Chapter 28: The Last Dance

The bell tower tolled for the sixteenth time, falling silent with the last vestiges of the day.

 

As Gideon flew around the grounds, he couldn’t help but disparage his charge. Had the young mage really been thinking, she would’ve realised just how unreasonable Justeo really had been, and dismissed it as false. Then, the drake wouldn’t be flying around in freezing snow trying to fix whatever mess she assuredly got herself into.

 

Not that it was false, of course. But it would be more convenient for Saphry to believe that.

 

Gideon had watched that night, in horror, as his one and only friend had jumped into that Orthung, and was almost powerless to stop the beast from ripping out the princess’s throat. Gideon had dispaired for minutes as her corpse was taken back and…

 

The drake landed on a freestanding pillar and shook his body violently, rippling his scales down his length, each one spectacularly reflecting the moonlight.

 

His.

 

It was Ryder, not Saphry after all. After literal days of memory transfer, the mistake was coming to Gideon more and more. It was getting a little hard to keep it from Ryder even, which scared him a little, but only a little. The memories felt natural after all, nor was it some kind of mind control. It was just the recency and Ryder’s current appearance tripping him up. Gideon was still Gideon, and Ryder was still Ryder.

 

That sorted out, again, Gideon turned his mind back towards finding the wayward princess, a mould Ryder definitely fit in the drake’s mind. Knowing him, he had probably spotted some flitting lead out on the balcony, completely forgotten about his current worry, and ran off to start something completely new. That had seemed to be the trend these last few weeks.

 

Well, perhaps that was being too hard on him. Most of the misadventures he’d gotten Gideon into had fit some semblance of advancing their overarching goal of escape back to Earth, even if some of the methods he’d chosen were strange. Gideon was still of the opinion that he should’ve guilt tripped the hell out of the second prince after all, but then again Ryder always had been the face of the duo.

 

In any case, that probably meant he was inside the mansion somewhere.

 

Gideon flapped his wings a few times and took to the skies again, relishing the feeling of wind flowing over his scales as he angled back towards the hall. The drake felt just right in the air, and counted the minutes each time he was forced to land, as if the air was his truthful home, his rightful place. 

 

Originally, Gideon had found it disturbing just how quickly he’d gotten comfortable in this new form, almost as if the last two decades of walking around on two legs had been some resurfaced dream, but that didn’t trouble him as much anymore. Now, he saw it as a blessing, a skipped step that allowed him to jump right into efforts to get back to Earth. A time that hopefully would come quite soon.

 

He ripped through the air, cutting across the rest of the expansive killing-field turned courtyard in only a quarter of a shortbell. He flew over hedges, towers, and guards, the latter of which idly pointed towards him as he passed. Dragons weren’t an uncommon sight if one watched the skies enough, something the soldiers of Verol were used to doing.

 

As he flew, a strange patch of ground caught Gideon’s eye, a huge, darkened stretch of water along the cobbles. It stuck out in the otherwise orderly courtyard, and a voice in the drake’s mind beckoned him towards it. After all, it was a little cold for water puddles, wasn’t it? 

 

Gideon landed a few metres away from the puddle, which was just a short distance from a guard house.  Quickly galloping over, the drake stuck a claw into the liquid and licked it off, thinking that it had a strange viscosity. As soon as it touched his tongue however, Gideon stopped in shock and stared down at the puddle with new eyes.

 

It was blood.

 

Why was there so much! This was more than Gideon had thought possible. Was there even that much in a person?

 

He followed the trail of blood up to the guard house where it stopped, taking a breath before he moved his head around the opening. Upon seeing the inside, Gideon suddenly wished he could puke.

 

It was not just a single corpse- it was a dozen, all of them guards. They were stacked in a pile of gory death, their Evandal-emblazoned armour and masks still upon them, and weapons still in their sheathes. Their throats were slit, the wounds no larger than a knife. Whatever had killed them had done it without alerting them, and had done it cleanly, the shack a testament to their murderer’s skill.

 

It could’ve already started. The plot was already underway, they had just gotten too distracted to notice.

 

Gideon clicked his tongue.

 

Was Ryder still alive? He couldn’t have gotten wrapped into this already, could he? No, he probably had, knowing him. He always liked to choose the worst timing to do anything. He might’ve even found his way back into the main hall just in time for whoever had killed these guards to make their move…

 

Gideon shot into the sky again, this time cutting a straight path for the nearest balcony open to the hall of ceremony, but even before he could see the pillar the screams came upon him, horrible screeches and wails of panic. The clashing of swords came soon after, bellowing out into the gardens.

 

God damn it! Hadn’t Taneri promised a tripling of the guards? The best security in Verol? How could something like this even make it to the keep? Gideon had flown over the entire grounds after all, and, excepting for the last one, not one of the bridges or gates had been unmanned. There should’ve been no way the assassins could get inside.

 

The drake dived into the nearest open door into what could only be described as a warzone. Tables had been upended, the band dispersed, and blood flowed down between the tiles like a million rushing rivers. Corpses and those soon to become them lay sprawled across the hall, blood streaked trails and wounded cries serving as beckons for the black cloaked and masked hunters prowling the macabre scene with knives in hand. 

 

Innocents, members of the Temoif and the royal faction alike, lay among the dead and dying. Children and women ran shouting through the chaos, seemingly unnoticed in the barest expression of compassion.

 

Gideon promptly fell to the ground, the shock of death overcoming his instincts of flight. All around him, countless had fallen, the very top of Verol’s aristocracy, those wardens against the horrors in her lands. To Silst, a stalwart dragon of the Northspine, such a slaughter between man was a blasphemy, and to Gideon, it was a horror beyond words.

 

He could only watch as an old man, an old war veteran given rank and title, crawled towards the balcony, pain etched like a scar across his face. With vague awareness, the name Balder came to mind.

 

“Pray… forgive us.”

 

His face fell to the stone, and Gideon backed away in a panic as blood began to pool around the man’s head.

 

Was this what Ryder dealt with every day back on Earth? Murder and death? How could he even remain sane? How… wait, where was he?

 

Gideon threw his head around madly, jumping up and looking for any scrap of the blue dress he’d worn. Immediately a formation farther down the hall caught his eye as he flew, of a small group of armed nobles who’d banded together to fight back, along with a small handful of loyal guards. The King was nowhere to be seen, nor was Auro, though the three princes remained.

 

Andril stood at the forefront of the defence, his sword aflame with righteous purpose, each of his swings releasing a furious blade of soot and smoke. Fredrick and Breale stood close behind, their blades singing like the wind amidst the mountains, their enchanted blades the only among the defenders which could squarely slash past the maile of the attackers. Elendri, the first prince, lay on the ground at Andril’s feet, his lifeless eyes lending a cause for Andril’s bloodlust as Enven cast spells of healing behind. 

 

But those three were not the more impressive of the defenders, for Taneri and his men, though garbed in the more ceremonial armour of the Royal Knights, fought with a practised precision and magical prowess that couldn’t help but inspire. Between each calculated swing they would cast, and either a firebolt or hissing steam would fly forth to impact against the wards of their opponents. 

 

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But even still, they were outnumbered, outarmed, and out-planned by their foes, and it was obvious to Gideon that they would be overwhelmed before long if nothing was done. If Andril, Fredrick, or Breale were to fall… Gideon figured Ryder would fall into mourning for months, halting any progress towards escape. 

 

Still, he hesitated in the air above.

 

Gideon knew he was no fighter, no great warrior like Ryder had used to be. He had never casted thaumaturgy nor had he ever held a sword in his life. Even with his gun he’d been an amatur, despite his boasts to Ryder. 

 

And this… this scene scared him.

 

How could anyone see all this death and not run? How did any of these people still stand? It was horrible, horrible beyond anything Gideon had ever seen. The smell of blood filled his nostrils, the wails of the dying in his ears, and he already knew this scene would plague his nightmares forever. He’d already seen that Ryder wasn’t here, so wouldn’t the smartest thing be to run? To fly away and find his only real friend?

 

“Silst!”

 

A shrill cry cut through his indecision, and Gideon’s head snapped towards the nearest balcony. There, a girl wearing a large coat and a green dress stood panicked against the railing, trapped by an encroaching soldier. 

 

The man raised his sword high above, the bright green star known as the Balefron reflecting in its tip.

 

Gideon didn’t think, slashing through the million questions that came to mind as he soared through the air. Fury fluttered his wings, rage snapped his jaws.

 

There were only two people who had ever acknowledged Gideon’s presence throughout all of this time. Only two who had ever called out and talked to the drake, without the expectation of something back. And they probably dropped it as a kindness, a simple affection quickly forgotten in the minds of others.

 

But Gideon remembered.

 

He roared as he charged, diving straight into the fight for his one simple friend, and as he flew a deep chill gathered in his throat, spreading and coalescing into something tangible, something real, and most assuredly something dangerous.

 

A beam of rime, as brilliant as the Shield Star screamed out of his jaws. It slammed against the man’s runed mask, spreading and crackling over an invisible shield before the air itself shattered.

 

The force of the frost sent him staggering off balance, and he caught himself on the railing and looked around in a panic. It was too late though, for it was then that Gideon collided, the force of his blow the last push the man needed before slipping over the edge. He screamed as he fell into the misty depths of the mountain, his body most likely never to be found.

 

Gideon roared again as he landed next to Auro, preening with a cold-blooded glory. 

 

“Silst…”

 

He turned to look over Auro again, finding there a shock and fear that shattered any sense of victory he’d held. Without another thought, his legs gave out from under him and he looked up at Auro with shame and guilt.

 

Is this what it felt like to kill a man?

 

…

Endril fell to his knees as he cut the final stroke, his blade seeped in freshly spilled blood. The young man in front of him fell to the ground clutching his throat, and the second prince watched as he slowly choked to death in front of him, no sense of mercy motivating him to strike again.

 

Dozens lay slain around his feet, friend and foe alike. Children, senators, they’d been cut down regardless of rank or status. 

 

Why had this happened?

 

Taneri had promised security, and Endril had watched the Temoif in paranoia. But he was proven right in the worst way, for half the faction lay upon the cobbles in front of him. And worse still, his older brother, Elendri, was there with them.

 

A whispering wind flew above Andril's head, and a moment later the assassin slumped to the ground, dead.

 

“The Star demands mercy.” Fredric said.

 

“They didn’t give it. They deserved the pitching torture rack for what they did.”

 

“We shouldn’t…”

 

“Save it.” Endril looked back to Elendri’s body, where Enven kneeled with his hands covered in blood.

 

His brother. The first heir of Verol, Esiland's shining son. Sure, he’d been a flirt, but what had he truly done to deserve such a fate? What did any of them do for this?

 

There was a clanking of metal beside them, and Endril turned to find Justeo lifting the warded mask off of the slain soldier. On his face, Andril could briefly see a duelling scar running down his right cheek.

 

“Search him for any identification.” Came Taneri’s voice. “We weren’t able to capture any alive.”

 

“They wore warded armour.” Breale said. “We were hardly a match for such famed wargear.”

 

Endril was eager to see just where these men had come from. Well trained soldiers with armour equivalent to that of royal guards? And how had they gotten past the fortifications outside? They would’ve gotten some alarm if the gates had been attacked, and those gates were supposed to be damn near impenetrable. Even the fact that they ran was suspicious, for Andril had definitely felt the battle turn against them.

 

“This…” Justeo raised up the man’s ungauntleted arm. Tattooed on the back of the palm was a red, four pointed star, the crest of house Evandal. “This is a Royal Knight! An Evandal has betrayed us!”