CHAPTER 27: "A Noble Death"

ARI

Ari thought the knights might rip her arms from their sockets, they gripped them so tight. The toes of her boots scraped the ground as they dragged her away from the gaming area down to the dungeon, a part of the castle she had never seen before, and never cared to.

The smell was not only foul, but potent. Ari smelled it before she even saw it, a miasma worse than that of the horses, worse than the pig shit she used to shovel.

Shitbag, she reminded herself. That is what you are.

They pulled Sir Oliver behind her, dragging him by the arms while his motionless body gathered dirt. Ari feared he might be dead.

The dungeon was dark, even in the day. Little daylight shone through the tunnel as they trudged in. The knights dragged her to a vacant cage with its rusty, barred door ajar. The knights threw Ari down onto her face in the dungeon. Breaking her fall, her hand landed in something squishy and greenish brown. She gagged and wiped it away onto her armor.

They tossed Sir Oliver in after her, onto his back, choking a little. He’s alive, at least, Ari thought. The guards slammed the iron door shut behind them. Ari ran to it, yelling, ”Please! No! Please!”

“Quiet, Shitbag,” one of them yelled back.

“Please! The Lord! You cannot trust him!”

“I said, ‘shut it,’ girl,” the angry knight replied. He and the other knights departed.

Ari turned to Sir Oliver, blue-faced and unresponsive.

“Oliver,” she called, shaking him. “Oliver, wake up. Wake up now. Oliver!”

Sir Oliver’s eyes and mouth were open, but he could not hear her, she knew it.

“OLIVER!” Ari screamed. “You need to get up! You need to do something! I… I cannot do this. I cannot do this alone!”

Ari hated Sir Oliver, hated him for bringing her here, hated his pretentious sense of omniscience, hated that, in truth, no one in her life had treated her better than him.

“Please…” she begged. “Please don’t die. Don’t die!”

Whatever poison Sir Oliver had consumed was choking him. He gagged and gagged and gagged, and his eyes were bloodshot.

“NO!” Ari screamed and banged her fist on his breastplate.

Sir Oliver shot up a spew of slimy bile and coughed a little bit until his breathing eased and he could inhale safely again. “A… Ari…” he wheezed.

“Oliver!” she replied.

“D…. do…. Don’t….”

“What?”

“Don…. Don’t drink… before… fight…”

Ari could not help but laugh.

“Don’t…. drin… don’t drink… ever…”

“Aye, Sir Oliver,” Ari smiled. “Aye.”

SIR GALEN

“How did you know?” Lord Gerard asked.

“The girl?” Sir Galen clarified. “Forgive my saying so, My Lord, but I have known since their arrival.”

Lord Gerard and Sir Galen had retreated to a private tower after the horrendous joust. The tower was in such an obscure part of the castle that Sir Galen thought he might even be able to kill the Lord right then and there. Who would hear his scream? he mused. Careful. These thoughts are tempting. But I have not come this close only to lose my grasp and be hanged myself a traitor. It would have to look accidental.

Lord Gerard sat in shock for a moment, trying to take it all in. He was vulnerable, betrayed, the ripest time for Galen to plant another seed in his mind.

“I am sorry, My Lord,” Sir Galen. “They fooled most of us. Even I only had my suspicions until… Well…”

The Lord perked up. “Until what?”

“I am not sure if this is the best time to speak of it, My Lord.”

“Speak of what? No more secrets, Sir Galen. My heart cannot take it.”

Right where I want him, Sir Galen thought. “As I said, all that I had were my suspicions. But the other day, the girl was speaking with Prince Richard, and they did not know I was but behind the door… I… heard things.”

“Heard things?” Lord Gerard sounded nervous. “What things? Did my boy… Did Richard know? My Gods, were they… intimate? Did my Prince spoil his regal purity with some Hellion whore?”

“No, sire,” Sir Galen assured. “There was no consummation, but…”

“What is it that you are not telling me?”

Sir Galen sighed, “There is no delicate way to say this. The Prince, he… kissed Jason.”

“Gods… So he did know?”

“Not before he kissed Jason, My Lord.”

The Lord’s nervous shock turned into a more hysterical denial. “What are you saying? This is foolish. You misheard.”

“I mishear nothing,” Sir Galen promised. “It went further. He confessed to Jason that there was another boy, some knight’s son.”

“Silence!” Lord Gerard yelled. He was beginning to tear up, mortified. “I will hear no more of this.”

“My Lord—“

“Get out.”

“My Lord—“

“I said BE GONE!”

The scream ricocheted off the walls, reverberating long after the Lord released it. Sir Galen was not shaken. He would not be deterred. Lord Gerard rubbed his temples with his hands, wincing from the stress this was causing him.

“My Lord, I am sorry,” Sir Galen said. “But you know I would never speak such a thing if I did not earnestly believe it to be true. The Prince does not know that I heard them.”

“My boy would never disrespect the Gods in such a manner. This is folly.”

“What would he gain from creating such a lie, My Lord?”

Gerard could not answer.

“He has never had a suitor that he chose to marry, My Lord.”

Gerard did not respond.

“The crown will not allow such blasphemy, you know this. King Drumm will decree that he either be re-educated or hanged. The conversion camps… I have not heard positive outcomes.”

Gerard walked to the tiny, arched window in the tower and gazed out to the Festival. “This was supposed to be a joyous time. After all we have overcome, after all the sacrifices made to make this celebration possible. That wretched girl has ruined all of it.”

He turned back to Sir Galen, glossy-eyed. “Where do I go from here, Sir Galen? What shall I do?”

“There is no easy escape to this,” Sir Galen answered. “But there is a noble death for the child.”

“Death?” echoed the Lord.

“The Prince will die, or worse, that is for certain. But if you love him, you can allow him a noble death. Send a party to vanquish the dragon. And send the Prince with them. The boy dying in battle is his best hope now.”

“I cannot send my son to die,” Lord Gerard said, bawling. “He’s my boy, my baby boy… The Gods would damn me.”

Sir Galen was stone-faced, as always. “The Gods have already damned him. Let him die a warrior, as you have always wanted. When the dragon strikes, let the Prince fight for his honor. Send a party back to the dragon’s lair. And send the Prince with them.”

"...If this is the Gods' truth -- which I am skeptical of -- what, then, are the chances that other ears might learn of this?"

"High. If I overheard the Prince's conversation on pure chance, think of what another soul might hear. A Sister, a guard, a peasant filling the Prince's goblet. All it would take is one of them to be listening when they should not. Richard must die in battle before then. Only speak the words, and I shall have it done, My Lord."

Lord Gerard paused for a long time, staring at the dusty moon-and-stars tile floor. The pondering was long enough to cause Sir Galen concern. I have come this far, waited this long...

The Lord broke his concentration. “Aye,” he finally said. “Do it.”

BARNACLE

For a few sunsets and sunrises now, Barnacle had wandered the outskirts of Nightingshire, unsure of where to go. There was no real safe place for him. If he went home to his tribe, they would kill him for weakness and if he returned to Nightingshire, then Sir Oliver would kill him for… well, he was still unsure of the reason. When Sir Oliver Boumgarden threatens you, though, you do not need to know his reasons. You run.

So Barnacle ran, and the isolation was setting in. It was exacerbated by the occasional hustle and bustle that could be heard in the days during the Harvest Festival. He soaked in that loneliness, and as the sun began its descent behind the horizon, Barnacle stoked a campfire to fight the autumn breeze.

In the lonesome quiet, Barnacle noticed a squirrel nuzzling on something in the ground nearby.

“Hello, little friend,” he said to the squirrel.

The squirrel perked its head up and stood on its hind legs, staring at Barnacle.

“Are you alone too?”

The squirrel’s teeth chattered.

“Well you are not alone anymore, friend,” Barnacle said, smiling at the creature.

The squirrel heard a noise in the far-off distance and craned its neck to it. Before the squirrel knew it, Barnacle had pulled back his slingshot and aimed a hard pebble at the squirrel’s skull, rendering it motionless.

Barnacle walked up to the squirrel and grabbed him off the ground. “Sorry, friend. I am lonely, but I am -- more so -- hungry.” The orc tore the squirrel’s head off with his teeth. Squirrels always had a nice crunch, he recalled.

As Barnacle chewed and swallowed, he realized why the squirrel became distracted. He heard the noise too. It was not the drone of the people in Nightingshire, nor was it some horn of battle.

Barnacle turned his head to the west and saw a great shadow pass over the sun for a moment. One more loud roar and Barnacle knew it was the dragon.

Barnacle had foolishly thought the creature was coming for him, it descended at such a swift rate. Barnacle hid in a nearby brush as the scaly colossus soared over him.

It was headed for Nightingshire.

Barnacle had been called many things in his life: a gambler, a thief, stinky, and most of those things were true (especially his odor). But Barnacle was no coward, and Ari was his friend. He kicked dirt onto the fire to put it out and ran for the castle as fast as his long legs would take him.