Ajest, page 2
Time was fluid, if not unreliable. These concrete-thinkers basically lived in the moment and struggled with the whole concept of a need to know anything. Though a cranky bunch, all to a one accepted him unconditionally, for whoever and whatever he was.
A first in his life.
Since it worked out so well, he continued on the same bent, going along to get along, playing out the proverbial roll of the dice in faux medieval land, not a historical artifact to be found anywhere.
Give or take a few random weeks, about a twelvemonth later – medieval speak for a year – he gave up on his makeshift calendar. Some days bled into the next with a blink of the eye, while other days lasted an eternity. And even if he’d wanted to put up with the frustration, he couldn’t keep up with his wall markings anyway.
His barracks kept changing.
He traveled the battling circuit now, blood sport his specialty. And, he was good at it. Wholesale slaughter released his formerly suppressed rage, fed his latent hostilities. No vocation test was necessary to tell him he had an aptitude for the kill; the trail of his victims more than sufficed.
All those private fencing lessons he’d taken in boarding school were finally paying off. In proof, he was still alive, limbs intact. Having all his body parts didn’t make Ajest any prettier, but it did give him a leg up on the limping wounded. Good thing, too. Competition for mercenary gigs around here was fierce.
Severed heads rolling. Eviscerated entrails oozing. Torsos hacked to smithereens. He did it all. Generally, he fucked up whoever he was told to fuck up. A slaying machine – that was him. Dispensing pain was his business card. His reputation preceded him wherever he went.
His softer side, that mushy inner core from before?
Gone.
When it came to making war, the lackluster rich boy had blossomed into an over-achiever, his sword…his loyalty…bought by the highest bidder and lasting for as long as he was paid. And the same double-major in the obsolete that made for a conversational ice-breaker in own time had catapulted him into a rock star here.
Chapter Three
The metallic scrape of weapons against weapons sent Ajest bolting upright in his lousy – literally – barrack pallet.
Man, the bugs in his straw tick were jumping tonight.
High-pitched screams squeezing through the narrow arrowloop had him pulling on his mud-encrusted boots.
Here we go again. Time to go kill somebody…
A small-time warlord looking to make a big name for himself around the campfire, maybe get a little street cred and pick up some followers too, was laying siege to Lord Krandel’s keep. Under the cover of night, this nobody’s men-at-arms had crossed the moat and breached the fortress’s inside walls. A kill fest now ensued outside in the courtyard.
His adrenaline spiking to the max, Ajest reached for his newly-honed broadsword and launched himself into the thick of things, imposing his NBA stature and NFL brawn and IBF reflexes on anyone unlucky enough to get in his way.
Fuck, but he loved his job.
His 21st century contemporaries used to vent about toxic work environments, about the incivility of the modern world. Shit. They didn’t know the meaning of “cutthroat”. And Ajest wore the scars on his neck to prove it.
A fast swipe at his face produced a bloodied gauntlet. His vision now clear of unidentifiable guts, Ajest spied Wydon, the commander of Lord Krandel’s small resident army.
Ajest shouldered up to him. Together they silently fought their way to the keep’s entrance. When they reached the Great Hall, they were the last two swordsmen standing, a distinction that boded poorly for the castle’s inhabitants.
Ajest regarded the commander. “Wassup, man?”
“The king and queen are in the tower, cloistered in Lord Krandal’s solar.”
“Holy crap!”
“Not wishing to give their presence away,” Wydon continued, “the royal party rode here incognito and with limited personal guards in attendance. A traitor is in our midst.”
“Not following.”
“Regardless of the precautions, someone at the keep found out the royal family was in residence and sent word to the warlord Drolan.”
“Drolan? Who’s he?” Ajest hacked off the hand of an advancing man-at-arms. “Never heard of the dude.”
“Gadzooks! How fortunate you are not to have crossed paths with that one. The blackheart means to declare himself liege and take over all these lands one day. There is no stopping him.”
“I still don’t get it. I mean, what’s the deal? This is an outlier fortress. Everyone knows Lord Krandel has neither the manpower nor the weaponry to defend the royal couple. So why’d the king and queen stop here?”
“We were the closest fortress. The queen left her second lying-in at court to care for her mother in deathbed. She was halfway to her destination when her birth pangs started. I heard she has already given birth. A boy. Quickly thereafter, her majesty succumbed to childbed fever. The king expired next – an arrow to his already broken heart.”
Lest the commander misunderstand his modern colloquialisms, Ajest stop jerking him around and reverted to the medieval language of his game-playing youth. “The royal babe?”
“Dead as well. All that remains of the royal family is the young daughter.”
At the mention of a surviving kid, Ajex snapped to attention. “What can I do, Commander Wydon?”
“Take up a position outside yonder solar. You are not to leave Lord Krandel’s side until the end, bound to arrive soon. Your stalwart presence will offer his lordship and his noble wife hope…and a little more time on this earth for the royal daughter…before we all perish.”
“Hold up! I’m all about doing my job, Commander. But perish? Un-un. Who said anything about perishing? I didn’t sign on for any damn perishing.”
Raising his sword, Wydon frowned darkly.
Chop-chop. There went Ajest’s head.
They didn’t take kindly to traitors around here, especially if the traitor’s desertion occurred in the heat of battle.
Too bad. Ajest wasn’t a vassal like Commander Wydon. Ajest was a paid-as-he-went mercenary. As such, he hadn’t sworn to defend his knight unto death. He was here temporarily, a hired gun, as it were, like in America’s wild, wild west, only with a sword in his hand, not a Remington. He was under no obligation to risk his life for Lord Krandel, a nice enough guy, but…
Ajest had no mastiff in this dog fight. He didn’t give a shit who won or lost. He was only here for the money. And the impending death of the knight who paid his salary would sever even that loose contract.
Playing this scene smart might save his ass.
No insignia on his armor or helm identified him as one of Lord Krandel’s men-at arms. In the chaos of battle, Ajest could fake out Drolan, pretend to be on the warlord’s side. Then, no one any the wiser, he could sneak out the gates.
Or, Ajest could actually go over to the other side, the winning side, the dark side, sign up with this Drolan fella and go conquer the immediate world. The warlord had to be scary good at what he did.
Ajest was a strong and powerful warrior. As far as he knew – although, thus far, no one had bothered explaining the game rules to him – he wasn’t immortal. He could actually bite it here. Hence, flipping everyone off and walking into the sunset.
But, man, that little girl. Leaving her soured his belly.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
Ajest cut a bloody swath to the Great Hall, bludgeoned bodies piled high in his wake. Two at a time, he climbed the rounded rear stairs to the embattled lord’s solar.
A scene of horror awaited Ajest inside. The newborn and his parents lay on the floor, all three royals dead. By the look of things, Krandel’s lady was a goner and the lordship himself wasn’t long for this world. Mortally wounded, the keep’s overlord had placed the little girl behind him in an attempt to fight off all-comers for the child.
Then Krandel crumbled. And one of Drolan’s men-at-arms was raising his blade to the little girl’s heart.
Oh, no. Ajest wasn’t putting up with this shit. Kids didn’t get killed in any role-playing games he participated in.
Stepping between the descending knife and the little girl, Ajest dispatched her would-be-killer to hell.
Blood trickling from Krandel’s mouth, the lord gurgled, “Long live the queen.”
“Huh?”
“On her flank, this female child bears the royal birthmark, signifying her rightful ascension to the throne. I charge you with the sovereign’s care.” With that, the lord gasped his last breath.
The corpses were really racking up, and the little girl stared wide-eyed at the heap.
Not knowing what else to do, Ajest gathered her against his side.
No tears, no hysteria, she just stood there all hunched in on herself, saying nothing. Weren’t sad or hurt or frightened kids supposed to cry?
Not this too-solemn little girl.
He clumsily patted her back. “Listen up, kid. Gotta leave. Right now. Gotta go. No time to waste.”
She continued her stoic vigil.
Drawing her behind him, Ajest headed for the door. A few kills later, he stumbled outside the main fortress, heading for the stable.
All the mounts were gone, stolen most likely by the castle’s fleeing inhabitants.
After slinging the slight girl upside down over his shoulder, a sack of spuds riding the small of his back, her skull banging rhythmically against his spine, Ajest left too. His priority was keeping her alive, not showing her queenly respect.
When he didn’t think the situation could get any worse, wolves closed in on them. And Ajest had a hard choice to make. One involved him, and one involved her. He couldn’t fight those beasts off, not with a near catatonic little girl in tow.
He settled her down on her tiny, little girl’s feet. “Listen up, kid.”
Christ. He didn’t even know her name! Never even asked. And it was too late now for polite introductions, too late to humor her out of her funk, too late to buddy her up to win her confidence. She was statue-rigid with fright and grief.
“Look at me, kid.”
But she didn’t look at him, not anywhere near his direction. Instead, her blank stare was off somewhere in the trees.
The motto here was: when a shit-storm hits, it hits hard.
First, he’d been transported – or whatever the fuck this trip back in time was rightly called – and then he’d been saddled with this too-quiet, orphaned queen. After living the cushy life of advantage, he was unprepared to deal with any of it.
In a gaming clutch, he’d been good at faking out his role-playing opponents. Once, he’d earned extra points for a move that won him the victory in the end.
He gave a similar strategy his best shot here. “Hear those howls? Those belong to big, hungry wolves. There’s pack of ‘em out there, and those wild dogs aim to run us to ground. And they will, cuz I reek of blood. And wolves have a keen sense of smell. They scent the kill off my clothes – make that garb. Off my skin too. See, I can’t stay here with you. But I’ll be back to get you later. Count on it. I give you my word on that, sweeting. I’ll come back for you. Fucking right. And that’s a promise.”
After that long-winded speech, Ajest set the little girl high up on a nearby tree. “Shimmy up the branches, kid. Get as far away from the ground as you can.”
Damn. Who would’ve thought it?
Like no kid of his 21st century would’ve done, she did exactly what he told her to do. In her courtly tunic of rich royal blue, her hair entirely covered in a starched, white linen veil called a wimple, she climbed the damn tree limbs, one small hand over the other, until she neared the top.
Ajest left her then, and he didn’t look back. Didn’t dare to. His stomach lurched. His knees had liquefied. Gazing straight ahead, he raced away, his broadsword unsheathed and raised above his head.
With visions of salivating fangs and snapping jaws dancing in his head, Ajest abandoned the future queen of the land to the wolves.
Chapter Four
Originally, Persicaria considered stealing a steed and galloping far, far away from Drolan’s battle encampment. Upon deeper reflection, though, she dismissed the plan as inadvisable. True, that method of escape would have placed a greater distance between herself and the warlord who had captured her but…horse thievery was punishable by death.
Death!
Should she be retaken, this would have presented a problem.
That vicious animal had already abducted, then imprisoned her under wretched conditions, she would not give the warlord the satisfaction of killing her as well.
So – adopting a conservative approach, she took flight on foot. If he found her now, Drolan would stop just short of killing her. After whipping her bloody for her escape attempt, he would then force her to whore for his men-at-arms in the comfort tent, whatever that signified.
What would be done to her behind the flaps of that ominous tent? What did it mean to whore?
Persicaria shuddered. Mayhap it was better not to understand the specifics.
She did understand this much – should Drolan retake her, she would never break free of his encampment again. Or, at least not for a goodly while. The warlord’s battle for dominion over this land and its peoples had already lasted longer than anyone’s predictions…
Save for those of the wizard who had raised Persicaria from her early childhood.
Long ago, Jahur had foreseen a bloody confrontation between two powerful adversaries – the warlord Drolan and the warrior Ajest. Prior to his death last year, the sorcerer had gone on to predict that the battling between the two men would end with the ascension of a new ruler to the throne, and that this sovereign’s governance would extend across all of Nael, from woodlands to sea to mountain range to sweeping desert, as once it had done. Additionally, the wizard had foreseen the reign being one of peace and tolerance and prosperity – true harmony.
Who would this new ruler be?
A quandary. Persicaria had tried to pry and cajole and sulk the information out of the sorcerer. Each and every time, he met her pleading with wizardly silence.
Jahur could be a tad irritating at times.
As she raced for freedom through the dense woodlands, Persicaria wiped at her suddenly misty eyes. She had loved the wizard despite his obstinacies. He was the only parent she had ever known or, at least remembered.
Apart from the coronation of this new leader, whoever that leader might be, Drolan seemed the more likely victor in the fight for military supremacy. After all, how could a single holdout against the warlord’s tyranny – Ajest – possibly triumph over Drolan’s superior might and maliciousness?
Of course, by all accounts, Ajest was a killer in his own right, a raging monster who blood-slaughtered for the enjoyment of it. It was said, and she had no to reason to question the allegations, that Ajest pillaged holy nunneries, killing young novitiates and elderly abysses alike at prayer.
Obviously, Ajest and Drolan were both cut from the same murderous cloth. Why should she trust either of them?
Because Jahur did. The wizard trusted Ajest.
On his deathbed, but still of sound mind despite his impending demise, the wizard said in his weak and feeble voice:
“Child – hearken to my words here. Once upon a time, a king and his queen ruled with justice and compassion over all their subjects, magical and non-magical alike. Everything was different then, better then. The land must be united again under one ruler. For if the country remains on its present course, a divided state with many contentious factions forever at odds with one another, catastrophe will befall all of us. Ajest will ensure this does not happen.”
A ringing endorsement of the warrior.
Before gulping his final labored breath, Jahur had made her swear an oath to do everything in her power to help Ajest.
Everything in her power?
What power?
It was not as though Jahur had bequeathed any of his otherworldly abilities to her. Far from it. The wizard had never given hint of his sorcerer’s knowledge, never mind mentoring her in those skills. He had kept her in the dark about all his bespelling. So how could she possibly do battle against Drolan, a larger-than-life warlord and conqueror of many? And how could she possibly join forces with Ajest, a faceless warrior, who, through his actions, had shown himself to own all the morals of a reptile but without any of a lizard’s good looks?
The warrior was past ugly. Or, so she had heard. Having never had the displeasure of actually meeting this Ajest – few had, unless they were at the end of his killer’s blade – she relied on gossip and innuendo for her facts. Magical creatures, her only companions, did so like to talk…
Persicaria was indebted to the wizard for his many kindnesses. With that said, Jahur might have done them both a favor and assigned someone a little more appropriate to the task of reuniting a warring realm.
Just look at her! No magical abilities. Nothing in the way of beguiling comeliness…
No fish gills grew out of her neck or anything silly like that. It was only that…her appearance was largely forgettable. Her features were even and average, as was everything else about her. Ordinary brown hair with matching nondescript brown eyes would hardly earn her the rampaging warrior’s notice, not even in an otherwise empty chamber. Perchance, a good thing, if the tales about him were true…
As for her strength, she could not lift a broadsword if her life depended on it, and she had sneaky suspicion it might if she did as Jahur said.
Long and short, all she had going for her was a firm resolve to try and help Ajest.
When a fierce storm blew-up from out of nowhere even that resolve, as limited as it was, proved fragile.
Huddled in on herself, Persicaria groused inwardly:
