The
Spoils of Allsveil
by
S.N. McKibben
Genre:
Fantasy, Romance
Murder.
Marriage. Forgiveness. The kingdom of Allsveil is the chessboard, and
the royals are the pieces.
Two
noble families meet in a whirlwind of battle, conquest, hate, and
passion.
When
a neighboring army conquers her home, Princess Alexia is forced to
marry her father’s murderer, Darrin, the new king's young prince.
While Alexia grapples with revenge and flirtation, finding her own
strength in the process, the new king, Goththor, seeks forgiveness
from his queen and from himself. Two generations learn that the game
of chess is nothing compared to the game of love and forgiveness...
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chess with a princess...get your copy today!
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Alexia
Months
of fighting, and finally it had come to this—an evacuation. The City of
Allsveil defending against The Empire of Dreshall. The Horse against The Hawk.
My father, King Fieron Tyilasuir, fighting King Aiden Goththor at the gates of
our regal castle. All because two men couldn’t see eye to eye about a small
city being under one banner.
At
that moment, I’d never wanted anything more than to be a son
for my father. Especially while I stood in the high tower evacuating the
servants, wet nurses, and maids. But I was not a boy or a man. I was my
father’s doted-on princess. A girl allowed to swing a sword with my father’s
permission because he was the monarch.
My
mother had a sword of her own and used it in defense of my unladylike desire to
hold more than a misericorde. Her blade was not tempered in metal, but its
steel cut and the ring of her tongue drove deep. They say the pen is mightier
than the sword. I’m personally aware that my mother’s word is mightier than a
frail quill from a duck’s arse.
Mother
kept sneaking glances out the windows. I could tell that, like me, she wanted
nothing more than to be down there, wielding a sword against invaders beside
our king.
Horrors
I’d been told about in stories lay on our courtyard battlefield. Arrows stuck
out from the chests and sides of our men as thorns to a rose. Not one man died
with feathers in his back. Brave warriors, all of them, who knew they would
never see past this day and did not turn away from protecting us.
Mother’s
dark eyes expressed more fire than a hearth flame when she said, “Get them all
out.” Worry tainted her expression even through her unwrinkled skin and hair
pulled back in a severely tight bun. My mother, the queen, never out of place,
never out of sorts, remained that way even in dire situations.
“Come,
Emvery.” I offered my maid a hand and stepped patiently while the woman, who
tended me since birth, waddled down the stairs one step at a time. “We’re under
attack. You have to move faster.”
My
mother drilled that sword of flesh with tone and timing. “Alexia, respect those
who’ve protected you from rain and wind down to their bosom.”
“It’s
all right, milady.” Emvery’s plump hand patted my arm. She always defended
me—even against a queen.
“I’m
sorry.” I took my maid’s arm firmly. She had a tendency to fall and was careful
going down stairs. “But the castle gate is failing. We must hurry.”
Near
the bottom of the stairs, Mother spoke to the guards assisting our escape. “Are
we the last?”
The
two queen’s guards, Clay and Heinsley, looked at each other.
“I
asked you a question, gentlemen.”
“No,
my lady,” Heinsley answered. “Samalia refused to leave her quarters.”
Mother
huffed and spun on her heel, stomping back inside the tower.
Emvery
held me tight, or I would’ve followed.
“My
lady!” Heinsley leapt and caught Mother’s arm. “We must leave.”
The
queen of Allsveil ripped out of her guard’s grasp. “Do not touch me, Heinsley.
I will not overlook your inappropriateness again.”
Clay
grabbed both my mother’s arms from behind. “I’m sorry, my lady, king’s orders.”
“Emvery,
go!” I left my maid’s side and rushed back up the stairs.
Mother
elbowed her guards while I passed them to get my Nanna, Samalia. A stubborn old
nanny wasn’t going to be my martyr.
“Heinsley!
The girl!” Clay said.
“You
will address her as princess, or Princess Alexia!” My mother even now concerned
herself with propriety. My practice in skirmishing with castle guards quickened
my feet but while I could take three steps at a time, Heinsley, with his long
legs, could take five or six even in his heavy armor.
Hands
scooped me up by my waist. “No, Heinsley! We can’t leave her here!”
“We
can and we will.” The guard’s rough voice rushed in my ear.
We
struggled down the stairs. Heinsley squeezed my arms together while he leaned
against the wall. I kicked and hit all the right places to tumble us both,
despite the stupidity of falling down a stairwell. I was too angry. Too fevered
in my desperation to get to my Nanna. We could not leave her to these
plunderous savages.
Heinsley
took my blows without so much as a grunt. My attempts became an embarrassment
and after the eighth strike, I stopped. I didn’t want to hurt him or me. He was
only trying to save us.
Clay
held Mother fast by the shoulders, his back to the open escape. He was the
brawny type that filled an entire doorway. If he stood in the archway, Mother
wouldn’t be able to get around him. Not even if she crawled. Which, no matter
the dire consequences, could I ever see the queen of Allsveil doing.
“Good.”
Clay’s relieved face swept over me and Heinsley. “Let’s get out of here.”
Clay
took hold of Mother’s wrists and turned around, engulfing the open door. A
buzzing, the sound of a thousand whistles, then screams echoed off outside the
tower walls. Clay stumbled back. My mother scrambled away just in time before
Clay fell flat on his back. If it wasn’t for Clay’s size, we’d all have arrows
in our bodies. Twenty or more bolts stuck out of Clay’s chest, stomach, and
legs.
“Oh
bloody hell!” Heinsley let go of me and leapt down the stairs.
My
legs wobbled and I leaned against the wall. Heinsley pulled Clay all the way in
and slammed the door. Thuds pelted the thick oak door.
“Clay?”
Mother knelt to the man who’d saved her life and took hold of his hand.
Clay
lifted his head. “Go, my lady.”
Dread
shot through my stomach. The pain Clay must be in. Not only that, but in pain
and knowing he was going to die. I leaned forward to force myself out of my
locked position. “Nanna can help!” I turned and ran up the stairs.
“By
God, Alexia, duck under the windows!”
Tears
threatened behind my eyes, knowing but hoping that wouldn’t be the last warning
Clay ever gave me.
The
thousand whistles of death came again and I dropped and shielded my head. Glass
tinkled. Arrows broke through and clattered against stone.
I
ran up the tower of stairs until the next window. I didn’t hear whistling, but
I ducked under the sill anyway. Five flights of stairs and endless windows
later, I reached the top of the tower and into the sixth-floor corridor. Rooms
were on the right, while the left wall displayed sculptures, paintings,
glassware, and artisan creations of our people. There was no time to save most
of the precious items. Only my Nanna and my people were more valuable than the
items of culture. Empty corridors greeted me as I raced down the hall.
“Nanna!”
My breath labored. I barged in to her room, not bothering to knock. “Nanna!”
No
answer. I went to her bedchamber and there, in bed, surrounded by all her
scrolls, sat Nanna Samalia. The wrinkly old woman nestled a book the size of a
small tabletop between her knees.
“Nanna.”
At my wits’ end, I crossed the room.
“And
I’ll repeat myself.” Nanna’s jowls shook. “I’m too old to run around. Leave
me.”
When
I was younger, her scowl, chin whiskers, and wrinkles could scare me into
behaving. Now that I was older, I searched beyond her gruff manner. I saw a
woman born from a life that cut and made people wise to the ways of the world
or devoured them whole. Nanna told me the truth, when so many slathered
butterscotch or jam over the rubbish of innocence.
“You
will run or I will carry you.”
Nanna
pinched her face into a scowl. “I told Clay to carry you and the queen out.”
“Clay
is dead.”
Her
face never changed. Almost as if she expected as much.
Ringing
of metal and shouts brought my attention to the window. I peeked through,
careful not to be spotted by the enemy. Shadows cast down on the courtyard.
Arrows flew. But not even their arrows could reach up to the top of Nanna’s
tower. A hole in the twelve-foot-thick front wall looked like a screaming mouth
with angry ants pouring out. The portcullis was breached.
“Nanna,
we have to leave, now.”
The
old woman flung her comforter and turned to get out of bed. “Damn guards can’t
even get you the hell’s breath out.”
My
attention went back to my father’s men. Every one of those brave souls was
trying to stave off the attackers to enable us to escape. To fail them and be
captured would not honor their deaths. Beautiful steeds of white, bay, and
chestnut charged into an onslaught of enemy soldiers. We had spirit, but they
had numbers. The clanging of swords reached my ears, the sound making me shake
from anticipation. And then I saw him, my father, in his plate armor. I could
tell it was him even from this height. No one could spot the riveted armor, the
subtle grandeur, the meticulous detail in the gorget, breastplate, and
vambrace, and say it didn’t belong to a king. And that king was at the front of
the lines, protecting us.
“No!”
He should be protected! What was he doing meeting the battle head-on? But
father in battle was magnificent. No one escaped his flank. Soldier after
soldier fell under his mace and sword. Hope grappled with fear, but my elation
at seeing Father at his finest was a boon. Clay would not die in vain.
A
man, in a suit of armor equal in quality to Father’s, fought against the tide,
headed straight for my king. Some men avoided the two. The other king was
certainly bound and determined to reach father. Desire to be there, to protect
the one man I truly loved fueled my frustration at being born a girl. I should
be down there, fighting with him. The two equals met and my father gave the man
no soft touch, no breath to hold, no shield to hide behind. I recognized the
emblem across the opponent’s breastplate. A white hawk with a gold eye. The
emblem of Dreshall. For his salt, the other man took the blows and delivered
his own. But the aggressor overreached and left his right side open. Father
swung his mace and knocked the man down.
“Yes!”
I hopped in my excitement.
The
bird’s golden eye faced the sky and my father maneuvered his sword to punch a
hole through the metal. A cry as high-pitched as an eagle’s ripped through the
air. I covered my ears and watched a blond man bound from the aggressor’s ranks
like a gazelle. Father looked up, and the bloody tip of a sword broke through
his back plate. My eyes saw, but I refused to believe.
Father
dropped his sword and I staggered back. The king of Allsveil sailed backwards
and the window that let me see the battlefield now seemed too high to reach. My
vision tunneled. My breaths came with excruciating clarity. My palms hit the
floor. My neck could no longer hold my head. The long braid of my hair curled
in a perfect circle under me.
Cool
hands touched my cheeks. The wrinkled face of a woman who scared most men
looked into mine. Her pitiless glare softened. Nanna, whose life’s ravages
destroyed her youth but not her wisdom, was there to comfort me. But her face
faded, and all I could see was my father tumbling down and the blood on his
back.
Soldiers
came inside Nanna Samalia’s room. Mother was there. Heinsley disappeared into
what seemed a sea of men entering the bedroom. I watched with numb precision
Heinsley’s extraordinary footwork as he battled to protect us. Our man, the
queen’s guard, was both beautiful and deadly while protecting us. But
Heinsley’s life’s work, keeping the queen safe, wasn’t enough. Seconds later,
he too fell. My death was coming and I welcomed it. For the rest of my days I
would not forget the blood on the sword and my father’s descent.
I
stood for our turn. Mother stood in front of us, hands clasped in greeting as
if accepting one of her subjects for conference. The men, solemn and wary, kept
an eye on her, but their swords remained low. One man dipped his head and
approached.
“I’m
not here to hurt you.” He sheathed his sword. “I’m looking for hierarchy.”
Mother’s
posture remained straight, her chin held high. “You’ve found the queen of
Allsveil.” She held her hand, exposing the ring with our house emblem, a red
rearing horse.
The
soldier dipped his head. “I am Paul Cartell, King Goththor’s military
commander. In the name of my Liege King Aiden Goththor of Dreshall, I ask for
your submission.”
“Submission
can only be given by my husband.”
She
didn’t know Father was dead.
Sir
Cartell’s face turned stone hard. “I’m sorry, but your king has been
dispatched. The fighting continues despite the loss. Please tell your
man-at-arms to submit and we can avoid any more useless deaths.”
Mother
swayed but I could do nothing to help her. I leaned upon Nanna, my life ending
before my eyes. Sir Cartell reached to steady her, but thought better and
remained where he was. My noble queen stood her ground. “If I agree...you’ll
not go after the survivors.”
“Agreed.
Do you yield?”
“Stop
fighting and we’ll yield.” Mother slipped off the ring in clumsy diminution of
status and handed it to Sir Cartell. “Show them this.”
Sir
Cartell turned to a man in front of the line and handed him our family ring.
“Get word to our liege.”
The
man took my heirloom in hand, nodded, and pushed through the other soldiers. A
voice from the hall echoed through the corridor and into Nanna’s apartments.
“Paul? Have you found anyone yet? This place is as deserted as a friggin’
desert.”
Paul
winced. “Excuse me.” He turned and the men behind him stepped in line, making a
human corridor and letting Paul walk past. Though his voice was hushed, even I
could hear Paul admonish whomever he was talking to. “Darrin, women and
children are present, watch your mouth.”
Sir
Cartell and my mother had propriety in common. Said women and children had just
seen a man killed. Why would cursing matter? Then again, why would a queen
preoccupy herself with formalities while fleeing from enemies? But mother
drilled politeness in me and everyone around her. Much like Paul.
A
blond man, just beyond his gawky years, strode with confidence and bloody
clothes through the corridor of soldiers. My haze of loss cleared. Revenge
burned off the rest of my murky reflexes. I bolted from Nanna’s grip and lunged
for Heinsley’s sword. The grip of the steel handle burned cold. Its weight was
unfamiliar, but I was no stranger to this type of weapon. Heinsley’s sword
wobbled heavily as I lifted the massive blade.
Dreshall’s
soldiers were slow to raise their swords against my newfound weapon, laughing
at my challenge. I didn’t care for those men. My sole mission was to kill the
man who took my father from me. The blond man raised his weapon and a slight
smile brightened his face. A mischievous twinkle in his eye scalded me more
than a thousand suns. He pushed one guard out of the way and barked an order to
“stay back” before metal hit metal and I swung, not as an angry youth who takes
up arms in spite, but as the warrior I’d wanted to be.
“Alexia!”
Mother screamed. But the name slipped past. The other men faded to gray.
My
father’s killer barked words, but I heard nothing. My breath, slow and deep. My
strength, hard and flowing. My skill poured from my soul. I was going to kill
this man. His smile infuriated me. But it didn’t affect my footwork, or my
strikes. He deflected blow after blow, but the art of battle guided my actions.
I would not lose.
A
force of nature slammed into my back and pinned my arms. Both my backstabbing
assailant and I went down. “No!” I shouted. The tool of my vengeance clattered
on the stone floor. We landed and I thrashed, wanting to resume my vendetta.
“Alexia,
stop!” My mother’s voice shattered my cracked heart. “I gave my word. Stand
down.”
“Let
me go!” I wailed at Mother, the traitor to father’s memory.
“No!
I will not lose you, too.”
I
froze. Her loss of faith in my abilities, when she had fought for my right to
take up arms, cut the flow to my reserve of energy. My father, my light in the
dark, my rising sun, had slipped beyond the hills never to return. Never to see
my wedding or hold his grandchild or meet the man I’d call my own. I cried for
death. The murderer sat at the far end of the chamber smudging blood all over
Nanna’s chair.
“I
can see where the spirit of their people comes from.” He gripped his thigh. I’d
struck him and hadn’t known. If I had my way, he’d be little pieces to feed
pigs.
“Paul,
warn the others. If the fairer sex fights like her, we’ll be crushed.” He
flashed a smile my way. I scowled.
“Stay
here. I’ll bring the barber surgeon.” Paul clasped the man’s shoulder and left.
No
one spoke for a very long time. Swords pointed at me from every angle. Mother
clutched me, but with my reserve depleted, there was nowhere I wanted to go.
With little will to stand, Mother helped me up and we both leaned on each other
for support.
Paul
returned, and the men holding a seventeen-year-old girl and her mother at bay
parted for Sir Cartell.
“Noblewoman...”
Paul trailed off, asking for a name.
“Aighta
Tyilasuir.” Mother squeezed my arm and we separated.
Cartell
raised his eyebrows and proceeded to slaughter my family name. “Noblewoman
Talliassher.”
I
huffed. “Tyilasuir, Tie-la-ser, Tyilasuir.”
Cartell
dipped his head to me. “Tylasure.”
“Close
enough.” I crossed my arms. Across the room Darrin the orphan-maker, for I was
sure Mother would be killed before me, chuckled. I hated him for it.
“Yeah,
Paul, get it right. Tyilasuir.”
My
hate bloomed to a full loathing of everything Darrin. He’d been able to say my
name flawlessly the first time. That only fueled my desire for vengeance.
Paul
bowed to Darrin and gave an ungracious smile. “As you say, my prince.”
That
wiped Darrin’s smile clean off with an extra dose of soap-root. Paul, my newly
endeared enemy, turned back to us. “Lady Aighta Tylasir, may I present Prince
Darrin Goththor, heir to the White Hawk, son of Aiden Goththor.”
Mother
pulled me close and gripped my arm so tight my fingers tingled. If she hadn’t
let go so quickly I might have lost my arm from lack of blood. “This is
Princess Alexia Tyilasuir. King Fieron Tyilasuir’s only daughter.”
Paul’s
eyes flicked to Mother and he gave her a slight nod.
Darrin
rose from the chair. He looked pained. Good. “Well, now that we know each
other, your new lord and master awaits.”
Nanna
stepped over to me, taking my other arm in a death grip. “Hopefully,
the father is not as abrasive as the son.” Nanna’s tenacious rasp cut through
our whispers. Mother glared at Nanna, but Nanna never shied away from a contest
of will.
A
line of soldiers escorted us out of Nanna’s rooms and into the hallway. Where
before the halls were empty, now soldiers hulked about. They took no care as to
what broke. The glass sculptures, the priceless art, the best of our people all
became loot.
“What
are they doing?” I said.
“Plundering.”
Nanna scowled at one man shoving a glass chalice in a sack. He went for another
item and I cringed at the sound of shattering glass muffled by burlap. That was
one of the artisan glassblower’s finest gifts to Mother. I knew she loved it.
“Fool,”
Nanna said under her breath.
Men
roamed everywhere. No room was without soldiers grabbing anything and
everything they could. My heart burned all the more.
We
were escorted to the dining hall, where we had our meals most nights. It was
the largest room in the castle because father wanted to…had wanted to…dine with
servants and nobles alike, right alongside each other. Every man was a jewel,
he said. Fascinated by the “colors” each person reflected, Father had wanted to
know them all. He had wanted to soak in their knowledge, their creativeness.
But even with my father’s geniality, I did not wonder why he could not get
along with the sullen, stern, forbidding chunk of a man that now sat in my
father’s chair. If I were on the battlefield with my king, this one would be
dead. Cold gray eyes assessed Mother. I expected him to ask, “How much for the
sow?”
I’d
never met King Goththor, but this man was a king, no doubt—his air
overconfident, comfortable with everyone looking to him. But he also looked
devoid of any love. His eyes were hard. Much like the glaze of death I saw in
soldiers’ eyes after battle. Straussler, our man-at-arms, warned me of men like
this one. I didn’t believe one could be soulless. The king of Dreshall proved
me wrong. His eyes skated away from Mother and I felt the stone in my belly
lift.
Paul
nodded. “Lady Aighta Tillyasuir of Allsveil, may I present to you—”
“Aiden
Goththor,” my mother finished. “We’ve met.”
Darrin
strode up to his father, pushed a chair out with his foot, and fell into the
seat. A tiny spark of life lit up in the king’s eyes when Darrin joined him.
“Your
king is dead, and your people still fight,” King Goththor said. “Call in your
men-at-arms.”
“I’ve
given you my ring and my word, what more do you need?” Mother clasped her
hands.
“Which
Paul showed your commander,” King Goththor’s cold gaze remained on my mother.
“He thought you were dead and fought all the more.” He’d said it more as a
threat than fact. As if Mother had given them the ring to set a trap in motion.
Darrin
leaned over and whispered in his father’s ear. King Goththor grunted and said,
“We’ll find him.”
Straussler,
head of the Black Knights, was still alive. He had to be. A Black Knight would
not surrender. They would avenge. All eyes stared at Mother, who said nothing.
The span of silence grew. King Goththor flicked a finger and a guard pulled
Emvery through.
Leaning
toward Mother, King Goththor said, “If you want your maid to live, tell them to
stand down.”
I
grabbed Mother’s hand. Emvery trembled, fear in her eyes, but she didn’t speak
a word.
“Father,”
Darrin leaned forward. “Hasn’t there been enough for one day?”
The
words didn’t remove that cold, dead mask on King Goththor’s face. Instead he
ignored his son and gave the signal, a raised thumb, to slit Emvery’s throat.
The soldier holding Emvery flicked a knife from his palm and brought the sharp
edge to Emvery’s neck.
“Wait!”
I stepped forward. Emvery’s eyes popped out.
“Alexia,”
Mother whispered. I ignored her. The gray, lifeless eyes of a king who no
longer cared for much other than himself stared at me.
“Blow
the horn four times,” I said.
“And
you are?”
Paul
cleared his throat. “Sire, may I present Princess Alexia Tyilsure.”
Darrin
snorted. “Keep trying, Paul.”
King
Goththor did not look amused with his son or his commander. “And what will
happen if the horn is blown four times?”
“The
people will know that we’ve yielded and they will retreat.”
The
golden eye of the hawk on King Goththor’s breastplate flashed. He glanced at
Paul. The man-at-arms bowed and walked behind the row of chairs at the long
table to the end of the room. A large horn spanned the wide window. Its pipe
tapered from the mouthpiece and was long as a man was tall. My spine went
rigid. For an enemy, Paul seemed a decent man. It would be painful to watch him
convulse and die when his lips touched metal.
An
arm twirled me around, a sharp blade pressed upon my neck. Mother yelled but I
couldn’t see her. “What aren’t you telling me?” King Goththor whispered in my
ear. “Tell me now, or you and the maid die.”
“Poison,
the mouthpiece is poisoned.” But only to those not immune to the drug. Father
had bested an enemy by the same tactic.
“Paul,
stop.” The king’s baritone boomed down the dining room. I staggered as the
pressure around my neck relaxed abruptly. King Goththor sprawled back into my
father’s throne and glared death at me. His eyes glinted dire threat if I
defied him again. The soldiers around me echoed his expression, disdain painted
across their features. I held my neck. Red, sticky fluid coated my fingers.
“Clever.”
King Goththor smirked wickedly. His eyes found my mother. “You have another
mouthpiece? Or is that even the method?”
Mother
nodded. “Four blasts will halt the fighting.”
“You
do it.” King Goththor stared at me. “If things go well, I’ll let your mother
live.”
I
could hear the lie. But it was my mother’s life. I looked to her. With a pause,
and her reserve back in place, she nodded once. I paraded down the hall with my
head lifted, past Paul and to the horn. The closer I came to the window, the
more I could hear the shouts of men, the ringing of steel; our forces were
still fighting. All for naught. I could only hope the invader on my father’s
throne would keep to his word.
“Stop,”
King Goththor said. “You don’t dally to your death, do you, child?”
I
whirled around. “What does it matter to you?” Before anyone could stop me, I
blew four times. Outside, the fighting slowed. The clatter of swords dropped on
stone rang in the air. Goththor’s people called out, my people shouted in
surrender. The stench of death that had surrounded us for months still
lingered, but the battle was over. I turned around, walked back to my mother,
and stood next to her.
“You’re
still alive.” Darrin smiled. He had the kind of smile a girl could swoon over,
but he would not win me.
“The
Tyilasuir family is immune.” My prim voice did me proud.
“Or
maybe it’s not poisoned,” Darrin said.
“Want
to try it for yourself?”
Darrin
waved a hand. “Oh no, you did a fine job. A surprise to see such a talented
horn-blower.”
Soldiers
around me laughed. Confused, I frowned and looked to Mother. She gave me a
stern look that told me to say nothing. Still…I expected to die anyway. “I
could teach you, although you might do better if you used your other end.”
Paul
snorted but regained himself. Some of the soldiers snickered. Darrin flushed
and frowned. Mother grabbed my arm. “That’s enough.”
It
was slow in coming, but King Goththor started to cackle. “Fiery like my
Bridgette, that one.”
The
soldiers went silent. Paul gave me a very sad look—a look you’d give a favorite
goose before the hatchet went down on its neck. Chills ran down my spine. I’d
forgotten about the stories of King Goththor. For every laugh of his, another
dies. Was he truly that mad?
Still
chortling, King Goththor said, “Take them back to their rooms. Make sure
they’re comfortable.”
At
his command, we were escorted out of the room.
Slave
to a 100 lbs. GSD (German Shepard) and a computer she calls "Dave",
you'll often see her riding a 19 hand Shire nicknamed "Gunny"
to the local coffee shop near the Santa Monica mountains.
Stephanie
reads for the love of words, and writes fiction about Dark Hearts and
Heroes revolving around social taboos. When ever asked, she'll reply
her whole life can be seen through a comic strip ~ sometimes twisted,
sometimes funny but always beautiful and its title is adventure. Come
play!
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