Chapter 33
"Philip!" I'm shouting through the door, banging until my palms are bruised, "Philip you scoundrel, get back here!" Deep down I know it's futile. He's gone, and anyone else that may hear me wouldn't want to save me.
So the traitor, this whole time, was Philip. The ambush, the bloodshed, the slaughter, it's all because of him. He's the reason this plan might not work, and it's my fault for trusting him in the first place.
Is Thompson's faction even here? Or did Philip lead them into the onslaught before they even reached the castle? Did he steal the flare to trick us? To lure me away?
It doesn't matter, all that matters at this instance is escape. The door's not budging, no matter how much I throw at it, and therefore my best bet has to be the window. Jumping out of a second-story window isn't the brightest idea, but if I manage to pry it open, I could probably take advantage of something. Anything.
There's an intense amount of dirt trapped in the crack of the window, sealing the pane shut. Jamming the blade of my sword into the rotted frame, I chip away at the grime while listening to the screams of fallen soldiers outside. In no world, this one or the one before, will I allow my friends and fellow soldiers to perish because I was bested by a window.
"Come on," I'm muttering under my breath, sweating as I continue to pry, "come on!" After one last heave, the pane finally flies open, filling the room with the sounds of battle, and the cool air of a raucous night. An expletive is released from my mouth as I stumble forward, nearly falling at the sudden movement.
Without wasting time, I lean out of the window, surveying the area for literally any possible way for me to escape. There's nothing under me but pavement, so jumping isn't an option, but a little more than fifteen meters away from me is another balcony, an awfully important one if I recall correctly. If I can somehow make it over there, I'd be standing outside of Lambhurst palace's throne room. There's no question of if it's possible, it's a question of how I'll do it. I have to, or there's no chance of saving him.
As the air fills with the scent of iron, blood spilling on the ground, adrenaline fills my veins. It's one mad dash to a growth of vines, about two arm lengths away from the window I'm currently trapped in, and leading all the way to the balcony. Well...a footswing length away from the balcony at least. There's no other option than to grit my teeth and bear it.
Without thinking more about it – about whether I'd reach the vine, or whether the vine would even support my weight – I held my breath and launched. One foot pushing off the sill with the same desperation and urgency as when I slashed that man on the field below me, as though my life depended on it.
I force my eyes open. I know that if I looked away, then I'd miss the vine. My fingers would graze the wall and my side would brush the shrubbery, but I won't be able to grab it. Though, I may not have the nerves to saddle myself if I don't close my eyes. I might just crumple into a ball and drop to the ground the second my feet dangle in the air. And I wouldn't be able to help it, of course. It's human nature, fear, and even though I'm supposed to be some dauntless knight, under the armor, fanciful words, and bravado, I am a human.
But my eyes have to stay open.
They have to stay open until my hands close around the vine.
And they both do.
Swinging boundlessly through the open air, allowing some great strength fueled by adrenaline and perhaps a bit of bile, I suck in a breath as I try not to look at my impending death below. If I let go, I'll fall, and I'll die. Simple as that. The only challenge now is making sure I don't plummet. If only my hands could let go of this fucking vine.
I'm paralyzed. Unable to move forward, no chance in moving back. If I don't move soon, the vine will eventually give out, and it'll be over. I have to move.
Gritting my teeth, I swing an arm ahead of me, grasping at straws and leaves and anything my hands will close around. My first fistful holds true, strong and firm just as when i first leapt from the window. When I brought my other hand over, however, the vines from the wall rip from its roots, detaching from the bricks as does half of my body. I would've sunk farther down had I not clung on so stubbornly, petrified of what it might feel like to become one with the pavement.
Would I be a part of the garden I once enjoyed walking through? Buried under the gladioli and roses that litter the paths? As half of my body dangles helplessly from the wall, I can't help but smell the pollen in the air, mixing with blood as it swirls around me like some macabre perfume of war.
No. I will hold on, and I will make it to the balcony. The longer I stall, the looser my grip. One good swing and I'm there.
Rocking my legs back and forth, I kick off the wall with about as much grace as a dying gazelle, building the momentum in my body necessary to close the gap. Once I've garnered as much height as possible, it's just a matter of courage.
One...I swing forward, contorting my face in necessary focus.
Two...I swing backward, baring my teeth as I suck air through the gaps.
Three...I let go, launching myself through the air in a length greater than my own height. Just grab it. Just grab the awning and I'm alive. And I do.
My chest crashes into the concrete railing, knocking the wind from my lungs as I desperately hold onto the awning. It's taking everything in me not to peel backwards, but I make it. I prevail. I'm free from my prison but not yet free from everything I've overlooked.
This is the best chance to right those wrongs, though, as behind these patio doors is the throne room. And just my luck, the lights are on.
This isn't the moment to burst into a room, guns blazing, it's the moment to hang back and assess the situation while waiting for reinforcements, waiting for an opening. I hug my body to the wall, crouching behind pillars under the guise of the darkened night. There's too much to pay attention to tonight that isn't a lone girl that managed to sneak her way onto a patio, whoever's in the room should think so too.
Looking through the glass, scanning the room, my eyes widen at the sight. Rista is there, seated beside her son Tristen in the thrones meant for the King and Queen. Margarite's standing behind Rista's chair, saying something to her I can't quite make out. It doesn't matter, though, as Rista seems to be doing her damndest to ignore her. She's played her part, barred us from the resources that would have guaranteed ourselves victory, and now that we're in the midst of hellfire, Rista must know that there's nothing more that Margarite can do for her.
That doesn't stop her, however, from shamelessly trying to win her favor. It's a futile effort, really, like a game of chess. The queen has all the power, even over her own king. Her own son isn't worth more to her than herself, let alone one measly pawn.
There's a guard standing in the corner, and a lump settles in my throat when I see who it is. None other than my very own brother dearest, Garrison. The betrayal has had quite a bit of time to settle, harden and dry in place as a stone in my heart, and yet just looking at him standing there so dutifully, the anger reignites. Like a flame in my chest, it boils the blood in my veins.
I may not be the same Amalie he remembers, but he doesn't know that. How could Garrison protect the man that wishes his sister dead? How could he stand there, ready to cut me down if I were to get in his beloved's way? What is it about Tristen that is so amazing, he's willing to throw away his family?
It doesn't matter, anymore. It doesn't matter because I have my own beloved I swore to protect, and Garrison's affiliations will not change my decision on any matter. He may be my brother, but Cole's my future, and I too will cut down anyone that gets in his way.
They're discussing something, Tristen and Rista, and I can't decipher what exactly, I just know that it's important enough for Rista to have such a stern expression. Thanks to Philip, she was ready for our attack, and we weren't ready to be countered. Whatever they have to discuss, it must be truly important if Rista were still unsure of tonight's outcome. Though, main characters tend to have that effect on people, I suppose. Even the mere threat of Cole being on Lambhurst's property should be enough to rattle fear in them.
Whatever conversation was being had was quickly interrupted, however, as the double doors from the hall burst open. Two palace guards enter, one pushing a screaming Percival, and another dragging a beaten and bruised Grace. Bile rises in my throat at the sight. Her left eye is swollen shut, red bursting on her cheek where she undoubtedly narrowly avoided someone's blade. She's covered in mud and tatters, and lord only knows the true extent of her injuries given she's struggling to even stand.
Percival's holding his arm, blood pooling through his fingers from a gash that must be much deeper than I can see from here. Aside from that, however, he seems relatively unscathed, not including his tousled hair.
The guard throws Grace to the ground where she's barely able to prop herself up. Percival calls for her, fear and anger in his voice. I can't tell if I'm imagining it, but I swear he's crying for her. The guard holding his hands in place pull Percival back, buckling his legs as he forces my knight to his knees. His eyes are still focused on Grace, however, and he only stops screaming for her when one of the guards punches him square in the jaw.
Rista waves away the guards, leaving my battered allies in the room. She points for Garrison, and it doesn't take a tactician to understand the order. Garrison unsheathes his sword, and Percival's spitting obscenities at them, his hands now tied behind his back. The poor man couldn't fight back even if he wanted to.
But he's still fighting.
It doesn't make sense, not for purposes of my own self preservation, not for the logical course of action that would result in our faction's success, but I simply can't stand back and watch. I can't be content in allowing Garrison's sword to soak in Percival's blood, in relinquishing Grace's fate to the hands of a sickened narcissist's orders. No. I don't care how stupid it is, I can't just stand here.
As Garrison's sword lifts over Percival's neck, itching to slice down, the patio doors swing open. It's my foot that kicked it open, but it's still startling nonetheless. It's enough of a distraction to garner everyone's attention, even Garrison mid murder.
"Amy?" He says, a softness appearing in his eyes.
It's enough of a distraction for Percival to launch from his heels, ramming the top of his head into Garrison's jaw, connecting with a grotesque crack. My brother stumbles back, and I take the opportunity to slice through Percival's bindings.
"How kind of you to join us," Rista says, still sitting in her throne nonchalantly. "You look a mess. Leaves in your hair, trimmings on your trousers. A young lady ought not to wear trousers, you know?"
"How noble of you to talk of etiquette, Rista. At least I never attempted to kill my own son."
"The only son I have is right where he was destined to be. Beside me. I can't seem to say the same for your prince, chivalry lacking where the wounds are deep."
"He is the rightful king."
She tilts her head, placing a hand on the side of her cheek. "But you are no lady. You are merely the gnat buzzing in my ear. You. Are. Nothing."
Tristen rises to his feet now, charging at me with a dagger I didn't see him concealing. Percival steps between us, meeting Tristen's dagger with his suddenly unsheathed sword. "Don't touch My Lady," he spits in the prince's face, teeth gritting in pain and fury. His arm is still soaking his uniform in red, but he persists despite the injury. It's such an unhinged side of Percival, one I've never seen before, and the intensity in his eyes even makes Tristen waver a bit.
I can only really look at the action for a second before Garrison charges towards me, our swords connecting in sparks.
"You don't wish to kill me," I say, effort straining in my arms. "I can see it in your eyes."
"I didn't wish to kill you," he corrects, and a genuine sadness washes over me. "I was your first sparring partner. I taught you everything you know. There is no defeating me, Amy, and I will not hesitate to hurt you if you continue to be so stubborn. This isn't training anymore."
"Then come at me brother. Show me the monster you've become."
Garrison looks away from my eyes, a glossy layer of tears appearing for only a second before he shakes it away. "So be it." My brother kicks me in the stomach, knocking me backwards in time for him to readjust his grip, slicing upwards rather than down this time. I fumble backwards as he continues to swing at me, and I can't do anything but hold my sword across my chest, fending off every attack knowing I'm done for if he manages to strike me.
"You're a knight aren't you?" Garrison yells. "Then fight me!"
Something snaps. I won't be able to best him in regular strength combat, I'd be fighting a losing battle. I'll have to think creatively. I'll have to survive.
And if I'm good at one thing, evidently, it's surviving.
I relinquish my sword, dropping it to the ground as I dive between Garrison's legs. His stance was wide enough to center himself, but also wide enough for me to fit through. There was a moment before he realizes what happened, and I took that moment to latch onto his arm. I jump on the back of his knee, placing my entire body weight on his leg while pulling his own sword away from him.
Garrison folds to the ground, releasing his sword as he braces himself. It doesn't affect him much, however, as he simply tucks and rolls on his side, picking up my discarded sword as he rises to his feet.
I charge at him before he gets the chance to fully adjust himself. Again, there's no beating his strength or size, but I can at least try to outsmart him.
That brute wouldn't know a smart decision if it kissed him on the lips.
I launch towards him, jumping off his bent thigh as I wrap a leg around his neck. I bring my other leg up and cross them at the ankles, tightening my grip on his neck as he uses his loose hand to claw at my calves. I'm not letting go, however, I'm not letting go unless we're both going down.
Smashing the blunt handle into the side of Garrison's head, I continue to bring the sword down until red blooms on his temple. Garrison stumbles slightly to the side as he brings his sword up, slicing my hip as he flails the blade desperately.
Pain shoots through my side, and my grip on his neck loosens enough for him to toss me to the floor. The air escapes my lungs as I come collapsing, my back slamming full force on the polished wood.
Garrison's standing over me, raising his blade as I'm still gasping for air. My muscles are burning, my lungs wheezing, and I can't even feel my hips anymore, at least not where I'm probably bleeding out.
It wasn't until Tristen screams behind me, the commotion between Percival and the second prince still ongoing. I glance behind me and see a gash on Tristen's thigh, his dagger clattering to the floor as Percival lifts his sword back to finish him off.
"Tristen!" Garrison screams a blood curdling scream, one of genuine love and worry. In that moment, he forgets about me completely and charges towards Percival without so much as a warning, the man's back is still turned towards us.
Garrison brings his sword down, Percival just barely blocking it in time. Tristen stumbles backwards, gripping his thigh as he sucks air in through his teeth. The poor prince was never made for fighting, he was too polished and pampered for that, and it truly shows.
Garrison manages to knick Percival's cheek before he could do more damage, and I can see the frenzied eyes that fill his worried expression. He wants to kill him, it's all he can think about, at least that much is clear.
Percival's leaning back as he exerts effort he doesn't have. It's not a fair fight. Garrison's untouched as he spent the night residing safely in the throne room with his lover, meanwhile Percival's arm is nearly detached as his face drains of color, surely from the copious amount of blood he's lost.
Garrison digs a hand into Percival's wound, twisting the exposed flesh as he forces my ally to his knees. Percival lets out a scream of anguish, his voice garbling in his throat as a cry gets caught is his throat.
I bring my own sword over my head, aiming for my brother's neck, but he spots me from the corner of his eye and ducks away. Percival collapses to the ground as Garrison refocuses his attention on me.
His barrage of attacks doesn't relent, even if I am his target. Whatever to get to Percival, I suppose, whatever to protect Tristen.
He swings wildly, anger fueling his movements. There's no rhyme or reason in his attacks, no predicting what he might do next, it's only a matter of time before he's backed me into a wall, rolling away within an inch of my life. My blade meets his on one of his strikes, using the wall to keep me upright as I push back with all of the strength I could possibly muster.
Neither of us gain much ground in that instance, nothing really moving. It wasn't until Percival called out Grace's name did I waver a bit.
I rip my gaze away from Garrison, turning towards the wall where Grace was dropped. Margarite is behind her now, hair bunched in her hand, dagger placed against Grace's neck. Grace is still too weak to fight back, all she can really manage is a panicked grasping as she reaches for Margarite's hand, the one closed around her hair.
My eyes darken in anger.
She was the first friend I ever made in this world, the only woman I could laugh with about the duties of being a knight. She had worked so hard to prove to her brothers, to herself, to the world, that she was strong enough. That she was good enough to become a knight. The idea of seeing her meet her end, of watching her die before she could see what she was fighting for, I couldn't bear it.
I push Garrison off of me, kicking him in the stomach as I lunge towards Margarite. Her dagger wavers as she sees me, sword in hand slicing just below her jaw as she attempts to evade me. My blade narrowly misses the vital area of her neck, leaving Margarite to stumble backwards in shock.
She releases Grace's hair, grabbing her own wound instead. I bring my sword up once more, making a mental note to myself: I will not miss twice.
Just as I'm about to swing towards Margarite, Garrison appears in my peripherals, the glint of his sword shining in the corner of my eyes. His arms are raised, just a step behind me, and I don't have time to react, I don't have time to block it.
He's going to kill me, and I can't stop it. I can't react, I can't save my friends. It's a horrible thing, that final moment where you know you're about to die and yet can't do anything about it. No one tells you the peace you make with yourself in that moment. The acceptance that this is the end. In my final moment, all I can feel is regret for never seeing Cole on the throne, for never being the Queen he deserves.
Garrison's sword comes downward.
And his blade spills blood on the ground, slick with red as it comes away.