The Lost Kingdom of Bamarre

  We stood in an uneasy silence.

  Lord Tove looked around at the barren landscape and up at the empty sky. “I propose we not give it . . .”

  I thought he’d like to call every Bamarre an it.

  “. . . a weapon and begin the match quickly.”

  We had to armor ourselves first. Sir Lerrin lowered the chain-mail shirt over my head while Annet buckled on the sabatons.

  How strange it felt to be served, as if I were nobility again. Sir Lerrin and Willem knelt to fasten the greaves around my shins. Drualt—or the specter—appointed himself monitor and checked to see if the armor had been pulled snug enough.

  Lord Tove was ahead of me, with the cuisses already around his thighs.

  “Oho!” King Canute roared. His bowstring sang.

  Something squawked.

  A swarm of gryphons flew toward us, excepting one that had outstripped the others, who plummeted.

  We ran to the donkeys for our bows, quivers, long knives, and swords. The armor slowed me. I wished I had none or all. I pushed a knife and a sword into my belt and took a bow and a quiver of arrows. Annet, who knew no archery, just took a sword and a knife.

  Lady Mother loosed an arrow and hit her prey. Hooray! Lord Tove killed another. We were on the same side again.

  Annet stood next to me. Would she be able to wield her sword?

  The creatures were almost overhead. As I took aim, the battle spell fell over me. I hit my mark—heard laughter, and the beast vanished.

  “Some are spectral!” I shouted.

  They wouldn’t kill us but would waste precious arrows. How many gryphons were real?

  I glanced around for Drualt, brother or specter, who was at our donkey, pulling out a weapon. When he finished, the beast, sensible creature, galloped off after its fellow.

  The monsters were descending. I shot another arrow, and this time a real gryphon died.

  “Oho!” King Canute roared.

  Grinding laughter. Oh, no! An army of seeming ogres crested the nearest hill.

  King Canute loosed an arrow, which hit its mark in an ogre’s throat, but then the creature vanished. The king began his keening wail. Lord Tove shouted to the king, “Lakti needs you now, Sire.”

  The king fitted a fresh arrow, ignored a gryphon almost upon him, and shot a real ogre, who died a real death.

  Willem, too, shot at an ogre, caught it in the arm. It howled. He fitted another arrow to his bow, hit its stomach, and it collapsed. He turned to me, and we smiled at each other.

  It would be this way when we crossed for good.

  But we’d need many fighters.

  A gryphon flew at me, beak and claws extended. I drew my sword, stabbed upward, jumped away from the body.

  Laughter. I glanced around. Drualt or the specter was dueling with a gryphon. It stuck out its beak. Still laughing, he parried with his short sword. The beast stepped back. He advanced. The monster tried again. He thrust under the beak into the throat. Blood spurted.

  “Victory for Bamarre!”

  The gryphon died.

  My real brother. Had to be.

  Now, how to protect him?

  Lord Tove shouted, “Victory for Lakti!”

  I ran to Drualt, half twisted an ankle on a rock, kept running.

  An actual specter, not only its deceptions, had to be here. Might it be a gryphon or an ogre, or more than one?

  A gryphon came at Annet, who swung wildly with her sword and—by luck or strength—lopped off its head. “Victory for Bamarre!”

  Did Lord Tove notice how well the cowardly Bamarre were fighting?

  A gryphon landed on my back, claws in my flesh, beak at my shoulder. Yii! I punched at it with my elbow. To no avail.

  The weight fell away. I heard a thud. Lady Mother nodded at me.

  The real specter would hang back, I thought. Waving my sword to keep the gryphons at bay—the ogres hadn’t reached us yet—I observed.

  There! A gryphon, wheeling, not descending.

  Too high for Nadira’s arm. I ran to King Canute. “Highness! There!” I pointed.

  He took aim.

  A high-pitched giggle became a screech. The gryphon changed shape, became vaguely human in form, thinned, vanished.

  I cried, “Victory for King Canute!”

  He cried, “Oho!”

  A score of illusory gryphons vanished, leaving too many real ones. The army of ogres thinned, but the ones that remained charged while flinging a hailstorm of rocks.

  A rock caught Lord Tove in his side. He staggered, stood, nocked an arrow, shot at a gryphon.

  Too many monsters.

  We dodged and fought on, Annet and I at Drualt’s side.

  The ogres closed in.

  “The one on the right!” Drualt leaped forward, holding out his sword.

  Annet and I sprinted. I whipped out my long knife.

  The ogre laughed, displayed its own knife.

  Drualt got under the creature’s stabbing arm, pierced its thigh. The ogre groaned. Annet moaned. Her left shoulder bloomed blood, but she struck off the monster’s hand. It screamed. I stabbed upward into its belly. It toppled.

  How badly hurt was Annet?

  Drualt, who failed to notice, darted at the next ogre. “Come and meet our might!”

  Annet sank to her knees but cried to me, “Go after him!”

  I leaped forward.

  The creature raised a boulder above Drualt’s head. Laughing at the monster’s slowness, Drualt jumped from side to side. Bellowing, the ogre swayed.

  Willem was there, too, advancing on the ogre’s side, failing to see another monster, who reached out, picked my love up by his collar, swung a boulder toward his head.

  No time!

  But Sir Noll charged. With all his weight, he pressed his sword into the ogre’s stomach. Willem tumbled to the ground. He stood and, limping, started after yet another ogre.

  Drualt still danced with the ogre. Enraged, the creature kicked a foot at him, lost its balance, fell, and my brother jumped on it, stabbed its neck, crowing, “Victory for Bamarre!”

  Annet lay on her side, extending her sword against a gryphon, which kept its distance, but another foe or a falling rock would finish her.

  Only King Canute, my fearless brother, and I were uninjured.

  Lord Tove held his side as he advanced on an ogre.

  Blood trickled from Lady Mother’s forehead.

  Sir Lerrin’s right arm hung uselessly.

  Sir Noll’s right calf bled, and, like his son, he limped.

  Ten ogres still alive and eleven gryphons, though the gryphons had ceased attacking us to feast on the carcasses of their companions.

  Too many ogres.

  Momentarily free from attack, I saw two ogres circling Lord Tove, who, twisting from side to side, held both at bay with sword and long knife, but he was backing up, clearly unaware how close behind him the cliff wall was. When he reached it, he’d be finished.

  Why try to save him, who despised us Bamarre, who would almost certainly kill me if I were revealed to him?

  “Here!” I rushed to him.

  An ogre whirled, knife in one hand, rock in the other.

  I lunged. The monster struck my blow aside, and my sword clattered onto the rocks.

  It leered and said something in its grating tongue.

  I pulled out my long knife, but now I was the one backing away. With my knife, I’d never get past its arm.

  He thrust and sliced off the end of my sleeve. Thrust again.

  I jumped away. My armored feet landed badly, and I fell onto my back. The ogre raised its rock. I was finished.

  But the monster’s face changed from monstrous glee to monstrous unease. It let the rock go, and I was able to twist aside.

  All the ogres were stampeding toward the nearest hill.

  The gryphons ceased their gluttony. One squawked, and the others rose, beating the air, flying south.

  Drualt said in a wondering voice, “Are they rea
lly gone?” Meaning, had another specter made them seem to leave?

  I stood, holding my knife at the ready, and collected my sword.

  But no invisible rocks showered us, no beaks pecked, no knives pierced.

  I rushed to Annet.

  “It isn’t too bad,” she said, panting. “Not deep.”

  Drualt ran to her, too. “Sister!”

  Willem stood by us.

  Sir Noll said, “A miracle. We’re all alive.”

  Lord Tove held Lady Mother’s head and ran a finger along the trail of blood on her face. “Painful, darling?”

  “No. Your side?”

  “It isn’t much. We can proceed with the match.”

  Sir Lerrin said drily, “Of course. The match—despite fighting together, despite being saved by your opponent.”

  Lord Tove turned to me. “I’m grate—”

  “Oho!” King Canute aimed his bow.

  In the southern sky, the size of my thumb, but bright, a flame.

  A dragon!

  CHAPTER FORTY

  EXCEPT FOR KING Canute, we rushed to the cliff and began to climb, hoping for enough time to reach the pass.

  After a minute or two, Lord Tove shouted, “Too late! Descend to level ground!”

  I looked back. The dragon had grown to the size of my hand, its shape distinct: wide wings and narrow body. Flame and smoke obscured its head. We hastened back to the valley.

  “Oho.” King Canute drew his bowstring and waited, statue-still.

  The rest of us fitted arrows, too.

  Sir Lerrin loosed the first arrow, which arced and fell, the monster still too far.

  The creature ceased flaming. Narrow head, long snout.

  Lord Tove shot, and his arrow lodged in the monster’s belly. Except for King Canute, the rest of us shot, too.

  To no effect. The dragon flew on, its course unchanged, tiny arrows dangling from its neck and stomach. It began to descend. Its eyes were clear and faceted, like crystal. It seemed to smile.

  “Oh-h-h ho-o-o.” King Canute released an arrow.

  The dragon shrieked, an arrow in its right eye.

  Triumphantly, “Oho!”

  A moment later, the dragon landed, flaming. We all drew back. Sweat beaded my face. The armor on my feet and legs scorched me.

  It swallowed its flame and, using a claw, pulled the arrow from its eye. Blood streamed and pooled around its scales.

  To my astonishment, it said in a fire-roughened voice, “Welcome to Old Lakti.” It raised its wings and performed a bow that was a feat of balance. Then it stared through its one good eye, moving along the line of us. The eye stopped at Drualt. “Bold heart, little one. Merry heart, too. Rare.” It moved on to Annet. “Ah, faithful. Loyal by nature and training. Exemplary.” The eye continued to me. “Mmm. The instigator of everything. Much more than you seem.” The eye passed on to Willem. The head nodded. “You’ll do.”

  King Canute stood apart, another arrow nocked.

  Grinning and showing saw-edged teeth, the dragon waved its head sinuously from side to side. “Sire, your second arrow won’t hit its mark.”

  King Canute followed the head, his entire body swaying. The dragon’s tail whipped out and circled his waist. He dropped his bow, which slid around the girth of the tail.

  “I’d planned to dine on you all, but I see future benefit in letting you go, except for this one.” It shook King Canute. “The last human I entertained was a King Josef, a charming man. How delightful for me to have you now.” Its voice softened. “We’ll amuse each other. I hardly regret my eye for the exchange.”

  King Canute moaned, “Oho, oh!”

  The dragon flapped its wings once, pushed off with its back legs, and flew, tail out straight except for the curl at the tip that held the king.

  We didn’t shoot again. If we brought the monster down, King Canute would certainly be killed. The two shrank and disappeared. My throat closed in pity.

  After a minute, Sir Noll said, “He’ll shoot out the other eye or stab it out. He’s brave and strong enough.”

  No one answered him. Even if he escaped, he’d be alone in a monster-ridden land.

  Then I wondered what the loss of him would mean for my match with Lord Tove.

  Lady Mother curtsied. “Lakti salutes King Tove.”

  Oh! The worst news for Bamarre.

  Sir Noll bowed.

  Lady Mother—now Queen Mother—continued. “May his rule be long. May courage and wisdom guide him. Victory for King Tove!”

  Should I curtsy?

  I did so. No matter which way the match went, he’d still be king, even if he shared the throne with King Einar.

  Annet followed my lead. Drualt hesitated, then bowed.

  “Your Majesty?” I said. “Beg— Will you carry out the match? You lost one in your party, and . . .” And now you’re king.

  “Do you wish to concede?” he said, smiling.

  I shook my head.

  “My wife and Sir Noll are more than the equal of Sir Lerrin, a deserter, and a Bamarre servant.” He heard himself. “Apologies, Noll. I hope your boy regains his hearing and his senses. And, Grandmother, I want my daughter more than ever. She’s moved closer to the throne.”

  The more reason to kill me.

  King Tove’s helpers and mine finished armoring us. Sir Lerrin drew the helmet over my head. Too big, it overlapped the gorget around my throat, more like wearing a pail. When he lowered the visor, I couldn’t see.

  “No!” I cried. “Leave it up, if you please.”

  Someone said something I couldn’t hear through the steel. “What, beg pardon?”

  Sir Lerrin raised the visor. “What?”

  King Tove looked amused.

  “I can’t see with the visor down. Leave it up.” My face as well as my hands would be exposed.

  “You’re sure?” Sir Lerrin said.

  I nodded, and my armor clanked. None of it fit well.

  King Tove and I paced away from each other, a distance of seven long steps. According to ceremony, I curtsied—and almost lost my balance. He bowed his head. A king needed do no more.

  We each turned sideways to our opponent, bent our elbows, held our swords chest high, distorted reflections of each other—I, short and squat; he, tall and straight.

  My power is in my back leg, I thought.

  We edged toward each other. He thrust. I parried. I thrust. He parried, thrust.

  A dot of blood on the back of my hand. Defeat for Bamarre.

  Tears threatened. I’d known I’d likely lose. But I’d expected to do better, hold out longer. I didn’t want to die, didn’t want to lose Willem, lose my future here on this side of the Eskerns.

  At least I won against the tears. Dry-eyed, I saw Annet was weeping. Drualt, the only one who’d entirely believed in me, stood at her side, crying, too. I’d never seen him cry before.

  Willem’s eyes were wet, too. He came close and stanched the blood with his sleeve.

  Sir Lerrin removed my armor. “You were valiant. We Kyngoll will do what we can.”

  It wouldn’t be enough. They’d be defeated, too.

  I faced King Tove, who had removed his armor. How I had loved him.

  “Where is my daughter?”

  I opened my mouth to tell him the truth and then had a different idea. Lord Tove had once had love in him. Perhaps I could make it grow.

  “Queen Klausine, I remember your lessons in declaiming.”

  She nodded.

  “You taught this grandmother?”

  “I taught Perry, Tove.”

  Sounding charmingly confused, he said, “I hope someone will explain to this muddled monarch.”

  I tried to begin, but I had no breath. I bent over. Annet patted my back. Drualt’s hand clasped my right hand; Willem’s found my left.

  “Is she trying to speak?” Lord Tove said.

  I straightened and stepped away from the comfort. If not the battle spell, something like it gave me calm and certaint
y. “Your Majesty”—I would not curtsy or beg his pardon—“you said you were grateful for my effort to save you from two ogres. If you truly are, please grant me a few minutes to tell you my heart, as a Bamarre would, and my thoughts, as a Lakti might.”

  “You’d like me to, wouldn’t you, my love?”

  Queen Mother said she would.

  “Then speak as long as you like.” His polite mask composed itself.

  The words came in measured phrases, as if I were reading them from a book. “You’re king. There’s no need for secrecy now. In any case, Queen Klausine, Willem, and Sir Lerrin already know; Sir Noll has proven his loyalty to you and the rest of us are already ghosts.” Ghosts because, unless my speech worked a miracle, he would soon kill Annet, Drualt, and me.

  “Before you do away with Perry, you should know that during her childhood, when you were off with King Uriel or fighting the Kyngoll, she lived in a chilly place of walls, rules, and tests. She liked rules and tests, liked clarity, loved excelling. And she loved Lady Mother and sought to earn her approval.

  “But she always looked for your return as for the return of spring or the sun after a long storm, for your warmth, your gaiety, humor, and, most of all, your unguarded love.”

  The mask seemed to dissolve. His face softened.

  I continued. “Perry lost that, because of what she is, not what she ever did.” I turned to Sir Noll. “Perry was born a Bamarre, is a Bamarre.”

  King Tove’s mask hardened again.

  “Majesty, you lost her, because of ideas you’ve hugged close and the cruelty they’ve birthed, not because of what you are.” You are good! Can be good!

  “You told me you aren’t perfect—”

  “I never told you that!”

  “Told Perry, then, and the admission was part of your charm. Can you be imperfect again and change your heart? Can you truly reunite with your Bamarre daughter as fath—”

  “May I speak? Then you may continue as long as you like, unless, of course, the monsters return.”

  We all looked about uneasily, but the sky and the land were clear. Remember that, I thought. An encounter may be followed by an interlude of safety.

  As if I’d have the chance to use the knowledge. I said, “I’m eager to hear you.”

  “You’ll be less eager once you do. The admission was to my Lakti child. To the Bamarre pretender, my disgust is as it should be. Perfect. Continue speaking, if you like.”