The Maid's War (Kingfountain 0.5)

Alensson gritted his teeth and marched in circles in the ice, fearing he was losing his wits. The thought of his wife’s cozy cottage nestled against the castle wall. How he longed to sit in front of the hearth with Jianne. The babe was coming within the month. He had to get back to his family. But what good could he do them if he did not return with Genette?

As the sunlight began to slip away on the fourth day, he could abide the suspense no longer. He would march back toward the boulder and wait for Genette there. His calves were aching, his feet felt frozen and hard and painful. With a fierce scowl, he started back down the mountain, hoping to make it to the boulder. He regretted his decision the instant he left the cave. The wind was even colder outside. Although he hadn’t realized it, the protection of the walls had helped him stay warmer. The wind was a knife and it slashed at him viciously. He’d never felt so miserable and cold.

But as he marched along the rock and ice, he saw a flicker of light ahead. Piercing light—man-made light. He blinked, wondering if his senses were now conjuring things that weren’t real. The night wind blew against his cloak, whipping it furiously. He squinted and clutched himself tighter, but the light didn’t change. Torches.

As he got closer, the images resolved into a coherent scene. There was a fire, a brazier with three sturdy iron legs and three posts for torches. It was full of wood and delicious heat, and his soul hungered to join the soldiers huddled around it. But his mind was sharp enough to see that the soldiers wore the colors of the King of Ceredigion. There were six of them there, gathered around the fire, some squatting, some sitting, hands chafing to keep warm.

And then he saw Genette.

His heart raged with dismay when he recognized the half-frozen creature chained to the boulder. He had never heard of this form of execution before, and it horrified him. She was wearing only a shift, a thin night-dress that offered no protection whatsoever against the elements. Her hair was down around her face, her head bobbing up and down as if she was wrestling to stay awake. There were dark stains, likely blood, on her shackled wrists, and it had frozen to her skin.

“Are you sure you don’t want to join us at the fire, lass?” one of the soldiers taunted. “I can think of a few ways to make you warm!”

“It’s a long night for sure. People die in these mountains all the time,” another said. “We all know you’re not really a maid. You’re a strumpet. Come on, we’ll even pay you!”

How long had they been torturing her? How long had she endured their foul words and shameful goading? It was unconscionable to him that a woman would be treated so. The cold he had been suffering was nothing compared to this torture. As he drew nearer, he saw her shift ruffling in the wind.

“If you’re truly Fountain-blessed, save yourself!” one of them goaded. “Or doesn’t your power work on ice? You may have survived the falls, lass, but you won’t survive this.”

“I’ll bet you five florins she won’t last until dawn.”

“I’ll bet you ten she dies before midnight.”

“Ten? I’ll take that bet. She’s tough, this one. She’ll make it till dawn. Then she’ll die.”

Liquid rage replaced the cold in Alensson’s bones. He continued to march up to the camp, not caring if they heard him. He drew the sword from the scabbard and gripped it tightly in his hand. There was no warning voice telling him to stop. The Fountain wouldn’t even speak to him directly now. So be it. He had made his decision.

“What’s that sound?” someone asked. “Do you hear it?”

“I hear the jingling of coins, man. Now give the money to Turner. He’ll hold it for us and pay each man his due. Eh, Turner?”

“I hear it too.”

“Shut it man, it’s just the wind!”

“There are bears in these mountains. Grab a torch, I say. See what it is.”

Alensson saw a few heads turn his way as he approached, his boots crunching in the ice.

“It’s a man.”

“Who are you, man? Lost?” His voice quavered a bit, betraying his alarm. “This is the king’s business. You can’t stay here,” another said.

Alensson continued to advance on them without speaking, fury roaring inside him like the brazier the men were cowering around.

He struck down the first man, sending a spray of hot blood across the snow. Alensson felt the power of the sword singing up his arm. Then it was five against one, an unfair match under any circumstances, but the soldiers had not been expecting an enemy. They’d been paid to stay with a victim until she was dead. Well, Alensson was determined they would be the ones to meet an unpleasant end. He moved like water, running through the second man while the others scrabbled to their feet, reaching for their swords and shouting in terror.

The remaining four men were not ready for him, but they were not unskilled. He crossed blades twice with another man before dispatching him, then was forced to defend himself as the final three charged him at once. Despite the cold, despite the agonizing circumstances, his mind felt clear and supple. This blade had seen countless battles. Images of ancient kings, jousts, tournaments, and wars flashed through his mind. He saw the hall of a great palace, but instead of a throne, he saw a table unlike any other. It was a circle of wood, a slice from a giant tree trunk more massive than any he had ever seen. On instinct he deflected a thrust, then spun around and smashed his elbow into the soldier’s nose. Stomping on another man’s boot, he whipped his blade around to thrust it into the flesh of the man with the broken nose.

Pain struck his arm as one of the remaining two managed to stab him, but the pain was nothing compared to his fury. He howled at the man like a wolf and went after him, bashing away his defenses before ending his life abruptly. That left only one, one man who was running and slipping in the snow and ice to escape. Alensson turned the blade upside-down, closed his fingers around the hilt, and then lifted it and hurled the sword at the fleeing man like a spear.

He had never done that in a battle before. The blade’s magic had planted the thought in him, and it had worked—he watched as the blade pierced the man from behind and sent him into a snowdrift.

Alensson rushed over to where Genette was.

Kneeling in the snow beside her, he hurriedly removed his cloak and wrapped it around her shoulders.

“Genette! Genette!” he called urgently, shaking her shoulders.

“Gentle duke,” she murmured, swayed, and collapsed against him. He hugged her close, but her half-frozen body was rigid against him.

“I’m going to get you off this mountain,” he said. “I’ll carry you the whole way if I must.”

“The key. The one with . . . the badge. Has the key.”