The Things We Keep
A Kingdom Come Short Story
by Jim Doran
Artwork by Lauren Nalepa
Roger Jolly, a young officer of Kingdom’s army, swung his sword at his opponent, striking the metal on his shoulder plate, intending only to throw him off-balance. His sparring partner moved a step to the left, and the opportunity presented itself to Roger to take him down. He used his elbow to push on the other’s breastplate. The soldier tried to keep his balance as Roger had predicted. He lowered his head and buried his helmet into his adversary’s abdomen, pushing him backward. The other man failed to adjust and fell, raising the dust of soil in a dispersed cloud. Before he had a chance to react, Roger pointed his sword at the man’s throat. His rival removed his gauntlet and threw it on the ground, defeated.
Roger turned around and grinned at his battalion. He had won again. Since coming here from his farm and participating in the exercises, he hadn’t been defeated. Most of the army were serfs and common laborers. Only a handful had the training he had received before joining King Marsh’s army.
The captain nodded his way as Roger stepped back to his place in the formation. Before he arrived at his destination, however, his commanding officer called him back. “Roger, you have another challenger to test your skill.”
Roger turned around while a fully-armored knight strolled across the field. The sunlight glistened off of the polished metal and the helmet enclosed his head. His eyes hid within the recesses of the shadows of his headgear and three vertical slits formed the mouth. Roger didn’t know this paladin, and he examined his stride as he readied his sword and shield. The mysterious knight advanced with resolve.
Roger raised his shield and approached. Instantly, his foe began to circle instead of charging at him. The hooded soldier made a complete circle, waiting for Roger to attack. He wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. When facing an unknown enemy, Roger thought it best for the contender to make the first move. His strategy involved evaluating his challenger’s fighting style to plan his counterattack.
The soldier stopped and stood still far from striking distance. He lifted his sword in a victory pose as if predicting Roger’s inevitable defeat. The sunlight caught the sword and for a moment it flashed in his eyes, temporarily blinding him. Red spots sprinkled across Roger’s line of sight forcing him to blink rapidly. After he cleared his vision, he realized his opponent meant to reflect the light to blind him.
The knight sprang like a cat leaps on a fly, pouncing despite the cumbersome armor. Roger stepped backward, but he knew he had lost any advantage. His opponent had used his sword as a blinding technique and then his shield as a weapon. The top of the shield curved up to dagger-sharp points and he aimed the leftmost edge at his heart. He grunted as the edge struck him on the breastbone, piercing the armor, and pushing against his skin. But his highly-skilled foe knew how much pressure to apply to keep the wound light. Before he reacted, the other man swept his leg and tripped Roger, one step ahead again.
Roger should’ve fallen to the ground, but his mentor had taught him compensating moves to keep his balance. “To lose your balance while battling is death,” he had taught him, and they exercised poise and form. This exercise had frustrated Roger when he practiced long ago, but now he was grateful as he placed his feet to prevent himself from toppling over. Yet while he balanced his body to avoid falling, he lost his opportunity to rush the knight.
The gleaming sword slashed left and Roger countered with his shield. The opponent didn’t pause for a moment as the sword thrust at his lower leg. He sidestepped it and planted his feet as the sword swung past. The breeze from the sword’s arc ruffled his tunic.
As his foe went to attack again, Roger thrust with his own sword at his opponent’s hand, managing to nick the top of his gauntlet and loosen his grip on his weapon. Roger used the advantage to rush forward, hoping to change the momentum of the exercise. He expected the soldier to focus on tightening his grip on the sword instead of countering his advance. Again, his target surprised him as he dropped his sword and focused on Roger. He lowered the shield’s sharp point and thrust it forward, attacking the oncoming soldier. Roger understood, too late, he left himself exposed to the shield’s sharp edge. The soldier again slightly nicked him. He stepped backward and grimaced, evaluating the two cuts in his armor, and concluding his challenger’s skill superior to his own. Slowly, he removed the gauntlet and, flushing, threw it to the ground. “I admit defeat, but I call this engagement unfair. No one drops his sword in the heat of battle with enemies around.”
“I have many times.”
The voice surprised him—high and pure—a woman’s voice in man’s armor. She dropped her shield, placed her hands on her helmet, and removed it. Her oval-shaped head, green eyes, and medium length, raven-colored hair with blue streaks revealed her identity. Her face had two scars, one down the right side, and the other on the bridge of her nose like an upside down V.
Someone behind him murmured. “Maydayla.”
Roger stood at attention at the general of the king’s army. Maydayla! He had never encountered her before but knew of her. She commanded a special squadron within the king’s troops and legendary tales of her exploits were told in pubs across Kingdom. She regarded him with disappointment, her eyes on the gauntlet. “You admitted defeat too easily.”
“I beg your pardon, General, but you would have killed me.”
“Maydayla, please. I do not like titles. Are you saying your final action would have been to surrender?”
Roger pressed his lips together while she stepped forward. “The battle is not done until your life leaves you. You may still achieve your purpose with your dying breath.”
He lowered his head to indicate his understanding. Maydayla stepped away and addressed the others. “What is our purpose in battle? Speak freely.”
“To win,” said a gnome.
“And if it is not possible to win? What is our purpose?”
A thin, square-jawed man brushed aside a lock of hair. “To die gloriously.”
“Correct, Captain Halifax. Sometimes you are swords, the victors in battle, the vanquishers of those wishing harm on the crown and her people. Sometimes you are shields, meant to take fatal wounds to prevent those wounds reaching defenseless farmers, untrained maidens, or small children. You take the blow for them. This is the purpose of an army.”
She turned and locked eyes with the vanquished soldier. “Do you understand, Roger Jolly?”
“Verily.”
“All is well between us then. Report to me tonight. You shall join my elite force.”
With that, she turned, retrieved her sword and walked into the distance. Roger had admired few men and women in the king’s army, but his heart swelled in pride. With a person like Maydayla on their side, who could stand against them?
Later, when Roger reported to Maydayla, she barely acknowledged him, focusing instead on a map she examined through a curved glass. She instructed him to take an open bed in her squadron’s barracks. Though disappointed at her dismissive manner, he followed her orders. When he opened the door to the phalanstery and entered, he captured the attention of all of its inhabitants—two men and two women.
The barracks were a compact, wooden structure with eight beds across from each other on each wall. Oaken chests locked with latches sat at the foot of the beds while two maple-tree display cases, littered with arrows and knives, divided the room. The occupants had placed a round iron container with a pipe to vent through the roof and slits on its sides in the center of the room to generate heat. The five members of Maydayla’s crew claimed the beds.
As he entered, one of the women rose from her bed. “Welcome. Are you Roger?”
Roger noticed the carved bow with intricate designs and flourishes etched in the wood leaning against her bed. “I have heard of you. You are the best with a longbow in Kingdom. Garmine?”
The woman inclined her bald head. “Indeed I am, yet you flatter me.”
A man sitting on the bunk next to her used a tiny knife to shave his blond goatee. “The complement is accurate. She struck an eagle one hundred fifty yards away in the middle of a forest. Her arrow went through brambles and leaves directly to its target. You will find no better alive.”
Garmine blushed. “And no one questions Manuel’s ability with a sword. Maydayla often chooses to spar with him. In truth, he has bested her a few times.”
A woman at the far end of the room turned on her side, her voluminous, black hair encasing an oblong face. “It helps he has elven blood and he uses his looks to distract his opponent…although it has never worked on Maydayla.”
Manuel snipped a stray hair from his goatee. “And you have never used your beauty to your advantage. They call her Redback as in the Redback Spider because she is deadly at close quarters.”
Roger regarded the young woman on the bed. Her narrow eyes and tan complexion reflected the inhabitants of the tundra on the edge of the Forest of Blood, far from Roger’s farm. The woman stood, retrieved and twirled a rope with one hand, and flicked it across the room where it landed on a small hook.
“Tabecka, or Becka to her friends, does not practice to show off,” said Garmine. “She is highly skilled with a rope, and Maydayla told us not to call her the spider name, Manuel.”
He winked at her. “And yet, we still do. Shall we call Taciturn by his real name? What is it again? Sir Peter Andrew Yastling Daniel Henry Afterglen? By the time I said that mouthful to warn him of incoming arrows, he would be skewered five times.”
A man prone on his bed, eyes shut, hands folded on his chest, crossed his legs. “I prefer Taciturn.”
Garmine rolled her eyes. “Ignore them. Krystee makes the sixth member of our squad. A dwarven warrior, Maydayla’s confidante, and best with a whip or a ball-and-chain flail. Do not anger her for her whip hurts worse than the edge of a sword. She is away on an errand.”
Becka stood and twirled her rope. “Garmine’s bow and pretty boy’s, eh…Manuel’s, sling keep our enemies at a distance. Krystee can keep four people engaged with her whip. Maydayla, Taciturn, and I are best at close range. I wonder where Maydayla thinks you fit in?”
“We need more archers,” said Garmine.
Roger touched the hilt of his sword. “I am more skilled with a blade.”
Manuel set the razor on the chest next to the bed. “A disposable. Welcome to the team.”
Garmine kicked Manuel’s bed. “If Maydayla chose him, she had a reason. Any who join us only makes us stronger.” She turned to Roger. “It may appear she made a capricious choice, but I guarantee she has been observing you for a long time. She senses a talent within you. A talent we currently lack.”
Roger swallowed as Garmine escorted him to an empty bunk.
For weeks, they trained, sparring with each other and selected men and women from the army. One late, chilly night Maydayla entered the phalanstery and told them their next mission. They gathered around her, eager to learn what the king wanted them to do. Maydayla stood a head higher than Taciturn, the tallest of them all. Excited to hear about the adventure before him, Roger noticed Maydayla’s dour expression.
“I have consulted with King Shade this evening. We have been tasked to retrieve the property of the crown from a monastery in the Plains of Isolation. St. Cuthbert the Generous established the compound four hundred years past. ’Tis a thriving community of religious.”
“This doesn’t sound like a mission for mercenaries like us,” remarked Manuel.
Maydayla inhaled then released a long, steady breath. “They have refused our king his request. We shall likely take it by force.”
Krystee scratched at a mole on her cheek. “Why not send the army?”
“The subtleties of the Crown’s interactions with the Church may be lost on the people. It shall be viewed as an attack on the Church herself. The king requests a lighter hand for this task.”
Garmine crossed her arms. “The subtleties are lost on me as well. I must say I side with the people, Maydayla.”
“We are sworn to the Crown as is the Church. If the Crown makes a request and the Church refuses, it becomes an enemy of Kingdom. Do not, Garmine, counter me. I am uncomfortable with this errand too, but our king speaks our law.”
Garmine’s jawbone pulsated, clenching her teeth, but the rest of the squad resolutely regarded their commander. Roger wanted to battle an enemy, even if it meant scaring some old men in sandals. He looked forward to his first mission, excited to begin.
Maydayla turned on her heel. “We set off tonight.”
The Plains of Isolation were south of the royal city of Kingdom. Maydayla’s phalanx decided to march to the east and hug Kingdom’s main river south which, while not the most direct route, was the quickest way to the Cuthbert monastery. Despite this, it would be a two-day hike.
They camped the first night alongside the gurgling river. After making the necessary arrangements, they paired off, sparring with each other, and Becka defeated Roger. She disarmed him again and again with her sword, shield, or rope, noting his misstep each time in a matter-of-fact tone. The deadly woman never flashed her disarming, crescent smile after a victory. Instead, she patiently instructed him until he mastered a particular move or weapon.
Manuel walked to them and watched the end of their sparring. “All of this preparation to scare a flock of wayward birds. I am sure, when we arrive and they know the resolve of the king, they will give us whatever the monarch wants.”
Becka looped her rope. “It may not be as easy as you think, Manuel. The monks guard themselves against thieves and changelings. They are not without defenses.”
“Facing them shall be easier than encountering a troll ambush.” Manuel slid his thumb along his knife’s edge. “And victory was ours that day if you recall.”
Becka attached the rope to her belt. “In some ways, this may be harder. We are trained against soldiers not men of the cloth.”
“Scared ninnies. Frightened men too weak to join the army. They do not plow the earth like a respectable farmer or trade and sell like an honorable merchant.”
“Instead, they combat the devil day after day.” Maydayla emerged from the shadows of the trees. “Or is battling demons not honorable or respectable?”
Manuel bowed. “Begging your pardon, Maydayla. Being a virgin, I know you follow religious instruction strictly, but I remain skeptical. Who is this devil? I have never met him, but I have met many people with murderous intent. If such men as these are the devil, the bishops are doing a poor job.”
Krystee caught Manuel’s last statement as she joined the gathering. “Hold your tongue, Manuel. Your arrogance will get us killed.”
“I speak what I believe.”
“I would never stop you from speaking your mind,” said Maydayla. “I only caution you to be open to new thoughts before you pass judgment. Let us regroup and discuss strategy.”
Roger knew, with those words, Maydayla had shut down the iconoclastic debate, but he wasn’t certain where he stood on the issue. He attended church with his father, but often his mind wandered during sermons, usually to epic tales on a battlefield. On the other hand, he thought of the church as an institution to defend—not attack.
Strategy sessions went into the evening and Roger found, being the newest member, he had first watch. Krystee relieved him when the moon reached a certain position in the sky. Not tired, Roger paced instead of resting, and Krystee called him over for company.
The dwarven warrior warmed her hands by the fire. “Are ye ready for the encounter tomorrow?”
“There may not be a battle.”
Krystee’s body tensed. “There will be a battle. The monks will not surrender this artifact willingly.”
“Do you know what it is?”
“A powerful staff. Maydayla and I do not know what it does. The king commanded Maydayla to guard it with her life. She has offered to carry it back.”
“She is the commander.”
Krystee scuffed dirt off her boot. “It may be cursed. We debated whether ye should carry it. If evil spirits possess ye, we could overpower ye quickly. Maydayla would be more formidable.”
Roger shifted as Krystee put a hand on his arm. “Please do not be offended. I like ye. Ye have potential. I wanted ye to know because Maydayla views it as a burden and dangerous, and she doesn’t want ye to take the chance.”
Roger wondered at Krystee’s use of contractions like ‘don’t’, an archaic manner of speaking in Kingdom, but didn’t pursue it. He returned to the conversation. “You see my potential then?”
Krystee chortled. “Yes, Roger Jolly. Ye’ve piqued Manuel. Ye may surpass his skill one day with a sword. Taciturn has no ego we know of, not one he would show us, but ye have put Manuel on alert.”
“I did not mean to.”
“No, Maydayla has. Manuel has been reckless lately. ’Tis her way of showing him he needs to do his part as a member of this squad.”
Roger threw a stick into the fire. “Is it all I am to her? A lesson?”
“Do not misunderstand me. Maydayla chose ye because one of her extraordinary gifts is her ability to spot talent. We all recognize your talent. The army would’ve only trained ye so far. I think ye’ll join us in some epic battles.”
“I hope so.”
Krystee grinned. “Don’t be so hasty, young’un.”
The soldiers-turned-mercenaries journeyed across the river and toward the monastery the next day, filling the hours with idle chat and trying to avoid the subject of the upcoming battle. Their small band traveled at a brisk pace, hardly observing their surroundings.
Maydayla called for a short break to their march and they rested behind a clump of hibiscus bushes. Garmine plucked a leaf off the bush, popped it in her mouth, and chewed on it. “Did you not say you hailed from around here, Roger?”
“My farm is a half day’s march from where we camped last night. If you do not mind the detour and would like a decent supper, we could stop there on the way back.”
Manuel nudged Roger. “That depends on if you have a pretty sister or not.”
Maydayla squinted at Manuel. “Do not be crass.”
Manuel stroked his beard. “When a man’s blood runs a certain way, ’tis unwise to prevent it. Taciturn knows what I am talking about.”
Taciturn, hidden within the hood of his robe, said, “I do not have an opinion.”
“I know you do, but we will not talk about it today. Now Roger, any sisters?”
Manuel’s lack of etiquette insulted Roger. If he had had a sister, he would’ve challenged him. “Only a brother.”
Manuel kicked a stone on the path. “Unfortunate, but you are fairly rich. What about servants. A pretty kitchen maid, perhaps?”
“N…no.”
“You hesitated. Perhaps you are not speaking the truth.”
“Enough, Manuel,” said Garmine. “You are turning my stomach and insulting five of us, and possibly Taciturn, too. He is too polite to say so.”
“This conversation interests Taciturn more than he reveals. Forget what I said earlier, I think Roger may be hiding a sweet-mate at home. A domestic, perhaps?”
Roger shifted from one foot to the other. “I do not have a sweet-mate.”
Garmine spat out the grass and swung her bow to her other shoulder. “Let us move to another subject. We have made Roger uncomfortable.”
Roger didn’t need Garmine to defend him and hated Manuel’s smug expression. He rubbed his chin with the back of his hand, bothered to let the conversation end having them all think Radiance a lover. “As I said, I do not have a sweet-mate, but you mentioned a domestic, and I have a close friend who is a servant. She works for a neighbor, and we met at a well.”
The instant the words left his mouth, he regretted it. Manuel’s grin widened. “Oh ho, Roger Jolly, a secret affair with servants in another household? My how the rich keep themselves busy. Scandalous, my friend.”
Roger swallowed. “’Tis not like that. Radiance is not a scamp, but the definition of virtue.”
His companions froze and stared at him. He set his jaw, realizing he had said too much. Now they thought he loved Radiance Hartstone—a servant, of all things! Yet the thought of Manuel besmirching her virtue made the blood rush to his head. If his comrade spoke another word against her, he would challenge him to a duel!
Roger closed his eyes. Over a servant? He’d duel one of Kingdom’s best swordsmen because of Radiance? Absurd! But was it? The servant girl was honorable, innocent. For a few seconds, Roger debated his next move. Speak or remain silent?
He didn’t have to choose. Maydayla pushed herself away from a tree she had been leaning against. “Radiance is a beautiful name, Roger. I would like everyone to think of her for a moment. If we do not fight for people like this woman, then we have no purpose. It matters not to me whether Roger’s friend is a queen or servant. She relies on us to keep Kingdom safe. This is why we do what we do. It would be best to keep it in mind.” Her eyes landed on Manuel who turned away.
They marched on and no one talked to Roger for the rest of the journey to St. Cuthbert’s.
When they were thirty minutes from the monastery, they spotted robed men ahead mount horses and race off. No use chasing after them—they were too far ahead. Maydayla didn’t like to ride horses. She believed most of their enemies targeted the poor beasts in battle, yet now they had lost the element of surprise.
When they came within sight of the monastery, they spied a man in a black alb with his arms crossed waiting to greet them a hundred yards from the entrance. They approached him with Maydayla leading. She made a religious gesture before she spoke. “You are Abbot Fractal?”
“Maydayla Hytower. I am not surprised King Shade sent you. Your reputation precedes you even to the Plains of Isolation. You have earned the title Enforcer.”
“You understand why I am here?”
“Maydayla, are you just? Are you as wise as people say?”
“I am here for the staff.” Maydayla held out her hand.
“If you are, wise that is, then listen to my words. You seek no mere magic wand. The king’s great-grandfather gave it to us to protect and we have faithfully upheld his request for generations. Do you understand why the current king desires it so desperately?”
“The king has requested it. We will obtain it by force if necessary, but we would rather leave here with your blessing.”
“Kingdom abolished the divine right of kings and queens a century ago. The king does not speak with the authority of the Creator.”
Maydayla bowed her head. “Verily. Yet the staff is the property of the crown. You are merely safekeeping it. It rightfully belongs to the king.”
“It does not belong in Kingdom at all. An odious and profane artifact, an evil magician created the staff to overthrow the royal family generations ago. You have another option, Maydayla. Return to the king and tell him we have moved the staff. We shall send forth a small group of monks for him to chase. The staff shall remain safely guarded here.”
“I cannot leave it with you.”
Abbot Fractal uncrossed his arms. “I suspected you would respond thus. One day, you will reflect back on this mission and wish you had accepted my option. We will defend the monastery with our lives if we must, and I promise, you do not want to encounter the staff’s solitary guardian. Retreat, Maydayla.”
Roger gulped, picturing various creatures pacing in front of the staff: griffins, manticores, wyverns.
Maydayla drew her sword and held it to the abbot’s throat. “I do not want to shed blood, but I am loyal to the king.”
“Maydayla, you were born too late. You are too good for this king. Your talents are wasted on him when there were so many more worthy ancestors in his line.”
“Please, Abbot Fractal. The staff.”
“Kill me, Maydayla. ’Tis the only way to gain the staff.”
With a deep suspiration, Maydayla lowered her sword, turning around. “Perhaps you are right.”
Despite her acknowledgment, she signaled the squad with her eyes. With one swift motion, she spun around and stabbed the abbot, the sword passing through his heart and emerging from the other side. She killed the holy man before he realized she had attacked.
Garmine had her longbow ready and fired off a round of arrows to provide the rest of the squad cover to rush the monastery. They sprinted at full speed toward the two-story stone building. The blood surged through Roger’s veins, pounding in his head like the sound of two stones struck together underwater. Maydayla’s mercenaries each approached the monastery from different vantage points. They avoided the front door because Maydayla believed it would be the most heavily guarded. Roger and Becka crouched beneath their shields as arrows bounced off. He counted three monks fall to their death from the top of the structure—Garmine’s arrows piercing their chests. A crash of glass to his left signaled one of Maydayla’s squad had breached a downstairs room.
Roger reached the wall near a window, bent over, and put his hands against the stone, stiffening his back and waiting for Becka to approach. She screamed as she pounced onto his back and leaped from his shoulders to a window on the second floor. She latched onto the windowsill. Roger observed her squirm into the opening as he smashed the window at his level with his gauntlet and dove forward.
He regained his balance in an empty room, but he knew it wouldn’t remain unoccupied for long. The king had provided them with a diagram of the monastery, and they had selected a rendezvous point at the top of the stairs leading to the dungeon, the only logical place to guard the staff. He had to leave the room and rush down two hallways to the stairs. When he opened the door, two men approached him with battleaxes. He flipped two knives into their chests, and they collapsed in a pile. He vaulted over them, removing his knives with an adept motion, and scurried down the first hallway. A large, bald man with a sword greeted him around the corner and engaged him. The man had skill and his purpose wasn’t to defeat him as much as to slow him down. Roger slashed at the man’s legs, hoping to incapacitate, not kill, him.
The man kept Roger at bay long enough to allow a second man to rush down the hall in the opposite direction and before he knew it, he stood with his back against the wall fighting the two of them. Parrying blows with his shield from one and attacking with his sword at the other, Roger knew he couldn’t win this fight. Suddenly, a rope wrapped around his first opponent and yanked him backward onto Becka’s sword. The blade emerged from his chest, blood dripping from its point. The slaughter shocked Roger’s other foe, making him hesitate. Roger followed Maydayla’s advice of knocking an opponent unconscious rather than killing if possible. He swung his shield and struck the other monk’s face, his opponent’s head ricocheting off the wall, falling to his knees, and then to the floor.
Becka removed her sword from the monk’s body. “Stop playing. Get to the stairs.”
Roger and Becka arrived from the opposite direction of Taciturn and Manuel. They cut down their adversaries in seconds as other monks shouted behind them. Taciturn nodded his head for the other three to go down the stairs, indicating he would hold off anyone on this floor at the top of the stairs to keep open an escape route. They passed him downward. Taciturn swung his sword at the approaching monks, emitting a harmonious sound. The others had told him about Taciturn’s magical sword and the dirge-like music it made as it cut down its enemies.
Halfway down the stairs, the three of them realized Maydayla stood on the bottom step, fighting monk after monk. By the time they reached the basement, she had dispatched the last of them, and they stepped around the dead and dying guards. They found themselves in a makeshift chapel with rugs and religious icons, wooden kneelers before a statue of the Redeemer in his final sacrifice. Maydayla didn’t examine anyone or anything except the padlocked door at the other end of the room. She removed a pouch from her pocket and poured dust on the lock. The iron melted away like water as the powder touched it—a potent gift from the king’s magicians.
Beyond the door, a square sanctuary greeted them. Centrally-located, a monk knelt before a large silver icon hanging on a wall. To one side stood two poles affixed to the floor with U-shaped ends pointing upward, fashioned to hold up a weapon off the ground. In the crook of the poles lay a twisted, blackened piece of maple wood—a staff. The whittler of the staff had carved a man’s face with elongated features, wrathful eyes, and a mouth frozen in mid-scream at one end.
The staff-seekers approached the monk from behind, his hands out in supplication toward the holy image. Clearly, the guardian had heard the invaders but had not turned around.
Maydayla marched to the staff and reached for it but halted as the monk stood and blocked her progress. Their general froze, astonished at the identity of her opponent as if the holy man had thrown water in her face. Her sudden reaction caused the rest of the phalanx to pause and observe their solitary adversary. A woman, not a man, stood before them.
The woman flipped back her hood, revealing her long, dark curls, fair features, and elliptical-shaped countenance. Maydayla and the guard locked eyes with such intensity Roger wondered at first if she was mesmerizing their commander, but the disguised opponent’s features were the reason they had suspended their mission to retrieve the staff. The woman’s eyes, nose, and face resembled a scarless Maydayla—not quite a twin, but a close resemblance.
She spoke in a low tone, a voice both like and unlike their general. “Maydayla, do you not recognize me?”
“Cannot be.”
With a snap of the monk’s fingers, gnat-like creatures surrounded everyone but Maydayla. They swarmed Becka, Manuel, and Roger, causing a distraction while the holy woman remained focused on their superior. “You knew my path in life. Are you surprised?”
“Magdala?”
“’Tis. Your little sister, abbess of St. Constance, summoned to ensure you do not leave with the staff. Abbot Fractal guessed the king would send you, and he knew you would not listen to anyone here. Yet you may listen to me.”
Becka ignored her gnats and advanced on Magdala. She raised her sword and Magdala made a swirling motion with her hand. A large round shield materialized and Becka’s sword struck it with a metallic clang. She flicked her wrist and Becka’s rope rose on its own and twirled around her arms like a snake.
Maydayla overcame her shock of the propinquity of the guard. “Stop, Magdala.”
“Should you not be the one to pause, Maydayla? Pause and reflect. This staff is not for you nor the king.”
“’Tis the crown’s.”
“No, ’tis the devil’s, and he wants it back, sister. Will you not heed my warning?”
Maydayla blanched. “You do not know the king’s intentions. You are a magician, not an oracle.”
“I have witnessed the power of the staff myself. ’Tis an unholy artifact. It should be destroyed, but we have not discerned the method for its annihilation. Leave it to us. We will safeguard it.”
“It belongs in the king’s vault, not within an unprotected monastery where any enemy, including a demon, may access it. Hand it to me, Magdala. Do not make me take it forcefully.”
Maydayla’s sister raised a hand and the staff lifted off of its two pedestals and flew to the wall behind her, sticking to it. Maydayla pointed her sword at her sister. “’Tis an unwise decision. I will fight her alone. The rest of you obtain the staff.”
Manuel and Roger advanced toward the piece of wood as Becka struggled with her own ropes. Maydayla, with the speed of a snake, thrust her sword forward at Magdala’s side, but the tip of her weapon bent at a ninety-degree angle as it approached her sister, nearly slicing into Roger and causing him to suspend his attempt to gain the artifact.
Maydayla dropped her sword and retrieved her flail with a spiked ball at the end of a chain, swinging it around her head. It wouldn’t be as easy for her sister to deflect not being a straight blade. Magdala waved her hands in large concentric circles as she created a bigger and bigger shield, but Maydayla swung her arm underhanded like a softball pitcher. The ball and chain slid under the lower portion of the shield, one of its links catching on the border, and the sharp-edged sphere curved upward. It sliced into her stomach, not enough to be fatal but it ripped her tunic and blood started to flow.
Manuel reached the staff one step ahead of Roger and grabbed it from the wall. He tugged it free. “I have it!”
Magdala stumbled backward from her wound. At Manuel’s confirmation he had secured the staff, she made a gesture toward the man but her sister targeted her hand with a downward chopping motion. Maydayla’s hand struck Magdala’s fingers with a crunch like a boot on a large bug and disrupted whatever spell she planned to cast.
“Escape,” commanded Maydayla, eyes boring into her sister.
Magdala cuddled her injured hand. “Do not leave here with the staff. It has the power to raise all the dead in a cemetery. The king will use it—”
Maydayla’s fist connected with her sister’s chin and Magdala fell back. Manuel stood at the doorway and Becka, by this time, had unentangled herself. Roger approached his commanding officer, glancing at her unconscious sister. “Maydayla?”
Maydayla grabbed his shoulder and pointed him at the door. “I am of no concern when it comes to the mission. Run! Escape with the staff. I will cover our retreat but do not tarry for me.”
They raced for the door into the other room and up the stairs where Taciturn’s sword appeared to glow from the firelight. He dispatched one monk and stunned the other with his shield. He stepped away from the doorway, Krystee joined him, and they hurried toward an exit to the monastery.
Small packs of monks rounded a corner and shouted that the enemy had the staff. The group had no problem disposing of them, and after following a winding hall, they arrived twenty yards from a stained glass window. Their hearts lifted, their mission within sight of completing when a door in the hallway opened next to them. The monk examined the line of heroes, realizing he had emerged to the side of Manuel, the staff-bearer. The monk, a few years shy of twenty-years-old, moved fast and thrust his knife into Manuel’s ribs between the seams of his leather jerkin.
Manuel cried out and fell against the opposite wall. Taciturn turned around but Krystee stabbed the monk and pushed him back into the room. Roger, behind Manuel, examined the wound. The monk had angled his blow, striking his target mortally.
Roger flung Manuel’s arm over his shoulders as Becka took the staff from his hand. Maydayla examined Manuel, her eyes scanning his entire body and pausing at the wound then turning to engage pursuers.
Taciturn jumped through the stain glass window and the rest of the squad followed him, running at full speed. Outside, Roger lifted Manuel and rushed after his companions, his chest bursting from the extra weight. Maydayla emerged from the broken window, bleeding from both arms. Garmine shot arrows at any monk emerging from the monastery with deadly accuracy—a lawn full of the dead the results of her efforts.
They hastened away with the staff and their wounded comrade and, when they reached Garmine, they realized the monks had abandoned their cause. No one pursued them.
Manuel died two hours later. He cried near the end, unable to catch his breath. They had taken turns carrying him, and Maydayla held him when he perished. Roger was convinced she knew how long he would last and had taken the difficult chore upon herself to let him die in her arms.
“We should bury him here,” she said. “A shallow grave.”
Krystee peered in the direction of the priory. “The monks may catch us here if we tarry.”
“No, they are done trying to change our minds. They know they have lost and pursuing us will only result with more dead. They are not soldiers but men and women of the cloth. They now pray for a miracle.”
Becka and Roger dug the grave and placed Manuel at the bottom. Maydayla, staff in hand, presided. “Manuel, you deserve to be buried at the Hall of Heroes…not in an unmarked grave. I shall see to it you are moved one day. Meanwhile, rest my friend, knowing you have given your life for a greater purpose.”
She threw a handful of dirt on his body and the rest busied themselves with covering him with a thin layer of dirt. They left his buckler, sword, and shield for, as Maydayla said, “some lucky adventurer.” When they accomplished the deed, they marched across the river and back toward the castle.
They decided not to camp but march through the night, hoping to get the staff to safety. Without Manuel, Maydayla carried the staff herself. In the middle of the night, she called for an hour’s rest and they sat around a small fire, each lost in thought.
Garmine said, “Maydayla, reassure me. Manuel, did he die for a just cause? Why is this staff so important to the king?”
“He died a hero.”
“You did not answer my question.”
“Garmine, know your place.”
Unsatisfied with his commander’s paralipsis, Taciturn threw a handful of grass into the fire. “This is unlike you, Maydayla. We all must grieve in our own way. Garmine needs to understand. I do as well.”
Everyone regarded Taciturn. This was the longest string of sentences he had ever uttered in Roger’s presence. Maydayla didn’t acknowledge him but clasped her hands together. “Two of you were down there. Tell him.”
Becka deferred to Roger. He rubbed his chin with his knuckles. “They said the staff had the ability to raise all the dead in a cemetery.”
Maydayla picked up the staff at her feet and held it before them. “Behold a necro-staff, a weapon to raise an army of corpses. It belongs in the king’s vault along with other dangerous artifacts.”
Garmine raised her chin. “But…will it remain there?”
“To suggest otherwise, Garmine, is treason,” said Krystee, observing Maydayla glare at the archer.
Maydayla stood, cutting our respite short. “Let us continue.”
As the sun rose, the tired squad dragged themselves across the bridge to the royal town. In the back of the ragged group, Roger and Maydayla walked together. After this mission, Roger predicted the people would believe Maydayla a larger-than-life heroine, and he would forever be associated with her, but he had a question and he didn’t know how to address it. He cleared his throat multiple times, remarked on the weather, and grew silent.
“If you have a query, Roger Jolly, ask it.”
Roger swallowed. “I am concerned with what has transpired on this mission. Manuel’s death cuts deeply, especially for an evil staff. Moreover, you had to fight your sister for it.”
“Did you know my parents were imprisoned in the dungeons? They sold me to help me gain my freedom. I started life as a kitchen maid. Along came Magdala when I turned four. They bargained to send her to the religious believing my life as a slave beneath my abilities. I have met her three times since. She visited my parents at the castle then sought me out. The last time we met I was thirteen. She knew a little magic then, and I had skill with a sword. We parted the best of friends. I love my sister.”
“I am happy we were not forced to kill her, although I think she would have killed you if given the chance.”
“I doubt it. The religious now believe our possession of the staff serves a higher purpose. Everything has a set place and time, including unfortunate events. All transpires to the ends of the Creator.”
“Do you believe that?”
“Roger, did you know the moment I decided to recruit you for our missions? Your swordsmanship did not persuade me although it far exceeds men of your age and experience. No, you once beat a man of a lower standing when he asked you to a duel after you beat him at cards. You beat him handily away from the crowd and you offered your hand in peace.”
“That was a private matter.”
“There are no private matters in the king’s army. Taciturn’s penchant for women to forget the people he kills, Garmine’s early career as a pickpocket, and there are far worse secrets about me. When we reach home, the army will think you and this servant girl Radiance are lovers. But there are secrets we must not tell. The fight with my sister, or this staff are not to be repeated. One day, you will have one of your own you are unwilling to share. These things we keep and the rest we let go. Do you understand?”
Roger thought he did. His eyes drifted to the staff, a twisted, blackened piece of wood. The carved features of a tortured yet evil soul captured his attention. Maydayla would return it to the king, believing his sophistry, and he would, in turn, give it to his most powerful necromancer. In the future, after certain secrets were kept and others revealed, Roger would stand with Radiance on a battlefield, bracing himself for the onslaught of a battalion of the dead to reach them.