk dress like the feathers of a bird, coasting in the wind, but as the currents veered away from her destination she gave up and walked without them, feeling her acceleration slow until she moved at a sluggish pace. Perhaps she didn’t follow them as religiously as she should have. Like the bishops did. They never went anywhere without the currents. That meant they often took a roundabout way to get places. Following the currents was a rare honor and one would expect to devote their entire life to the practice if their bond gave them access. Lucena didn’t have the patience for that.
The sanctum was at the rear of the palace, built out from the cave where the sacred water originated. Vast vaulted ceilings and ornate paneled walls were coated in works of art. Masterful paintings of religious significance, vibrant in color and composition, were all reflected perfectly by the shallow crystal waters that made up the floor of the grand corridor. The pools were perfectly still, with gold-trimmed walkways on either side.
The place reminded Lucena of her wedding day. How scared she was to step into the sacred waters, even just to her ankles. Somehow she had worried that it would find her unworthy of matrimony, or perhaps turn deep and drag her into its depths, never to see the surface again. Kasp had reassured her, taking the first step. She remembered the ripples. She remembered how happy she was that day too. The day everything changed.
Her husband waited for her now on dry ground, standing in the harbor with Bask and the bishop, Luft. The old king’s weathered face lit up when he saw her, but there was something in his expression that Lucena didn’t recognize. Something that formed a lump in her throat. Tragedy loomed nearer every hour. Kasp was a marked man, to be punished for a war he didn’t start. If only the enemy knew him as Lucena did. It made her sick. Anxious. She pushed it to the back of her mind, trying her best to smile, even when Kasp could not.
“Thank you for meeting me here, my love,” he said, clasping her hands in his.
“Is it our anniversary already?” Lucena teased, her false tone betraying her, “Or did you just want to go for a boat ride?”
He didn’t smile, even when his eyes wanted to. “I want to show you something.” He gestured to the square, flat boat behind him, tethered to the stone harbor. “Will you come with me?”
All currents pulled her away, desperate to take her back through the palace, looping through corridors and across courtyards. Something in her husband’s solemn voice sparked fear. But even Luft, his trajectory overridden by the king’s request, abandoned the currents, sitting cross-legged at the fore of the raft with a sacred pole across his knees, its length molded in ivory and gold. Bask stood behind the king, arms crossed, ever-scrutinizing eyes flitting to anything that moved. His presence eased Lucena’s nerves at the same time they strained them. Although he was their shield, he was also a living reminder of the danger that hung over them. The king waited expectantly.
“Of course, my love,” Lucena said, linking her arm in his. She held him as if the sheer strength of her grasp would keep him safe.
Together they stepped onto the raft and Lucena felt it bob gently under their weight. Bask stayed behind, traversing the dry walkways as they drifted off down the pool corridor. Splashing as little as possible, Luft slipped his pole into the water and pushed them forward. Ripples spread across the surface of the water as they passed under arch after arch, filtered sunlight seeping through circular stained glass skylights above them. Lucena breathed deep in the humid air. Kasp held her arm tight. She hoped he couldn’t feel her shaking.
The canal was intersected by another route ahead, all a part of the same labyrinthine grid. They turned right. Adjacent rooms had tiered fountains, unformed stones sitting on ledges, sacred water washing over them and eroding them into human shapes. Arms and legs. Fingers, barely defined. Eyes smoothed over. Fragments. Like Alek had been only years ago. Infants that would become sons and daughters of great leaders. Dukes. Duchesses. But Lucena had never known the waters of the palace. She was formed in the run-off. The waters that ran from the palace into courtyards in the outer city, where anyone could form their young. Where she married. Where her bond was bestowed to her and everything changed.
But it was not to the nurseries where their boat drifted. They continued deeper still into the sanctum, emerging into a public section, where great doors were open to the sunlight and haze obscured the end of the corridor. Distant, Lucena could see the rooftops of city housing glistening in the sun. Bask followed close behind them, his armor clanking as he walked the dry pathway to their right. Lucena noticed how close to the wall he kept, diligently avoiding the sacred water. He feared it, as many did.
By the time they arrived Lucena had long known their destination. The War Monument. Their canal opened into a huge gaping room, the sparkling water pooling in a wide circle as the ceiling domed upwards. Stained sunlight streamed in from a single window at its apex, a spotlight on the sobering sight below.
A thousand stone soldier corpses stood in a grid, ankle-deep in the water, their petrified expressions of horror rimmed with light. Those that lost legs, or died on the ground were propped up with extra supports. Some looked serene. Others you could almost hear screaming. Each had been stripped and redressed in flowing white ceremonial fabric, like the gods in the paintings on the walls, the cracks and wounds in their bodies displayed proudly. Lucena felt heavy. Behind each face was a grieving family. A lover. Children. So many lives spent senselessly in battle.
“It’s easy to see them as numbers,” Kasp said, almost inaudible, “but this is the cost of war.”
Lucena knew him too well. Once a man has been a soldier, he is a soldier for life, no matter the rank he gains.
“You wish you could fight with them.”
The king stared off towards the corpses, eyes distant, “Sometimes. But it wouldn’t do much good. War is not won by battle. It is won by choices.”
Luft docked and, leaving the boat to bob gently in the ripples, all three passengers stepped off onto a small round stone island with steps on each side that led into the water.
“This is what you wanted to show me?” Lucena asked.
“I’ve made a choice, Lucena, and you will not like it, but I ask that you receive it.”
“Kasp…”
“My love, you fret the danger that hangs over me, I know you do. But you have not stopped to consider what it could mean for yourself. You are not free from harm, and for putting you in danger I cannot forgive myself.”
“You must not–“
“I ask that you let me speak!” the king exclaimed. For a moment, he was a man Lucena didn’t know. For a moment he was desperate. “This water gave us immense power because it witnessed our passion for each other. My strength is because of you, and I owe it to you. But if I am not to fight with my men, then I do not deserve it.” He took both of her hands, “I want you to receive it. I want to give you my bond.”
Lucena was speechless, she looked to Luft, and she looked to Bask. Both stood quietly. They knew the king would ask this. “Is it possible?”
Luft spoke softly, “Indeed. However, no king, rook, or bishop has ever willingly chosen to do so.”
Lucena turned to her husband, “You cannot ask me to take your bond. You would be helpless! What of the assassin?”
“I have my rooks, my knights, even my bishops. I feel safe. But for you, I fear.”
“I have my own power!”
“The currents will not be enough. They may guide you, but they cannot keep you from harm.”
The queen clutched his hands, pulling him closer, a knot in her chest.”Then why are we here? Let us run and hide in the valley. No one will know where to find us!”
“I cannot run from this.” Kasp placed a hand on her cheek, the most delicate touch. “But I will not let you get hurt.” Lucena could only stare, pleading into his eyes. “Please,” Kasp muttered, “I know it is hard.”
For the first time, Lucena felt truly helpless. In all of their years in marriage, they had operated as one, two minds perfectly in sync. There were never secrets. There was never strife. Kasp was holding something back, she could see it in the sorrow that filled his eyes. It pained him to shield her.
“Trust me.”
Without another word, he descended the steps and entered the water, turning towards his wife.
“Everything will be okay. I promise.”
Watching Kasp stand, ankle-deep in the waters flooded Lucena with memories. But this time he didn’t wait for her with a groom’s anticipation. He waited with anxiety. With pain. Surrounded by the cold stone anguish of war. His ripples lapped at the feet of the dead.
“You must both enter the water for the process to work,” Luft said softly.
Kasp entering the water, Lucena knew, was not a show of faith, nor was it a means of pressure. It was trust. He knew that Lucena would honor his request and he was simply waiting for her. For the third time in her life, Lucena entered the sacred water, the end of her dress soaking in its wetness as she stepped gingerly down the steps.
Luft descended to the lowest dry stair he could and placed the sacred pole into the water, holding it between the lovers,
“Please hold on to this, it will act as a conductor.”
Lucena complied and watched as Kasp did too, his expression empty. For a moment Lucena considered asking him if he was truly willing to go through with it, but she knew he had made up his mind long before they stepped on the boat. She felt the cool gold pole between her marble fingers, her thumb caressing the smooth intricate carvings as her anxiety rose within her. There was no comfort in her husband’s eyes.
Luft’s prayer rose slowly, mutterings at first and then proclamations. His voice reverberated throughout the entire sanctum, filling the room as if a thousand voices surrounded them. As if the statues had joined in. Then it was nothing more than a whisper. There was a thrum of power in the pole and Lucena felt energy course through her, spreading from her fingertips to her feet and to the tips of her ears. Kasp clutched the pole tighter as if the transfer would pull him in. There was strain in his eyes.
Everything stopped. The king slumped over. Lucena barely caught him before he tumbled into the water. Luft grabbed him too, almost dropping the pole.
“My liege!”
He felt light, no heavier than Alek, and as Lucena dragged him onto the island, fear racking her body, she realized that it was her strength that had changed and not his weight. Unable to help, Bask called out from the rim of the room, but Lucena didn’t hear what he said. She rolled the king over, his cold stone face turning towards the ceiling. He coughed. Thank the gods above, he breathed. His eyes turned to his wife, guilty.
“I’m fine,” he wheezed.
Tears were in her eyes as Lucena bent over him, clutching him tightly, his strength coursing through her.
“Don’t scare me like that.”
V
Mother hadn’t spoken much that day, and Alek missed her smile. No matter what he did she wouldn’t pay any attention to him. She just sat, her eyes distant and her hands busy with worry. Even when Alek threatened to run off into the palace on his own she didn’t look at him. Perfect.
Without permission, Alek sprinted from the room, his soft shoes slipping slightly on the polished stone floors. He caught himself, hands on the wall, and a giggle on his lips. His heart raced with excitement. At any moment Mother would find him and scold him, he just knew it.
But as he ran, passing room after room, through chambers, and across corridors, she never appeared. Alek had never gotten so far before. A thousand possibilities opened up in front of him. All the places he had always wanted to explore. He ran a roughly formed finger along the smooth ridges of the carved stone walls, tracing the pillars and doorways without letting go for as long as he could.
Bored of that game, Alek sought something else. There were hundreds and hundreds of rooms in the palace, but so many of them were empty. Guards were everywhere, more than usual if Alek remembered right. Eventually, he grew bored of exploring empty rooms and looked for something else to do.
He entered the great hall, its black and white grid floor stretching out the size of a battlefield and its vast chandeliers hanging between stone columns, glittering in the sunlight that streamed through tall arched windows. Thin white curtains played in the wind where a window was open.
With a running start, Alek kicked into a slide, his slippers gliding over the floor as he surfed across the great hall. Losing balance, he stumbled and drifted past three pillars on his stomach. If Mother had been there she would have stopped him. She would have held his hand tight and walked across, slowly, while Alek daydreamed. But it wasn’t as fun as he had imagined it.
Alek turned over and lay on the ground. He sighed. Trying to explore the palace was more fun when Mother was there to stop him. At least there was a challenge. Exploring by yourself was lonely. Vibrant paintings curved over the ceiling but they were just a bunch of naked people in the clouds. Mother had said that they were important. She said they were gods, the people we were made to look like, with skin that could reform and knit itself back together. Whatever that meant.
Alek wiped his nose and peeled himself from the ground. Boring. He decided to go to the gardens to see if the baby ducks were still there.
…
Without Mother, it took Alek a while to find the gardens, but eventually he heard the birds and the running water and he knew he was close. He grinned, satisfied with himself as he turned the corner. Large green leaves swayed in the gentle breeze, their dotted shadows flickering across the floor at the garden’s entrance. Alek kicked off his slippers, leaving them in the middle of the hall as he entered the courtyard, feeling the grass between his toes. It was bigger than any room in the palace, and also, his father told him, bigger than any garden anywhere in the city. It had once been manicured and pristine, but Alek preferred the shaggy, unkempt look. Just like a real forest.
A glistening stream weaved between bushes and trees, teaming with life. Fish. Birds. Bugs. Cattails and lily pads. Flowers, pink, blue, and white, blossomed on its bank. Alek picked a blue one, savoring the sweet scent as he breathed it in. It almost smelled good enough to eat, but when he popped it in his mouth it tasted bitter. Disgusted, he spat it out.
Without his dumb slippers, he could finally run and his feet gripped the grass as he flew through the garden. He savored the feeling of the wind in his hair and the sun warming his skin. The smell of flowers and moss. The sound of birds and the trickle of water. Distantly, church bells rang.
Alek headed straight for the pond, running as fast as he could. He remembered at the last second to skid to a stop before he scared the wildlife. But the ducks were nowhere to be found. Disappointed, Alek plopped down in the grass.
“Lovely day isn’t it, Alek?”
Alek nearly jumped out of his skin. Father sat by the pond on an ornate metal bench, leaning back with his scepter next to him. He patted his knee, “Come. Sit with me.”
Alek hesitated, fearing a scolding.
“You’re not in trouble, Alek,” Father said, his eyes twinkling. He winked, “I’ve snuck off from my guard as well.”
Won over, Alek crawled into his father’s lap, leaning into his broad chest. He was glad for the company.
“Are you hiding from Bask?” Alek asked.
“I suppose, in a way. It can be hard to think with him hovering around me. Especially now.” Father watched the glistening water as a family of ducks rippled through the gentle waves. A Mother and her ducklings all in a row. Father was sad too, just like Mother, but different somehow. Questions nibbled at the back of Alek’s mind. He could feel that there was something wrong but he didn’t know what.
“Everyone is scared,” he said. Alek could feel his father’s chest breathing slowly in and out. It was strained.
“Someone is coming,” Father said,” someone who wants to hurt me.”
“Why?”
“They think if they kill me then the war will be won.”
“I don’t understand.”
Father paused to think.
“Do you understand death, my son?”
“It’s when people go stiff,” Alek said, thinking of The Monument. He resisted a shudder.
“I suppose that’s true. As a ruler, death is different for me. Every day I am forced to make difficult decisions. Sometimes I have to choose who lives and who dies. For a king, death is currency and he must choose carefully where to invest. The greater good is often an expensive purchase. I have to make sacrifices to ensure that our kingdom has a future. But people will always hate me for it.”
“Why?”
Father stroked his beard.
“Soldiers may die defending a city and while the people inside are protected, the soldier’s family has lost someone they love.”
“I thought dying in battle was good,” Alek said.
“Many believe it is honorable, yes. But I do not.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I don’t suspect you will. Not for a long time.”
Father rubbed Alek’s shoulder, his hand warm from the sunlight. For a minute they sat in silence, listening to the wind rustle the leaves. The ducks swam in circles, bobbing every once in a while, their tail feathers in the air as they dove for morsels under the water. Colorful fish avoided them, their schools gathered in their own hunt for things to eat.
“Do you know what separates the sacred water from the water in this pond?” Father asked. Alek shook his head,
“It looks the same to me.”
“It’s not about the water. It’s about what’s in it.”
Alek tilted his head, “Fish?”
“Life,” Father said, “Prey. Predator. Plantlife, animals. It is teeming with life.”
“I guess there isn’t any of that in the other water.”
“Though we are formed in the sacred water, and we are life, no other form of life is found within it. If you were to put a fish inside it would die.”
“What do you mean?”
“Sometimes I just wonder,” Father said, distant, “what makes our life sacred?”
“Hmmm.” Alek pretended to understand, but he was lost. Father always asked questions no one could answer. Especially recently.
“Just remember,” he said, looking Alek in the eye, “every decision I make is for the greater good, even though they are difficult sometimes. Even if they hurt people.”
…
Alek had almost fallen asleep in Father’s lap when a commotion disturbed the leaves. A rook and the bishop Alek recognized as Luft burst into the clearing, panic on their faces.
“My Liege!” Luft cried, relief evident in his voice. His funny hat was threatening to topple over. “We were looking everywhere for you!”
“Is it wrong for a king to seek time alone?” Father asked.
“Yeah! We were alone together!” Alek added.
“You know well of the danger, my king,” Luft continued, “we cannot let you out of our sight!”
The rook smiled and gave Alek a wink from behind the blathering bishop. Alek recognized the chip on his chin and identified him as Schuld. There was no doubt. He had let Father get away. He had known the whole time where Father was, and he let the bishop fret trying to find him. Alek giggled.
“Right as always, Luft,” Father said, transferring Alek from his lap to the bench. With a groan he stood, leaning on his scepter as he struggled upright, breathing heavily. Alek watched with concern as Schuld attended the king, helping him as he hobbled across the lawn. Father had always been strong, and Alek worried that he was sick. Only yesterday Father had been pacing restlessly in the bedroom, full of energy.
“My prince,” Luft said, towering above the boy, “I will return you to the queen.” Sneaking another glance, Alek saw Schuld helping Father out of the courtyard. Somehow he understood why everyone was scared.
VI
Cloaked in a grey hood, Vasyl crouched among prickling hay, a light rain sprinkling down around her as the wagon rumbled over an uneven path. The damp hay had a vile mold-like smell, and the old White farmer hummed a solemn tune as he flicked his horse’s reins. She could feel the power within, pulling at its chains, rattling its cage. Restricting it made her nauseous. Weeks had passed as she traveled, unwilling to spend it. She knew the White king’s guard would put up a fight and she needed to preserve every drop of power she had. Still, it leaked. From time to time she would forget and catch herself siphoning the energy through her body, her bad leg tingling with feeling again. Everything else would melt away and she would be made aware of the movement of every bird, bug, rabbit, and swaying branch.
A crow fluttered loudly in the gloom above her and she caught herself slipping again. She jolted back to reality, struggling to put a cap on it before the power consumed her entirely. Vasyl let out a shaky breath, balling her fingers into fists and digging her nails into her palms.
“We’re nearly there,” the old farmer said, glancing over his shoulder.
The city of Daywen stood proudly on a foothill backed by mountains, a giant white-washed stone wall wrapped around its base, a few minute’s ride from their road. The palace stood at the foothill’s apex. It was like a cathedral, all spires and towers, taller than anything in the city that surrounded it. The carriage passed by farms, some wheat, some oats, or barley. Others were left fallow. Vasyl took a deep breath, inhaling the scent of tilled earth and watching the swaying crops as the summer rain pattered down around her. For a moment she could almost pretend she was back home. That home is long gone.
“You will not acknowledge my presence when we approach the gates,” Vasyl said. The old farmer shifted uncomfortably, but he maintained his generous smile.
“I’m sure they’ll be asking about you, miss — you riding in the back of my wagon and all.”
“They will not.”
“What was your business here again? If you don’t mind me asking.”
“I am on a secret mission for the queen.” It was the truth. “That is why I must not be seen entering the city.”
The old farmer nodded his head solemnly as if he understood, but his eyes were still searching. He turned back to his horses, and his song continued.
In minutes the pale wall towered over them and Vasyl retreated deep into the pile of hay, hidden from sight. The smell of it choked her. Its heat stifled her breath. She had to resist the urge to scratch herself, her skin tingling under the dry, poking grass. Soon the wheels of the wagon rattled to a stop beneath her, the old farmer stopping at the city gate.
“Business?” a guard asked. His voice was low and bored. The old farmer’s voice hummed above her, muted by the damp grass.
“I’m a resident. Bringing some hay in. I’ve sold it to a pig farmer within the walls.”
There was a pause and a creak in the driver’s bench. Vasyl realized that the old farmer was checking back, likely expecting her to still be there but finding her gone. Just keep moving, old man.
“I’ve seen this guy in the city before,” another guard’s voice said. “Let him in.”
“Open the gate!” the first called. In seconds there came the squeal of an old pulley as the heavy iron portcullis shook, its teeth dislodging from the ground and rising into the wall. After a pause, the wagon started moving again and its wheels transferred from gravel to cobblestone. Darkness fell over the hay as they rumbled through the gatehouse, dim light returning as they entered the city proper.
Vasyl lay perfectly still, waiting until they had cleared a few blocks, her ears attuned to any murmur or spoken word. Her heart pounded. Soon there was quiet. In silence, she slipped out the back of the wagon, snatching her walking stick from the hay as her bad leg buckled beneath her on the cobbles. She found herself in the middle of a quiet street, occupied only by a couple of sickly beggars and a line of decrepit buildings. The farmer continued on, ignorant of the enemy he had delivered.
Other than a dreary glance, the beggars took no notice of her. Even as raindrops splashed across their white stone faces they did not flinch. One maintained an endless routine, swaying back and forth with his hands out to receive. Neither had anything to show for their efforts.
At first, Vasyl had assumed that she had dropped off in the slums but it didn’t take her long to realize that the entire city was filthy. Wincing with every step of her defective leg, she leaned hard into her walking stick and made her way towards the palace, hooded head held low as she slouched. She had worried she would stick out, but limping through the street’s Vasyl fit right in among the derelict masses.
All lived in squalor. Every street was coated in neglect and filth. Parents’ hopeless eyes lingered on nothing and the only children Vasyl could see were very young and working labor jobs. It seemed there was a blacksmith on every corner, each forge alive with busy flame and churning out weapons. War is a disease. Heed its symptoms.
Beneath the blistering infection that coated it, the city would have been grand, the pristine palace visible above from nearly every street. Now it was run down and the people were suffering. Did the king care? Clearly not. He probably hasn’t gone farther than his front lawn in decades. Too comfortable in the opulence of his palace to care about his people. It made Vasyl sick. The Black queen was cruel, but at least she didn’t fight a war at the expense of her people. At least the children weren’t making weapons. With renewed vigor, Vasyl set off for the palace.
…
Two pawn guards waited in the rain at the iron palace gates. The palace towered over them on its hill, surrounded by gardens, its sheer scale thwarting all but the mountain that flanked it. Pain throbbed in her leg all the way up to her hip as Vasyl hobbled towards the guards, who looked little more than teenagers. Both stood, one straighter than the other, adorned in padded gambesons, and halberds held at the ready.
“No passage, business or otherwise, by the order of High Rook and Commander Bask.” The taller one said.
“For what reason?” Vasyl asked. She could guess.
“That is not your concern.”
They were anticipating her.
“If you let me through, I will spare both of you,” Vasyl said, her hood low over her face. The boys looked at each other and laughed.
All it took was one second. The tiniest fraction of power surged through her body as Vasyl dropped the taller guard, her concealed spike striking like a snake at his neck. He would survive, but he would never speak again.
The other guard didn’t need to see her face to know who she was.
“Open the gate,” she said, her steel poised.
First, there was fear in his face. Fear of Vasyl. But then he remembered himself and he held his halberd out in front of him, a new fear in his features.
“I will not let you pass.” His voice shook.
“Either you open the gate, or I do,” Vasyl threatened. Thunder rumbled in the distance.
“I will not dishonor my king.” The boy shed a tear, his eyes focused on the city walls ahead. He knew what was coming.
Vasyl felt nauseous. What do they do to their young to make them fear dishonor over death? No matter how she threatened, the soldier would not let her spare his life.
“Who will warn the king if you are dead?” Vasyl countered. The boy stood, stalwart. She stepped closer. “If you die, I will still open this gate, and the king will not know of my presence.”
“I will not retreat from the enemy.” The tip of his halberd shook, dripping with rain.
It was pointless. Vasyl struck him with the butt of her spike, cracking his face. He slumped to the ground and splashed into a puddle. Unconscious. Hopefully he’d recover. She kicked his halberd up into her hands and surveyed the gate. It was a reinforced iron door.
Siphoning power, Vasyl flicked her finger, conducting energy to the metal. The iron beams that locked it cracked in half as the doors flung open. Vasyl’s reservoir was already depleting. She took a deep breath, her hands shaking. Her head throbbed. She was bursting at the seams, the power swelling inside of her. It would have been so easy to give in. The boy’s halberd nearly cracked under her grip. Remember your mission.
Vasyl steadied her breathing. Behind her was a city and a people who suffocated, and before her was a tyrant whose gluttonous breath stole their air. Even at that moment, pawns on both sides suffered and died in pointless battles. Some families lost loved ones, others waited without news, fearing the worst. Crops were burned. Livestock slaughtered. Even men like Khail would lose hope. If he hadn’t already. Vasyl had a chance to end it. Before the sun rose again in the morning, she would have ended the war with her own two hands or she would be dead.
VII
“You were not to let the king out of your sight!” Bask scolded, his brother shrinking before him.
“I knew where he was!” Schuld said.
“That is not the same!” Bask rubbed the bridge of his nose, “Of all the times to slack off, this is not it.”
“It was by his request!”
“Our duty is not to the king, but to his safety. If he makes a request that puts himself in danger we refuse it.”
Wind howled outside the rattling palace windows as the evening sky slowly turned to a pouring black night. Bask sighed.
“Brother. You must overcome yourself. We have never faced a threat like this and we cannot be at odds, lest the king suffers for it.”
“You’re right,” Schuld admitted. “I should have stayed with him.”
“Now go and do so.”
Schuld saluted and turned away, jogging back to the king’s quarters. It wasn’t easy to leave the king under someone else’s guard, but Bask had other duties. An assassination attempt like this had never been attempted and he didn’t know how to proceed. If they mustered all of their forces right outside the king’s chamber they may guarantee his safety, or they might be struck down in seconds and the king would have no time to escape. There was no precedent for a pawn with the power to kill three hundred men. If the guard was spread out there was a chance the intruder would be discovered sooner. Perhaps one guard was enough to take her down, perhaps he could call for backup. Even then there was a chance that the assassin would sneak through unseen and only have two guards to take down at the king’s door. Bask had settled for a compromise. Half of the guard was at the king’s chambers and the rest was on patrol.
War pick at the ready, Bask made his way along his patrol, encountering Staun as he traversed the halls. The knight showed no anxiety on his face, but his body language betrayed him. His gaze snapped to every passing shadow or clinking footfall, challenge in his eyes. Twitching, he held his short lance on his shoulder, prepared for action at any moment. He flinched as Bask grabbed his shoulder.
“On me,” Bask commanded. The knight couldn’t be trusted on his own. Not in this state. Obedient, The knight bowed his head and followed as Bask continued down the hall.
“I don’t care what kind of power that witch has,” Staun seethed. “I will turn her to rubble.”
“Your focus is not on the enemy, ” Bask said, “but on the safety of our king.”
Staun didn’t respond. He stared ahead, a retort dead on his lips. Given a choice, Bask would have put Staun on immediate suspension the moment the knight returned, and he would have given the boy time to grieve his brother’s passing before engaging the enemy, but these were special circumstances, and Bask needed all hands on deck. For now, he kept a wary eye.
Wind rattled the windows in the great hall, silhouettes of pillars passing on either side as Bask made his way across the checkered tiles. At the opposite end of the hall rain misted through an open window, shutters and curtains swaying violently in the wind. What remained of the chandelier’s light flickered out. Bask felt his heart skip a beat.
“How long has that been open?” he asked.
“You don’t think she could climb up the outer wall, do you? That’s fifty feet of sheer stone.”
Dread crawled up Bask’s spine. Could she? He rushed towards the window, armor clinking as he ran. Lightning flashed across the sky. Windows turned white. Thunder cracked. Moments later, Bask’s eyes readjusted. It was too late.
She stood there, perched on the windowsill, her cloak billowing in the wind, and her halberd glistening in the moonlight. Deep blue energy flickered out from her eyes, illuminating the inside of her hood and revealing a vacant expression.
Her halberd missed by a breath as Bask dove out of the way, quick to make distance and return to Staun. Polearm held out dangerously, the cloaked figure stalked towards them, dead center of the hall. Lightning flashed again. Staun roared, charging forward before Bask seized his arm.
“Stand down!” he ordered. “Get the others!”
Staun shrugged Bask off and surged forward, phasing into the nearest stone column. Ricochetting from pillar to pillar he built up momentum as he zig-zagged across the hall. The assassin stood in place, halberd ready. Blue energy flared out as the two collided, but the assassin held her ground.
Staun’s lance spiraled out of his hands and he was thrown back, his armor clattering across the floor as he slid. The instant he touched a pillar he phased in one end and shot out the other, flinging himself across the room. Bask thrust out his hand and snatched him from the air, slamming him into the tiles. They cracked. Fear replaced Staun’s rage and for a moment he had clarity.
“I said…” Bask barked, “get the others!”
The knight nodded and was quick to his feet, snatching his lance from the floor as he sprinted from the room. Bask straightened, turning his face towards the cloaked figure. She stood in the center of the room, waiting. Testing. Energy flickered from her halberd. Bask blinked and the weapon hurtled towards him. It grazed his left arm, taking a chunk of armor and stone as it streaked through the air. Crippling pain. Bask ignored it.
A roar escaped him as he charged forward, his enemy without her weapon. She leaped, soaring effortlessly over Bask’s head and landing across the hall to retrieve it. Prowling around her prey, halberd in hand, the assassin waited. She knew a rook’s strength. She was keeping her distance. Still testing. He could see hints of fear in her features. She doesn’t know the limit of her power, Bask realized.
Or the extent of mine.
Bask charged forward, a careening mass of metal and stone and rage. The assassin held her ground, but she shifted her weight, unsure. Pointy end first, Bask swung down with his war pick, grasping the long reinforced handle with both hands. The steel head screamed downwards. The assassin danced out of the way and the weapon slammed into the tile floor. You think yourself quick? Before the raining shards of tile hit the ground Bask grabbed the intruder by the neck. Not quick enough.
She grasped helplessly at his fingers but he was too strong, Bask tossed her like she weighed nothing. Her body cracked across a pillar and tumbled to the ground in a shower of debris. It should have killed her. Emanating a blue aura, she stood slowly, her breathing heavy. Something changed in her demeanor. All caution had vanished, instead, there was something Bask shuddered to recognize. Bloodlust.
She made the first move, her cloak streaming behind her as she rushed forward, a frantic display of fury. Bask didn’t have time to evade, and her halberd slashed his upper leg. He felt it crack. Adrenaline was the only thing that kept him from writhing on the ground. Every step backward increased in pain, but Bask kept going. The sound of footfall met his ears, and as it echoed into the chamber the assassin took notice.
A small army of armored guards stampeded into the room, Staun at their head. The bishops flanked, weaving between pillars with grace and speed. Even Schuld appeared, swinging his mace above his head as he let out a war cry.
Guards closed in on all sides of the assassin but she made no move to escape. Instead, she closed her eyes and focused her breathing. For a moment, fear struck Bask in the deepest part of his soul. It won’t be enough. Her halberd struck like the stinger of a scorpion, flashing in the dim light of the hall as metal met stone. Sparks flared. Bask watched in horror as she tore the pawns to shreds. Groups of them were shorn in half by the sheer velocity of her strikes. Others were thrown back to shatter against pillars. She slammed down her weapon and a deep blue shockwave cleared a circle of enemies around her. Bask watched in horror as their numbers dwindled.
The bishops darted across the room with the speed of the currents, perfectly symmetrical. Their attacks were artful. Brutal. Slashing with steel spikes, they were too quick for retaliation. Swamped by guards, the assassin seemed to be waiting for an opening to strike at them. Bask wouldn’t let her have her one.
“Schuld!” he cried. “On me!”
Schuld rushed to his side and together they charged, mace and pick. Bask’s leg throbbed but he ignored it. Just as the Bishops stuck again the rooks barged in. Ravenous eyes locked on to Bask. She was ready for them.
There was a flash of metal. Bask felt his feet leave the ground. His back cracked against a pillar and he tumbled to the floor. Schuld managed to catch himself, landing on his feet beside his brother.
Halberd shredded, the assassin stood, all pawn guards dead at her feet as the bishops struck again. She ducked out of the way and seized one of them. Luft. She lifted him up by the collar. His twin tried to intervene, but she was too fast. One hand snatched Luft’s spike, the other slammed him to the ground. Both hands drove the spike through his face and into the tiles. Luft stopped struggling. Turning to the brother, the assassins drove Luft’s spike through his chest and, sliding limp from her cold metal, he collapsed to the ground. His dying grasp relinquished his weapon before hardening in death.
Staun let out a cry of rage, building up momentum as he phased through pillars. The assassin turned, duel-wielding spikes, and faced him as he approached. Without pause, Schuld took his chance, and Bask was quick to follow. Together they flanked her. Lance first, Staun blasted straight into the assassin. There was an explosion of blue energy as she was thrown across the room. A pillar shattered as she crashed through it, a chandelier dropping to the ground in a hail of glass. She’s getting weaker.
Unfazed, the assassin was quick to her feet. Bask swung at her but she knocked him down. His head spun. She caught Staun with her spikes, spearing through his armor and folding him in half as he leaped at her. In an instant, he crumpled and she tossed him aside like he was nothing. Not weak enough. Bask tried to stand but the assassin pierced a spike through his leg, pinning him to the ground. He could see Schuld watching in horror. Bask’s pick was just barely out of reach. Another spike jammed through his wrist. A cry of pain wretched out of him. Schuld trembled, his mace still in his hands.
“Castle!” Bask shouted, reverting to military codes, “Castle!”
Schuld would have understood immediately. Protect the king. But he hesitated.
“Go!” Bask screamed.
The assassin didn’t move towards Schuld. Instead, she reached down and plucked the war pick from the ground. Schuld stalled, catching what was likely his last glance of his brother alive. Duty first, brother. Schuld was off without another word, sprinting from the room. The assassin held the pick over her head and threw her weight into it as she brought it down towards Bask’s head.
VIII
Dim pain tingled in Vasyl’s leg as she chased after the other rook. Her breath came to her strained and her head was swimming. The power was running out. Everything from the last few minutes had been a blur. She spent more power than she should have on the guards. It was reckless. Keep moving.
Corridor after corridor passed and she still didn’t catch a glimpse of the rook that ran. She knew which direction he had gone, but the palace was senselessly complicated. Her amplified hearing detected voices. An argument. Distant echoes up ahead. She picked up the word “queen,” but little else. When she turned the corner the echoes ceased and the hallway was empty.
The corridor led to a dark garden and as Vasyl stepped inside her feet sunk slightly into the wet grass. Few of the covered lanterns were still lit in the crooked rain, leaving much of the billowing foliage obscured in the moonless night. Lightning flashed, outlining a figure standing up ahead, her long regal cloak draped over her.
“Leave this place,” she said, “you do not know what you are doing.”
Vasyl paused, silent. The pale woman’s crown glistened as she stepped into the dim light.
“I will not let you punish an innocent man.”
Vasyl almost laughed. The spoiled brat. She grew up in luxury, blind to the disease of war. Still, the queen stood, pole hammer in her hand, facing her enemy. The way she held her weapon made it clear how little training she had.
“This is not your fight,” Vasyl said.
“The moment you threatened my Kasp, you made it my fight.”
It felt strange to hear the king’s name. No. He’s nothing more than a tyrant. Adrenaline was still coursing through her, and Vasyl was slowly leaking power. Enough of this. If she will not stand down, she will be shattered. Without another word, Vasyl sprinted forward, a steel spike in each hand. Immediately, she realized her mistake.
The White queen shot forward like an arrow, seizing Vasyl with unparalleled strength. In one instant, they flung back through the palace, corridors whipping past. In the next, the queen stopped and Vasyl was sent sailing away. She hit the ground, spinning and tumbling before crashing into a wall, black spots in her vision. The queen was already on top of her before Vasyl could stand again. Her reservoir was dangerously low. Lightning cracked. The pole hammer swung. Vasyl escaped by a hair as it shredded the wall and decimated the floor.
Falling back, Vasyl made frantic distance. It should have been impossible. The queen had two bonds. For the first time, Vasyl feared for her life. Veering back, the monarch made chase again, weapon poised and wreathed in fury as her royal cloaks flapped behind her. She missed. Her hammer knocked out a pillar and rubble rained down. Vasyl didn’t waste time slipping away. She darted up the first staircase she came to. A dull numb feeling crawled up her bad leg. It wouldn’t be long before she ran out of power. Her next move had to be intentional. One swift strike to take out the queen, the rook, and the king.
There was a door at the top. It burst open. Roaring wind and rain pelted the upper ramparts of the palace as Vasyl sprinted along them, the queen following. Lighting cracked nearby. Droplets of water sprayed out from her wake as the queen barreled down the rampart, snatching Vasyl off of her feet.
Enough! Vasyl discharged energy into the queen’s grip, releasing a blast of blue energy. Both of them flew back in parallel arcs, crashing into the palace roof. The mountain loomed over them, its monumental height obscured in gloom as the rear of the palace tucked up against it. Vasyl recovered quickly and sprinted towards it, desperate to have her back to the wall. Something to keep her in place. When she felt the ground change beneath her, she skidded to a stop, a vast circular stained glass window beneath her feet. She spun around. The queen was gone.
Like a meteor, the queen appeared in the night, first a dot among the clouds, then in a blink, she was a discernible form, careening towards the ground. Vasyl barely had time to leap out of the way as the queen came crashing down. Little did it matter. The stained glass fractured, and Vasyl felt herself drop.
It took an instant, but it felt like an eternity.
She fell, shrouded in a hail of glass and rain. Below her was a chamber, a cave absorbed by the palace. Waterfalls flowed into waterfalls into a large circular pool of water, its murky depths unknowable. A massive balcony overlooked it, and the rungs of the railing were just close enough to latch on to. Vasyl flailed, steering herself towards it. She grabbed blindly and her fingers took hold. Her arm nearly wrenched out of its socket but a surge of energy coursed through her, killing her inertia softly. Shards of glass pelted the waters below, rippling and splashing. The pain in her leg was real now. It wouldn’t take much to deplete her power. Even pulling herself up and over the railing could do it. She had run out of time.
The queen emerged from the balcony, looking apathetically over Vasyl’s predicament. Her cloaks flowed as smoothly and regal as ever. Not a hair was out of place.
“Stand down,” she said. “You have nowhere left to run, lest you test the sacred waters!”
“Only life is sacred!” Vasyl snapped. “There is nothing sacred about the waters.”
“You are a fool. These waters saw the passion Kasp had for me, and for his people. They anointed him king, and granted him great powers! Every step he has taken since his coronation has been to end the war. What right do you have to take his life!”
“You are ignorant! Your husband is a tyrant! Have you not seen beyond your own walls?”
“Stand down or die.” The queen placed the toe of her boot gently on Vasyl’s fingers.
“I will not stand down.”
“Then the waters will decide your fate.”
Vasyl didn’t wait for the queen to crush her fingers. She let go willingly. For an instant, she fell. Her stomach lurched. Her eyes shut. A thousand fears and questions crossed her mind and for a moment she remembered home. Khail’s smile. His embrace. The way the sun would strike the swaying wheat when the morning was young. She wondered how she had gotten so far away, both in distance and in self. Then she remembered the war. The ashes of the barn. The famine. The hurt. The soldiers who could never leave, haunted forever by their deeds. Hate spread within her again and she remembered her purpose. If the waters want passion, let them witness me. She hit the surface.
Water folded around her as she plunged into the waters, sinking quickly. It was like a thousand grasping hands dragged her into the darkness and in moments, she felt herself slow. She became numb. Unable to tell where her skin ended and where the water began. A deep thrum of power emanated through the entire space, beyond anything she had ever felt, even beyond the power of The Deep. Yet, it was familiar. It awakened comforting feelings from her earliest memories. It wasn’t just around her, it was in her and through her, embracing her. All pain in her leg vanished and she felt more whole than she ever had. Her feet touched the bottom. Solid stone.
Strength surged through every muscle and she launched from the floor. Gallons of water rushed past as she careened upwards, blasting through the surface and sailing through the air. She landed on the balcony with a thunderous crack. The queen fell backward in shock.
Dripping with power, Vasyl straightened, feeling the pull of strange forces as they urged her in different directions. Her leg had healed completely, all cracks sealed over like they were never there. Reaching down with one hand, she lifted the queen, a single grain to be crushed between the fingers. The queen struggled fiercely in Vasyl’s grasp but it was useless.
“Even your sacred waters honor my mission,” Vasyl said. “Stand down or die.”
She tossed the queen across the room, the body glancing the tiles at the other end. The queen’s only response was rage. Quick to her feet, she charged at Vasyl. So be it. Vasyl surged forward, giving in to the whim of the strange forces. She felt herself accelerate, every step clearing leaps and bounds, the wind in her face as she charged.
Queen and pawn clashed with celestial impact, a shockwave rippling the waters below, but Vasyl had the upper hand and she forced the queen back out into the next room. Together they bounced down an enormous staircase and nearly tumbled into the water again as it ran perpendicular in a long corridor. The strange force led forward, through a great door that opened into the wailing sky up ahead. Vasyl darted for it, the queen close behind.
The instant Vasyl felt the rain she launched herself upwards, aiming for another section of palace roof, the queen landing immediately after. The queen follows these same forces. There will be no escape. Vasyl spun around, just as the queen’s hammer came crashing down. She caught it on the downswing and ripped it out of the queen’s hands. Thunder rumbled. Even with one hand, Vasyl’s swing tossed the queen backward. Before her adversary could recover, Vasyl leaped through the rain and brought the hammer down.
The impact broke the roof beneath them and Vasyl felt herself fall. Both women dropped into the palace, leaving a crater as they slammed into the floor. Vasyl stood shakily; the queen remained embedded in the tiles. Rage died in her eyes and fear replaced it. The desperate fear of a deity who is faced with new mortality.
“This is not your fight,” Vasyl said. Without another word, she slung the hammer over her shoulder and walked away.
…
The power of the deep was gone, it had been for a while, but the water’s power made Vasyl quick to forget. Her mission was not yet complete but now she had the means to do it. The king’s chambers finally stood before her, the rook guarding it proving no challenge. Vasyl dispatched him before he could call out in alarm, his chipped face petrifying into an expression of horror. She stepped over his rigid body and up to the doors, taking a deep breath before she gathered her strength and kicked them in.
They swung open and slammed into the adjacent walls, revealing a large opulent room. Wind and rain rattled the windows and a small fire crackled in the hearth. A four-poster bed with red silk curtains occupied most of the space. Vasyl’s feet sunk into the plush carpet.
She had expected to find the king at arms, surrounded by guards and ready to fight. Instead, he sat in front of the fire, back turned to the door. Waiting. Silent as the night, Vasyl stalked up behind the king, her hammer raised. Her hands trembled.
“Is she safe?” The king spoke, face still turned to the fire. His words caused Vasyl to hesitate. “The hammer my wife stole from me is now in your hands, so I must fear the worst.”
Confusion caused Vasyl to pause, her adrenaline straining as everything came screeching to a halt.
“I do not wish to fight you,” he said, “I have not the strength.”
For a moment, Vasyl lowered the hammer. There was no deceit in his voice. Not with the way he spoke.
“I have spared her,” Vasyl said.
Visible relief bowed the king’s head. “Then you have honor.”
Never before had Vasyl met someone so hard to read. She stepped around his chair, glancing at his profile, but the eye she could see contained nothing.
“What do you know of honor?” Vasyl scorned, “Your honor has killed thousands of soldiers.”
“They do not die for me,” the king said. “They die for the king.”
“What difference does it make?”
“I try to save them. But they will not listen to me. Only to the king. The king they believe me to be.”
“Your war has devastated both kingdoms! How dare you claim innocence!” Vasyl lifted her hammer again. The king laughed to himself, a short sad laugh.
“I do not claim innocence. The suffering of my people is on my hands, and even the sacred waters cannot wash it away. Though this war was started by the king before me, I have failed to end it. I have failed to spare my people.” He turned to face Vasyl, revealing the gold-lined cracks on his face, “And I have failed to spare yours.”
His eyes did not plead for mercy. They did not wallow in fear. They asked for forgiveness. Vasyl took a wavering step back. This is the man that the queen fought for. It had been so easy to place all the blame on him, to make him the embodiment of the war, the virus that infected the world. But the man that sat before her had once been a pawn, granted great power by the sacred waters, just as Vasyl had.
“Do you believe that killing me will end the war?” he asked.
“I do.”
With a short struggle, the king lifted himself from his chair and stood before her. “It is a cost I am willing to pay.” He dropped to his knees and faced the ground.
“What?”
He looked up at her, “I cannot see another alternative. My kingdom will fall. My people will despair. But the war will end. And in time we will heal. I am not the god my people think I am. Let them be denied that fantasy.”
“You would die to end the war?” Vasyl said.
“I must.”
Vasyl swallowed. Her fingers gripped the hammer and as she raised it she could not meet the king’s eyes. I will not tolerate failure. Vasyl grit her teeth.
A shadow darkened the door and a little boy entered the room. He processed the scene with fear in his features, looking as if he was on the verge of tears. Vasyl lowered the hammer. For an instant, there was regret in the king’s face but he closed his eyes and resolved himself.
“Come, my son,” he said, barely audible over the crackling fire, “it’s okay.”
With reluctance, the boy approached, giving Vasyl a wide berth. The king took the boy’s shoulders and met his eyes with a lingering sorrowful glance.
“Alek, do you trust me?” he asked. The boy nodded tearfully. “Then you must know that I would never hurt you.” He wiped a tear from the boy’s face, “I need to make a difficult decision, and I fear it will hurt you and your mother just as much as it hurts me.”
The boy let out a small whine and the king brought him close in a hug. “I know… I know… But I need you to do something for me.” Innocent eyes looked up, “I need you to find your mother and I need you to make sure that she is okay. Can you do that?”
The boy fidgeted, clearly nervous. He spared a fearful glance up at Vasyl, the dark hooded figure that threatened his father. But as the king insisted, he nodded his head and ran from the room.
“Please,” the king said, turning to Vasyl once more, “do what must be done.”
The king’s words were a rude awakening. For a moment Vasyl had forgotten herself. She lifted the hammer shakily above her head, power pulsing through her arms. It would be instant. He wouldn’t feel a thing. She had intended to make it painful, to make him pay for his crimes. Now she mourned what she had to do. He was not a tyrant. He was a father, a lover, and a man of the people. For a moment Vasyl feared that she would not have the strength. But the sincerity in his eyes renewed her. It also broke her heart. The girl who grew up on the farm, caring for everything she touched was now holding a weapon over the head of the king. How could everything change so quickly? Khail would have spared him. Khail was weak. If this man was spared, one good man would be saved while thousands more would suffer and die. Vasyl gripped the hammer and raised it higher, but she wavered.
Neither the farm girl nor the assassin had the strength to do it. In a moment, the vile tyrant, the war king, had become a simple man. Vasyl had killed hundreds with a lesser power, but now she couldn’t kill one.
The storm raged outside, the wind howling and screaming as the rain battered down in a siege of its own upon the palace. The king didn’t move or speak. He simply waited. The decision was never mine. Vasyl raised the hammer again, her breathing unsteady. She wasn’t an assassin, nor was she a soldier or a girl from the farm. Sacred power flowed through her and she carried its will. Before her was not a man, but a war. A war whose list of crimes was too long to count. A war who had sent thousands to perish in pointless agony. There was only one life left to take.
All that had suffered were with her, wailing with long unceasing anguish as intent traveled from within, down through her arms and into the hammer, its own weight heaving downward past the tipping point.
In the small hours of the morning the storm eased, giving way to a silent sunrise.