THE KING'S DAUGHTER - Chapter Ten (The Ruse)

Turlough mentally heaved a sigh. Just think, it almost started out as a fine day. Bah! Then there was the intrusion from the Princess, and the inquest about the late Queen, then this interruption about the blasted Viscount, no less. Oh indeed, today was turning out to be one of the most memorable he had in a long while. Dropping the hapless guardsman, he spat out, “Make your statement then leave. If you see Meikan hiding somewhere, give her these. Make sure the guards do not harass her. She is my 'special friend'.” Turlough tossed a crumpled wad of clothing at the lead guard. With duty calling, there was no hope of Miekan coming back and finishing what they started. Narrowing his gaze and lowering his voice to a growl, he uttered “This better merit the headache it is giving me.”

“It is the Viscount, sir. I.. uh… well sir, it was like this!” Kythrhal stood next to the wall, thinking of how he was going to explain it all. He winced. Two weeks into the new job and then this happens out of nowhere! Collecting his thoughts, Kythrhal gave his official account of what happened.

“I was patrolling the perimeter of the Castle, and I noticed a crofter bothering a nobleman in the Eastern Glen. The gentleman kept trying to walk away, then the crofter grabbed the man by the cloak. I had crept up behind them, for they were too busy squabbling among themselves. They were about twelve paces away when the crofter yanked on the cloak. I then noticed the dagger! You never forget a piece of magnificence like that! Every guard in the barracks speaks of that dagger-the Ruby Razor belongs to the Viscount of Eisloh’n. You can recognize it immediately by the large ruby surrounded by citrine in the gold-wire hilt. No one here abouts has gems that size, except for him, that is. So I knew straight away that was the Viscount, on castle grounds. I called out ‘Halt!’ and the crofter fled. Eisloh’n tried to flee as well, but I had my sword drawn and cut him behind his knee as he ran. He fell to the muddy ground face first. I told him of the charges laid against him-that we guards had our duty to keep him off the premises. I then plunged my sword into his heart and wrenched it a quarter-turn. I never killed another man before. Just hunting and the like. I left his body well hidden in a thicket, and ran to get the lieutenant. Then I ran here, to tell you. Shall I inform the King now, sir?” The tense guardsman caught his breath, managing to give his captain the report.

“Not quite yet. Take me to the body.” Turlough gestured to the other two guards, “You two may leave. I shall report this to the King, however I feel that it is in the best interest of the King to make a wholly cautious investigation first. Not a word, else I leave both of you in the stocks for a week.”

The two excused guards nodded and bent at the waist to their superior officer then left.

Kythrhal, however was not as lucky as his comrades. Knowing that his fellows would talk of his bravery and down ale after ale, Kythrhal desired nothing more than to join them rather than view the body again. It churned his stomach when he thrust his sword into the Viscount’s body.

He could remember the gentle resistance of the skin, the tearing of the muscle beneath. He remembered feeling of the solidity of bone, which the steel had grazed. But most of all, he remembered the screamed pleads of mercy. Peal after peal of anguished cries of clemency, but it could not be given. The guard had a duty, and as much as Kythrhal desired it, he could not grant life to the Viscount. The guard wanted a whiskey and a wench, to be left alone for the night. It was not to be. A hand was placed on Kythrhal’s shoulder, breaking him of his reverie. “Come, lad and show me the body. I want to know where you were and where they were when you found them. We will look for tracks as well. What of the crofter?” Turlough remember the crofter as a second thought.

“I believe it was someone who recognized the Viscount, and tried to stop him.”

Turlough closed his eyes and thought. Why would a crofter take on a nobleman? There was a definite class system to their society, but normally the aristocracy and the common folk had limited contact with each other, which suited both sides fine. Well, if the crofter thought that he “detained” Eisloh’n for a Castle guard to do his duty, then odds are that the man would talk about it after a few pints of beer to thin out his blood. It was decided. During the afternoon, the Captain of the King’s Guard would investigate the local villages for any news that may have sprung from a drunken braggart. This morning would be dedicated to inspecting the forest where the execution took place.

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The smell of stagnant blood emanated from the bushes. A cloud of Telvflies rose in a mist as they were disturbed in their feeding of the dead body dressed in finery. Turlough drew his sword, and used the point of it to lift the cloak up in several places, to shoo the dreaded flies away. Telvflies were one of nature’s little wonders, the smallest among them half the size of his pinkie finger. They arise out of the ground shortly after the death of an animal, surrounding the lifeless body like a night-black cloud of hunger. Black and metallic red wings rubbed against their long antennae, creating a low eerie hum. They were the heralds of death, their call unmistakable.

Within two days, the corpse would be stripped clean, leaving naught but tattered velvet, hair and unbleached bones. The fattened flies would go back underground to their little burrows, lay eggs, and await the next meal.

“Let us roll him over.” Turlough hated the flies. They buzzed loudly around his head and face, blocking his view. One or two of the flies had the gall to fly into his eye, causing him to curse the gods loudly for creating such infernal beasts. He could vividly remember the tales that his mother had told him as a young lad, that you cannot venture out past dusk into the forest, for you may be mauled by the Telvflies, leaving your stripped bones and tattered clothing for the searchers to find the next morning. Oh, he remembered the warnings, all right. He could see the large pincher-teeth they used to clean the bones bare. Grim determination set in, and not wanting to remain with the hoards of humming flies, Turlough dropped to his knees and rolled the body over to make a positive identification. The smell of decay was faint, for the cool earth was no match for the warm morning, not to mention the flies aggressive feasting.

Stiffening of the body had not yet set in, so the arms flopped about as the body was heaved onto its back. A swarm of the flies had been hiding beneath the body, feeding in frenzy. With their dinner overturned, they arose with their brethren in a droning cloud of black-red.

One look to the face had Kythrhal on his knees a few paces away, heaving his innards out.

They flies had indeed been busy. The eyes had been eaten out already, leaving vacant holes, which a few of the flies left at their own leisure. The mouth was agape, and the tongue had been eaten out. Skin and muscle were gone in patches, bearing parts of the skull. Not wanting to join the rookie guardsman next to the bush, Turlough averted his eyes and concentrated on the clothing. It certainly look like the type of clothing the Viscount favored, although he could not remember for certain if he had ever seen Eisloh’n wear them. Strapped to the belt was indeed the Ruby Razor. A small sword or a large dagger, Turlough was not sure. It was amazingly light, with the exception of the huge immaculate ruby that crowned the hilt, and the circle of citrine that shone like a golden halo.

There was something niggling in the back of Turlough’s mind, though. He did not remember Eisloh’n being muscular. The whelp was tall and slender, with broad shoulders, but not as broad as these. Ah, yes, the shoulders could be padded. Some of the scrawnier would resort to such tactics with their respective tailors, in an attempt to reinforce their masculinity at court.

Swallowing back the bile that threatened to spill forth, Turlough searched the face of carcass. There was no way to tell if this was the Viscount by facial means. A few flies resumed their gorging. Unable to look upon the grisly banquet, Turlough’s eyes wandered to the top of the head, still covered in velvet cloak. Still able to see the flies, the captain of the guard turned away, then looked again.

The thing that drew Turlough’s attention was the shock of red-brown hair that peeped from underneath the hood of the cloak. Not black, like the night sky, but the color of newly churned earth. Ice water poured through Turlough’s veins as the gravity of the situation hit him like the flailing hooves of a spooked horse.

Everything had changed.

Kythrhal had killed the wrong man.

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Thank you for reading! If you’d like more of the story, help yourself to the rest of the posted chapters:

Prologue | One | Two | Three | Four | Five | Six | Seven | Eight