Word spread quickly in the castle when the King decided how to respond to the emissary.

  Only the King himself knew what his response would be, but the news that Prince Gyuszki and his party had been recalled to the castle for an audience was soon known to everyone in the castle from servant to Duke.

  Turgeon learned from the princess herself, as they bantered with each other during their daily training session. His relationship with the princess had improved with the proximity brought by martial arts training. He wouldn’t necessarily call her a friend, yet, but they were on conversational terms and often chatted about inane topics including everything from Turgeon’s lessons with the Librarian (which mirrored lessons she had endured years ago) to their opinions of the various dishes served at the previous evening’s meal.

  Sometimes Suzette would toss out a piece of information like this, with the hopes that she could distract him and sneak in a strike. Getting past his guard had become harder and harder for her as he rapidly improved his martial skills with regular daily training.

  As they were working on various dagger plays that afternoon, she tried the tactic again while reaching for an underhand thrust with the training rondel. “Did you hear that Prince Gyuzski has been recalled to the castle this evening? It seems my father has finally made a decision as to whether he will go to war with Klaav or not.”

  Turgeon had become accustomed to these distractions though, so the ploy was unsuccessful and he was able to quickly block, disarm and throw the princess. She pouted up at him from the floor as he offered her a hand up, which she declined, bouncing back onto her feet with grace and little visible effort.

  Knife fighting, Turgeon had learned, was all about tradeoffs. Did you want to lose a finger, or have your jugular cut and bleed to death quickly? Would you accept a gash on your forearm, or take a gut wound that could go septic and kill you? If you got into a knife fight – something that the Swordmaster taught should be avoided if possible – you were going to get cut, it was just a question of how badly and whether or not that was worse than your opponent.

  They trained with the larger rondel daggers and with shorter knives that would be more easily concealed on a person. They often trained for scenarios where the attacker was armed with a concealable knife but the defender was unarmed, forced to block barehanded and disarm the opponent. They trained against attacks from a pace away and attacks delivered from close up, where the combatants were already in a wrestling grip and a knife was drawn. They trained against underhanded thrusts and overhand thrusts.

  Alongside the dagger techniques, they also developed more grappling maneuvers that integrated the dagger seamlessly. Turgeon learned how to use the key, a way of holding his arms together to provide better defense and create opportunities for locks and breaks. He learned maneuvers where his opponent's arm could be brought high above his own head or low to be dislocated or broken. They took care in training to not actually injure each other, but he knew these moves would be brutal if executed fully.

  Suzette and the Swordmaster also taught him how to properly throw a strike with his bare hand. It was nothing like the punches he had known and thrown himself in play yard fights with other boys. Those weak and silly blows would be more likely to break his own hand in a real fight than to injure his opponent. The Fiorian system taught a method of striking that was akin to the technique for throwing a ball, striking down into soft spots like where the neck meets the shoulder with the side of his fist, using the muscled part of his hand like a knife edge to slice and crush.

  As he became more competent with the knife techniques, and came to feel more confident with a knife in hand, Turgeon had taken to carrying his own dagger with him regularly. He had polished it, cleaning off most of the rust, and sharpened it so that it was actually a functional weapon, but it was still a sorry old thing. While he gained some degree of confidence from carrying it he also knew it would not be particularly effective in a real fight.

  One morning of breakfast the Swordmaster surprised him with a gift that solved that problem for him.

  “Turgeon,” the Swordmaster began over their eggs and bacon, “you’ve come far in your training quickly, and to my mind you’ve earned the right to carry a real weapon.”

  With only that succinct statement he handed Turgeon a simple but brutally beautiful rondel dagger in a simple leather sheath. The pommel end of the dagger was fashioned into a vicious spike, and the dagger itself glistened with fresh oil.

  “Thank you, sir. I will be sure to care for it well.”

  “See that you do. You will find blade oil and grindstones in the storage room. Keep it clean and keep it sharp or it won’t do you any good if you do need it. Try to avoid that as well, if you can.”

  So it was that Turgeon was actually in possession of a means to defend himself as he made his way from the Swordmaster’s tower to the throne room for the reception of the emissary that evening. Earlier in the day the Swordmaster made it clear that he expected Turgeon to reprise his supporting role on the dais during the audience. Apparently he was in conference with the King, so Turgeon was on his own between his training that afternoon and the audience.

  A strange sound from around a corner in the corridor he walked caused to almost jump out of his boots, but as he cautiously peered around it he saw that it was only his former friend Geoffry making his own way down the hall.

  “Hello Geoffry,” he said blandly as he made to pass him. But Geoffry blocked his way in the hallway and there was something unsettling about his demeanor, a vicious gleam in his eye perhaps.

  “Ya shouldna be oot and about alone tonigh,” Geoffry drawled in his way of speech as he glared at Turgeon and smirked. “Thir be dire evils afoo’ wi’ the emissry in the keep agin.”

  Geoffry’s attitude and words put Turgeon on edge, obviously they were intended to recall to him the attack that occurred during the emissary’s previous visit, an event that Turgeon had been happy to forget and put in the past. Perhaps it was the rondel tucked into his belt that provided Turgeon with bravado, or perhaps it was a sudden dislike of this boy that had been his friend, or maybe a bit of both.

  Turgeon sneered back at Geoffry and pushed him out of his way with a gruff word, “Mind yourself, boy.”

  Not five paces down the hall he was immediately ashamed of his own behavior. What would Aelfredd say if he had seen Turgeon treat Geoffry like that? Probably nothing kind, and he’d probably have given Turgeon a whole slew of nasty chores around the farm for the way he had treated the boy who had been his only friend in his early days in the keep. He had become what he had once hated, a sniveling noble brat who was unkind to those he thought were below him.

  This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

  Turgeon turned to apologize, but Geoffry was already gone. Around the corner and out of sight. He thought about chasing him down, but it wouldn’t do to be late to the audience. The punishment for that would probably be worse even than cleaning out the pigs sty. Turgeon resolved to seek Geoffry out the next day and apologize.

  With a heavy sigh Turgeon turned back towards the audience chamber and steeled himself to face what was ahead of him.

  In short order he found himself standing on the dais next to the Swordmaster as he had before trying very hard not to outright stare at the Prince’s undead attendant. Now that he knew what it was, all he wanted to do was analyze every detail he could and try to determine if there were any similarities between this creature and the one that had attacked him the last time the prince and his retinue visited the castle. Surely they must both be necromantic beasts made by skag magic.

  The King was also focused on the creature brought by Prince Gyuzski, and the audience was not off to a good start. The emissary from Klaav had entered the audience chamber in the same way as before, blasting open the chamber’s doors with a wave of powder magic, stomping down the aisle and glaring nastily at the assembled members of the court. The Kings Own Guards were stationed around the room and gave back their own glares while fingering sword hilts and halberd shafts uneasily.

  “You were instructed to leave that… thing outside of my castle!” the King was bellowing at the Prince, his face red with anger.

  “Leorgh goes where I go, your Highness,” the prince replied in a calm even tone, even to a boy untrained in diplomacy it was clear that he had already gained the upper hand in this engagement. Probably that had been the purpose for bringing the necromantic monster in the first place. “He is my shadow, and we can not be separated.”

  “I can think of a few ways to separate you,” the King replied, a bare threat that resulted in both the King’s and the Prince’s guards bracing for combat just shy of actually drawing steel.

  But the Prince just smirked and continued as if nothing had happened, “Come now, we’re not here to exchange pleasantries. I’ve been informed you’ve made a decision regarding my offer? Are you ready to join Klaav and Falkaria in strength and bring Peace to this land at last?”

  “Who did your uncle send to Summor?” the King ignored Gyuzski’s question and responded with his own, “Was it your sister?”

  The question clearly caught the Prince off guard, as a flicker of fear passed over his face for the first time since he had entered the room. “My uncle’s mind is his own, your Highness. I only know of my own mission to recruit Falkaria to join us in our quest for Peace.”

  “You seek war. Your uncle would rain death and devastation across Atenla for his own pride and glory. Is this what comes from the worship of The One God? Your heathen abandonment of the Ideals has ever been a fool’s folly that will bring ruin to your kingdom.”

  This discussion was quickly spiraling beyond Turgeon’s comprehension. The One God? Was this some sort of Klaavan religion? A question for the Librarian in his next lesson certainly.

  It also appeared the King’s spy network in Summor had uncovered information the emissary did not expect him to have. Although even Turgeon could see that expecting a formal emissary’s visit to Summor couldn’t remain secret. While he had yet to figure out who the King’s spymaster was, everyone knew there was one somewhere amongst the court and castle staff.

  “We seek Peace, your Highness,” Gyuzski replied calmly to the King’s visibly growing rage, “But those who refuse to join us in our endeavors will know ruin.”

  “Get out of my keep. Leave my kingdom. Your status as an emissary ensures you safe passage to my border, but my guards will accompany you to it and if you ever set foot in Falkaria again I’ll have your head on a pike above my gate before you take a second step. Leave now.”

  Gyuzski and his uncle had their answer it seemed. The audience was certainly over, and with a glare but no more words the Prince turned on his heel signaled his meager guard to accompany him and left the keep. With a gesture the King sent a squad of his guards after them.

  “Turgeon, you are dismissed,” the Swordmaster quietly instructed him. “Return directly to the tower this evening, I will have a meal sent to you there. I must attend the King in what will in all probability become a council of war.”

  With a curt nod Turgeon followed the Prince’s party out of the audience chamber and made haste for the tower. He hadn’t gone far when he heard, for the second time that evening, a strange sound from around a corner. The noise came from a corridor that was not on his way to the tower, but with a glimmer of hope thought that perhaps it was Geoffry again and that he might have an opportunity to apologize for his poor behavior earlier.

  Making his way towards the noise, Turgeon rounded the corner and found the hallway dark and empty. Without thought, and giving no consideration to his master’s instructions, he continued down the dimly lit corridor in pursuit of whatever had made the noise, still hopeful that it might be Geoffry. He hadn’t gone far when he heard the sound again, this time more clearly. It was a strange low gurgling noise, like someone might make down deep in their throat after choking on a gulp of ale.

  Second thoughts came quickly at this point. This wasn’t the sort of noise that Geoffry would make. He should turn back, but the confidence, perhaps false confidence, instilled by the possession of his new weapon led him on in pursuit of the source of the strange sounds.

  Brimming full of bravado, Turgeon pursued the noises through the castle. The sounds continued with an unmeasured frequency, leading him farther from his intended route to the Swordmaster’s tower. He found himself in a part of the keep he had rarely visited but knew to be the domain of the King himself. Not the King’s personal chambers, but near the chambers where he was attended by his lords in council. It occurred to Turgeon that the King’s war council was likely being held nearby.

  Having just come to this realization, Turgeon rounded another corner in the hallway and came face to face with the most hideous creature he had ever seen.

  There were similarities to what he remembered of the monster that had attacked him before, this beast was also rotting with flesh peeling and a monstrous visage. Cat-like eyes glimmered green and peered out from deep sockets under a heavy brow, sharp fangs sat haphazardly in its gaping maw and where a nose should’ve been sat an empty hole in the middle of its face. Again the stench the beast emitted nauseated Turgeon almost to the point of emptying his stomach on the floor.

  Where the other beast had been human sized and gaunt, almost to the point of frail, this creature was monstrous in size. At least head taller than an average man, and well muscled, it towered over Turgeon in close proximity – he had almost bowled straight into it when he rounded the corner.

  At first the beast seemed as surprised as Turgeon was to find him there, but it recovered quickly and leapt towards him with claws flashing.

  Instinct and training took over. Turgeon had his rondel out and blocking in a guard without even realizing he had done it, intercepting the claws before they could rake across his face.

  The fight was fast and intense, over almost before he realized what was happening. The beast slashed again, this time slipping inside his guard and catching Turgeon on the side of his chest, gashing him deeply. Warmth bloomed on his side as blood poured from the wound and down his leg, causing him to slip and fall backwards.

  Pouncing on the opportunity presented by the prone boy, the beast leapt and attempted to finish Turgeon by slashing at his throat. Again instinct saved him though, and he brought the rondel up to block. The beast’s own momentum brought it down on the rondel and the dagger slide through its throat. As the corpse collapsed on top of him Turgeon looked up into its fearsome eyes and watched the eerie green light fade out of them.

  Noise from the conflict must have reached the ears of someone in a nearby chamber, because as Turgeon faded from consciousness he heard shouting and footsteps running both towards him and away as a door slammed in the distance.