Tobias drew his sword at the last moment, turning his whole body with the movement to give it as much force as possible as he clashed with Baskerville’s heavy twin blades. Baskerville had a massive size, reach, and strength advantage over Tobias, but Tobias came in from the perfect angle to deflect rather than fight strength-to-strength, and immediately started their clash with the upper hand.
This wasn’t his first fight with someone bigger than him. Elliot and Merlin both were significantly taller and stronger than him, and he’d sparred with them and done other training exercises with them innumerable times. And Saoirse’s Knave was nearly as tall as Baskerville, with magical and mechanical enhancements to make him a truly frightening foe, fighting with twin blades like Baskerville.
Tobias only knew Baskerville by reputation. But he’d spent his whole life looking up at his foes. Size had ceased to intimidate him long ago.
Baskerville threw his weight behind his next several swift slashes, and Tobias stayed in close, refusing to let Baskerville use his reach to his advantage, ducking and stepping around the killer’s wicked, segmented swords and deflecting his strikes rather than taking them straight on.
“Flynn, mix-up game!” Tobias called, and he didn’t have to look to know Flynn was darting into action. Even in a life-or-death struggle, the mission was best conveyed to Flynn through the lens of play. And the mix-up game was a game Flynn excelled at.
Just like Tobias, he was used to fighting foes much bigger than him. He knew how to handle this.
There was a snarling and snapping of jaws, and Baskerville’s Hound leapt past his dueling master — straight towards Alice. Tobias turned a parry of Baskerville’s blades into a pivot, and landed a solid kick right into the Hound’s side. The Hound yelped and was knocked off-course, straight into the hedge wall of the maze.
Tobias chanced a quick glance towards Alice, and saw her standing where he’d left her, watching the fight with tense focus, but not fear.
I could have sent her with Guinevere. But if Baskerville’s here to kill her, he might have run away and found a different path to pursue her, rather than bother fighting me.
We have to stay close. But don’t worry, Alice.
I won’t let him touch you.
Baskerville kicked with his knee at Tobias — thanks to the huge height difference between them, the knee went right for Tobias’ face. Tobias stepped around the knee, but then was forced to back off by a whirling of blades and another knee-strike that he just managed to dart away from. The Hound extricated itself from the hedge and this time came for Tobias with a snarling bark. But Flynn shot towards the great beast as a red blur, knocking the Hound off-balance — and annoying it enough that it turned its vicious, slavering jaws on Tobias’ dog.
But Flynn was fast, sprinting away in the nick of time. The Hound leapt after him, but Flynn ducked through a hedge, vanishing from the Hound’s sight. When Flynn next came darting out, he went right past the Hound, straight for Baskerville, head-butting the hulking assassin’s leg and then darting off.
It wasn’t much. Flynn didn’t have enough weight to throw around to really harm his much larger foes, and certainly couldn’t fully trip up a skilled combatant like Baskerville. But when Tobias was as fast as he was, all it took was a little disruption from his faithful friend to turn the tides back in his favor. Baskerville slashed at Tobias’ head, but he ducked under and darted back inside Baskerville’s guard, forcing the assassin to step back — not just away from Tobias, but from Alice.
But Tobias saw a flash of teeth — Baskerville smiled — and a second later he realized why. Baskerville slashed at Tobias with one sword, forcing him to block, and then thrust over Tobias’ shoulder with his other sword, and the reason for the segmented blades became clear. The second sword split into numerous smaller blades, all connected together by a long metallic cord — a bladed whip! The deadly weapon extended out towards Alice, straight for her heart.
Tobias stepped back and pushed up with his sword, slashing the base of his blade into the cord between two blade segments. He then spun out, pushing up and twisting with his sword, forcing the whip to flip back towards itself.
Alice was safe.
The sword-whip’s tip now shot towards Tobias, but he slid his blade out from the whip before it could snare his weapon and darted away, parrying the sword-whip when Baskerville lashed it back at him.
“You’re wasting my time, little knight,” Baskerville said, reforming his sword-whip into a solid blade with a flick of his wrist.
“Good,” Tobias said. Flynn darted to his side, watching Baskerville and his Hound, who broke off the attack for the moment.
“Why throw your life away?” Baskerville asked.
“Do I look dead to you?” Tobias asked.
Baskerville sneered. “You have no idea why my employer seeks the girl’s death,” he said. “No idea what it is you’re protecting.”
Tobias cocked his head to the side. “Why don’t you tell me, then?”
Baskerville chuckled. “Obstinate to the last. Like every noble protector who’s fallen before you.”
Baskerville lashed out, then, with both swords extending into bladed whips. Tobias parried them both aside, and Flynn barked once, darting forward as the Hound charged. Flynn ducked low, and his tiny size and incredible speed sent him under the Hound’s feet before the beast’s snapping jaws could come near him. The Hound stumbled, and Flynn darted for Baskerville — but the killer was expecting Flynn’s tricks, and slashed one of his bladed whips in a circle around him, forcing Flynn to back off.
But even that gave Tobias an opening, and he darted right in. He had plenty of questions, of course — who would want Alice dead? Not Lacie — and if she did, she would have tried to make it happen herself, rather than send a contract killer. Did Alice have other enemies? She’d never mentioned any, nor even hinted at them.
But Tobias had no illusions that Baskerville was actually going to tell him anything. The talk had been a tactic, that was all, an attempt to make Tobias back off, or at least lower his guard.
He’s earned his reputation, and there’s no way I can take him lightly. But he’s arrogant. That’s the danger of being too good, of winning too often. He’s not taking me lightly, either — but he still treats victory like it’s already assured.
Flynn — let’s prove him wrong.
——
Guinevere raced up the stairs to the ballroom, Ava at her side. Smoke poured up into the sky from a shattered hole in the ceiling, and flames roared by the buffet, a vicious fire that was swiftly spreading. She charged through the doors into chaos — smoke set people coughing and gagging; the heat of the flames had people screaming, running, panicking. It was impossible to see who or what had caused the fire, and Guinevere’s eyes started watering even though she was far from the conflagration.
But she stepped up, as people ran around her, some frantically looking for water to pour onto the flames, others desperate for an exit or something to hide in or under. Head held high, Guinevere raised her hand, pressed middle finger against thumb, and formed a small glowing glyph over her fingers.
With a snap of her fingers, Guinevere stole the fire from the ballroom. In an instant, the temperature dropped to a perfectly reasonable level. Scorched tables, carpets, banners, and walls remained behind, but the fire was gone in an instant, and would not rekindle itself. Guinevere had made sure of that.
She then pressed her fingers together, formed a new glyph, and snapped her fingers once more.
Smoke was stolen from the ballroom. The air was cleared, and Guinevere blinked away the threat of tears. Coughing ceased, panic calmed, and people started looking around to see what had happened.
Guinevere saw, immediately, the source of the danger — and it was worse than she’d feared. There was a whole host of armed intruders, suited up in dueling gear, brandishing swords, axes, and spears. All of them bore emblems upon their jackets, an inverted version of the symbol of the Song of the Promise. Where the Song of the Promise was signified by a golden sun rising over a darkened land, these intruders were marked by an inversion of that — a darkened sun was diminishing, upside-down, beneath a golden, bright land.
She’d seen the emblem just the day prior in the newspapers, and it had made her roll her eyes. Now it made her blood boil with rage and disgust.
The Anti-Promise League.
So they were more than their pathetic attempts to claim they’d abducted the Promised Queen had suggested. They were an armed, organized force, with enough clout and planning to penetrate the Queen’s Manor’s security during a major event, and cause complete destruction. But worse than that was what accompanied the League, and made Guinevere’s heart race with dread.
In the midst of the League’s host were two towering monstrosities of darkness, bristling with fangs and claws, their forms shifting so that sometimes they had three arms, sometimes seven — sometimes one head, sometimes two or three. One stood upon two legs, a tall, intimidating giant, while the other was lower to the ground on many legs, a feral, vicious predator ready to feast upon helpless prey.
Nocturnes. Two of them — and both of them far larger, far more dangerous, than the one Guinevere and her friends had barely managed to fend off the previous night!
Guinevere opened her mouth, but the words wouldn’t come. Ava nudged her, a calming presence. She cleared her throat, shook her head, and found her voice. “Knights of the Promise, to arms!” she called out in a commanding, clear voice that filled the ballroom. “Escort our guests to the stage! Form a defensive perimeter. On me! Force out these intruders!”
She raised her hand, thinking to release the flames she’d stolen right back into the faces of the intruders who had brought them — but fire was a fickle weapon, as eager to burn friends and home as it was to burn enemies.
Just then, Elliot came to her side, holding his sword in one hand and Guinevere’s in the other. He passed Guinevere her sword and she smiled at him, and then drew the silver blade and held it high. “Knights of the Promise,” she called, “fight with your Queen! Cut down these charlatans where they stand!”
“Take the Queen!” shouted one of the League, a tall man with a black beard and cruel eyes, hefting a two-handed axe. “Show her we mean business, boys!”
The League charged, and Guinevere’s heart leapt into her throat as the Nocturnes charged with them, as if the great monsters were servants of these pathetic rabble-rousers. But then there was a high-pitched whistling sound, and a burst of light cast away the dark of night. Down through the hole in the ceiling dropped a shooting star, and when it struck the floor of the ballroom, it resolved into the form of a Knight Aurora, officer’s saber held aloft.
Rosalie Grants was here. And she hadn’t come alone. Yuri, Mio, and Ilia were with her, and another Knight Aurora with them. The Nocturne Special Investigations Squad had arrived just in the nick of time.
“Guin!” Rosalie said. “We’ll handle the Nocturnes. I trust you can deal with your human foes?”
“Count on it,” Guinevere said, smiling. “Thank you.”
Rosalie flashed a smile back at her. “What are friends for?” she asked.
Then the Captain shot forward, a streak of starlight crashing into the tallest Nocturne. The beast of darkness shrieked, and stepped back. Rosalie’s lieutenants leapt at the other Nocturne, and together they fought the beasts outside, away from the cramped confines of the ballroom — and away from the potential for catastrophic collateral damage.
“Not to worry, boys!” shouted the League’s bearded leader. “We still outnumber them five to one. Charge! Take hostages, force their hand!”
“All guests, to the stage!” Guinevere called. “Knights of the Promise, keep our guests safe! To arms!” She looked to Ava, and said, in a softer voice, just for her dog, “Help people find the stage, Ava. Keep our guests safe.”
Ava understood, and ran off to do her duty.
Guinevere kicked off her shoes — they were beautiful shoes, and she loved them, but they’d only been adequate for dancing, and less suited for combat. She’d do just fine barefoot. She charged forward herself, but she saw the struggle ahead of her and her allies. Guests were mixed in with the League’s members, and they’d soon have a hostage situation on their hands, no matter how fast Guinevere and her Knights acted.
But into the fray, faster than any Knight except Obsidian, danced a Sword Dancer of Haruo, azure katana in hand, musical bracelets, anklets, and bells in her hair and dangling from her sword all ringing out with harmonizing tones. She moved into the midst of the League’s host before they realized she was there. Several of them dropped to their knees, clutching their heads, in dismay at the battle song Sheena brought forth. Others tried to slash or stab at her, but their blades found only empty air.
Sheena didn’t fight through them. She moved with a dedicated focus, speeding her way to the guests who were still in danger. A young man grabbed an elderly woman by the hair, thrusting her in front of him as a shield. Sheena danced around them faster than the young man could blink, and an instant later he was on his knees, clutching a bleeding arm, and his hostage was running away, towards Guinevere and her approaching Knights.
One by one, Sheena made those guests still in the danger zone safe, and defended their escape from the host of violent intruders. Ava ran to the guests, a shepherd to guide them to safety. By the time the Knights of the Promise had formed up and began to clash with the Anti-Promise League, every guest had been made safe and was racing for the stage, and Sheena exited the enemy host unscathed, leaving behind dozens of League henchmen dead or severely wounded, no longer able to fight.
And then the battle began in earnest. Lancelot led from the front, the youngest of the Knights of the Promise but showing his quality, and why he’d been named an officer so young, by guiding his squad with boldness and composure, his shield fending off enemy blows, his sword finding its target with every slash and thrust, his voice carrying without fear or panic.
The initial clash was encouraging, and Guinevere didn’t have to engage in combat immediately, as her Knights, Elliot, and Sheena formed a powerful front line.
But the leader of the League hadn’t been making empty boasts. The League had numbers amply on its side, and where they had taken position at the wide entrance of the ballroom, they had enough room to be able to surround the Knights of the Promise. The hateful League rallied, and started to move to swarm the Knights’ flanks. Guinevere looked around quickly, found a promising spot, and ran back to it. Planting herself in the center of the dance floor, she raised her silver sword high. “Knights of the Promise — to me!” she called. “Form a defensive line and make your stand here! Let no foe pass this point!”
Lancelot echoed her orders, and two other officers echoed him. They started a fighting retreat to Guinevere, and Elliot and Sheena covered the right flank, while Tycho, Guinevere’s sword instructor, leapt into the fray, rapier in hand, covering the left flank.
Though Guinevere had been learning from him for ten years, and had seen his speed and prowess in sparring matches against some of the most famed swordmasters in the realm, she had never seen him move like this. There was a ferocity to him, tempered with a swift, surgical precision. Whenever he picked out a foe, he dispatched them in an instant, moving on to the next.
Five soldiers surrounded him, and rather than fall back into a more defensive position, as he taught his students to do, he went on the attack. He cut through one of his assailants, and moved through where he’d been standing. By the time his foes were attacking, Tycho was behind them, cutting them down one by one, moving back and forth through them as a startling blur of steel.
Their attempts to surround the defenders failed, and the Anti-Promise League found themselves pressing against a solid defensive line. Guinevere took to the center, and while there were Knights in front of her, and this was the narrowest, most defensible point in the ballroom, the defenders still had to spread themselves somewhat thin.
So an eager warrior of the League slipped through the line, and charged at Guinevere, his stout arming sword stained with blood. Guinevere deflected his overhead slash and then stabbed, piercing his shoulder. He cried out in pain and staggered back, dropping his sword. Guinevere stepped back, watched to see if he’d make another attack — when he drew a dagger and charged her, she cut him across the knuckles, and then stabbed him through the foot. The man dropped, this time, unable to keep fighting.
Guinevere took a breath, and did not avert her eyes from the blood now staining her own blade. To this point, it had only been wielded against mechanical automatons. For the first time, she’d fought a living person, and drawn their life’s blood.
But she hadn’t killed him.
“To take a life is a perilous thing, Guin,” Tycho had taught her when she’d asked about real combat. “Necessity may demand it, and you must not be crushed by guilt if you are forced to kill in self-defense. But there are ways a precise swordsman can reduce the threat of death to one’s foes, if one chooses their targets well.”
And he’d taught her where to strike to disarm, to incapacitate, without ending a foe’s life. Thrusts and slashes across upper arms and shoulders, or lower legs and feet, or even the hands and fingers, were all effective ways to disarm a foe without claiming their life. Guinevere had done countless target drills in the event that she was forced into real self-defense combat.
And here, today, in her first real battle with a human foe, she’d shown the value of her training. Her assailant would live. And Guinevere took heart in this — both because she didn’t want to take another’s life, no matter how vile, if she could avoid it, and because she wanted answers.
The dead took their secrets with them. But the living could tell, when the battle was done, all the secrets of the Anti-Promise League.
I will not let a disaster like this happen again. I will know where all of you came from, and how many more of you are out there, readying for the next horrible attack on innocents to get to me.
This ridiculous League will be undone, in its totality. All here will fall. All still out there will never get a chance to do harm again.
Tycho joined Guinevere. “Care to fight together, Guin?” he asked.
Guinevere smiled at him. “It would be an honor,” she said.
——
Tobias deflected another sword-whip thrust meant for Alice, causing Baskerville to turn that bladed whip back on Tobias. He ducked and spun underneath it, then blocked a slash from Baskerville’s other sword and stepped in close, not giving Baskerville any breathing room. A low kick snapped out from a large, booted foot, and Tobias blocked it with a kick of his own, beating the attack to the side and then blocking two swords on his blade, deflecting them upwards so he could dart in closer to Baskerville and slash at the man’s stomach.
The killer leapt back, but Tobias’ sword didn’t pass through empty air. Fabric tore, and a small spattering of red droplets followed. Baskerville didn’t acknowledge the blow, didn’t stop to breathe or try to talk Tobias out of the fight. He went right back on the attack, and his Hound joined him, charging at Tobias low this time. The Hound’s great, bounding leaps had likely served it very well against prior foes, but both Tobias and Flynn had consistently succeeded at knocking the beast out of the air. So now the Hound changed tactics, and Tobias slashed at the Hound’s snout, forcing it to break off — but also giving Baskerville a welcome opportunity to press his attack.
And Tobias was forced back, outside of Baskerville’s guard, into a more advantageous distance for the killer. Bladed whips lashed out, and the Hound charged again, and Tobias had to back off even further, his sword a blur of obsidian, sparking with bright flashes at each lightning-swift exchange with his foe.
Then in darted Flynn, a pale streak in the moonlight. He nipped at the Hound’s heels, and when the beast spun around to snap at him, Flynn was gone, weaving in and around Baskerville’s feet, dodging attempts to stomp on him and then racing away when bladed whips sought to carve him up.
And the advantage returned to Tobias, who charged in, slashing at the Hound as he passed. The Hound was too slow this time, and yelped as the obsidian blade drew blood from his ear. He tried to chase after Tobias, catching Tobias between Hound and Baskerville, but Flynn sprinted straight at the Hound, barking up a storm, and then slid right under the Hound’s belly just in time to avoid a snapping of razor-sharp teeth.
Baskerville lashed his bladed whips in overlapping arcs, and for a moment fended off Tobias. But Tobias saw an opening, and thrust his sword into the midst of the whips. They both wrapped around Tobias’ blade, which caught Tobias’ weapon in a snare — but also interrupted Baskerville’s overwhelming defense. Tobias stepped past the whips, then brought his sword up and over — and pulled his blade free, just as Baskerville yanked to fully trap his weapon. With Baskerville caught off-guard, Tobias turned and stabbed — and Baskerville side-stepped. What should have been a final stroke, a blade through the heart, pierced Baskerville in his side. The killer grunted in pain, but stepped back, and Tobias pulled his blade free just in time to block a pair of slashes.
Then Flynn barked a warning, and Tobias jumped into a high backflip, just as the Hound came charging at his legs from behind. Tobias spun in midair, slashing at the Hound as it passed, and it let out a shrill whimper and went tumbling away. Tobias landed in a crouch, and then was forced into a blur of parries and blocks as Baskerville came at him with a vicious offense. For a brief moment, his head tilted to the side, and the moonlight caught his face just right, so Tobias finally got a glimpse of his eyes — and saw hatred there, and rage. The eyes were cast in shadow again, but the rage did not abate. Tobias was forced backwards, closer and closer to Alice, who watched on silently, focused, tense.
But for all the intense fury at the maiming of his Hound, there was no ignoring the wound in Baskerville’s side. The offense was a vicious attack fueled on anger and adrenaline — and it couldn’t keep up the furious pace for long. Tobias held for the worst of it, and then struck aside the killer’s swords as soon as the attack faltered in the slightest. He slashed up, cutting at one elbow, then the other.
Baskerville’s swords fell from his hands.
Tobias planted a kick in the massive man’s stomach, and the wounds, the loss of blood, the growing weakness, took its toll. Baskerville fell on his back, letting out a cry of pain.
Tobias glanced aside at the Hound, lying in a heap near a hedge wall. But the great beast wasn’t moving, not even giving the faintest rise and fall of breathing.
The fight was over.
——
Guinevere and Tycho fought back-to-back, as a crowd of League henchmen fought through the line of Knights and surrounded them. Guinevere thought briefly back to the very first time she’d drawn her sword in Wonderia, and how she’d been too focused on one foe and lost sight of the dangers around her.
She’d learned a great deal since then. When two blades came at her at the same time, one from the left and one from the right, she stepped back and parried them both with one sweeping motion. Dancing aside in a movement Sheena had taught her, she thrust through one foe’s shoulder and then slashed his calf, and he fell. A spear quested for her heart, and she used another Sword Dancer-taught spinning slash, evading and striking in one fluid movement.
Two of her five foes were down. When she slashed across a third’s fingers, forcing him to drop his axe, the remaining two stared in awe — and were swiftly dispatched by Tycho, who’d finished his own assailants.
“I didn’t teach you those moves,” he said. But his look wasn’t one of admonition or critique — it was one of positive appraisal.
“I was hoping to surprise you,” Guinevere said. She sidestepped a new foe, who slashed at her with reckless abandon. She thrust through his shoulder, then slashed his elbow, and thrust through his calf. When he fell, clutching his wounds, groaning in pain, decidedly out of the fight, Guinevere looked at Tycho. “I haven’t forgotten what you taught me, either. And I know I have more to learn.”
“You won’t be disappointed, then,” Tycho said, grinning. “I have plenty more to teach.”
They returned to the fight, Guinevere heartened by her teacher fighting by her side. She caught glimpses of Sheena fighting where the battle was fiercest, towards the end of the line, and marveled at her grace and poise, her flowing movements that belied a speed that none in the ballroom could come close to matching. She watched as Elliot fought towards the center of the line, tall and valiant, every strike true, every movement the image of greatest Knighthood, a beacon that was clearly inspiring the Knights around him.
And Guinevere noticed something about her Knights that gave her greater empathy for them. For so long, she’d found them rather disappointing. The Knights of the Promise were glorified bodyguards, really nothing more than chaperones, and though they had strict training regimens and didn’t let their skills get rusty…
None of Guinevere’s Knights of the Promise had ever seen real combat. They’d never had a need to wield their swords in her defense before.
The only Knights of the Promise to fight for real, against foes who meant their charge harm, were those who had fought to protect Artorius and his parents at the Wonderian compound where he was supposed to be safe.
And they had all died, failing in their sworn duty.
To see her own Knights standing tall, fighting on, even when seven of their brothers-in-arms had died beside them, and nearly a dozen more were sorely injured, made Guinevere admire the “lazy Knights,” as she’d often thought of them. Idleness had not made them useless. And when push finally came to shove — when their Queen called upon them, and they stood as the only bulwark between death and the innocent — they were showing their quality.
Lancelot most of all. Guinevere had always found him sweet, in the most condescending way — he was so easy, saluting and snapping to perform at her every whim, no matter how petty. She’d been quite rude to him at times in the past, she knew, when she’d still been living in her gilded cage, before her grand escape.
But though he was the youngest of the Knights of the Promise at only nineteen years old, and had often been the meekest, the most compliant, the most subservient… here he was bold, courageous, undaunted by blood and fury and horrific violence thrown against him. He led his squad without faltering, and they rose to the inspiration he provided for them, proving the boldest and most stalwart of all the Knights holding this tenuous defensive line.
For it was tenuous. They were sorely outnumbered, and every death or injury only made the holes in the line more glaringly obvious. Sheena and Elliot started acting as more mobile fighters, darting up and down the line to reinforce wherever the line was closest to faltering. But even so, more of the Anti-Promise League kept slipping through the cracks, leaving Guinevere and Tycho the last line of defense.
Though they didn’t have to race to cover wherever the League’s henchmen broke through. Because Guinevere was the ultimate target of her foes, they came right to her whenever they got the chance. And Guinevere was glad of it — because it meant that the guests huddled on the stage, watching the violence with bated breath, were in less danger than they appeared.
I’m your target, am I? The real reason you’re here? Fine then. Come and take me — if you can!
Guinevere and Tycho fought off the next group that broke through the line, and things started to look up. The Anti-Promise League was still three times their number — but the lengthening battle, and their mounting losses, were clearly wearing on them. These were no Knights, sworn to oaths of heroism and nobility, dedicated to higher moral ideals, trained rigorously by the highest standards, no. These were a rabble of fanatics, and while fanaticism was a powerful, dangerous motivator, it was also less sturdy. Where the Knights, Elliot, Sheena, Tycho, and Guinevere had built their ideals on a solid, stone foundation, the Anti-Promise League were chasing after a phantom dream, racing along a sandy shore. And if they ever had to stop, ever faced real resistance? How sure then was their footing?
Lancelot sliced down another attacker, and then brandished his sword high in the air. “The battle is almost won!” he called. “For the Queen!”
“For the Queen!” went up the cry from the Knights of the Promise. They pushed their line forward — just a step, and then two steps, before planting themselves in this new position. But that small advance was a statement, one that the entire Anti-Promise League felt. A ripple of doubt shuddered through the entire enemy host, and Guinevere felt the tide turning.
And then — a scream, a nightmarish shriek that threatened to turn hope to ash. Dropping down through the shattered hole in the roof came a crackling, shapeshifting nightmare of darkness — another Nocturne.
“Hold the line!” Elliot called, undaunted. “We’ll deal with the monster!” And he and Sheena raced ahead, cutting down any members of the League who tried to stop them. The pair charged alone, straight at the nightmare without a shred of fear.
Which left Guinevere, Tycho, and the Knights of the Promise to hold the line. The black-bearded leader of the Anti-Promise League started to rile up his followers, but Guinevere raised her voice over his. “The day is almost won!” she called. “Put down this pathetic mob. Show them the quality of the Knights of the Promise!”
A rallying cry went up, and the Knights held their ground as the Anti-Promise League fought to capitalize on the arrival of the Nocturne.
Guinevere wanted to move up, to join the line, to stand side-by-side with the Knights. But she recognized the danger of it. There was no defense behind the Knights except her and Tycho, no one else to rise to the challenge if anyone broke through the line. And while she was the League’s target, if she was too close-in with the Knights, too well-protected, then any who found a gap in the defense might instead turn their attentions to the vulnerable civilians on the stage.
The Knights have their stand in front. And my stand is here — the last line of defense, wherever they may falter or fail.
Together, we will win the day.
——
Baskerville groaned, and Tobias strode up the man’s impressive height, planting a foot on his chest and placing the tip of his sword under the killer’s chin. “Tell me who hired you, and why,” he said.
Baskerville scoffed. “To what end, little knight?” he asked.
“You don’t have to suffer,” Tobias said. “A name, and a reason. You don’t need to give me anything more.”
Baskerville chuckled, which turned into a ragged cough. “More will come for her,” he said. “A pity my life has to end on such a failure… but she won’t stop until the girl is dead.”
“Who?” Tobias asked, pressing the point of his blade against Baskerville’s neck.
Baskerville smirked. “The Black Queen,” he said. Then he made a motion with his tongue. Too late, Tobias realized what he was doing. He cried out, reached for the man’s face — but Baskerville bit down, hard, on something inside his mouth. He coughed, and foamed at the mouth… and went silent.
Tobias grimaced, fighting down a surge of revulsion and sympathy. To take one’s own life… even when on death’s door already…
He shook his head. Humming a soft tune, his sword resonated in kind, and the blood along the blade vanished. He sheathed his sword, and turned to check on Alice. Alice was on her knees, Flynn at her side, leaning into her to provide comfort.
“Are you all right?” Tobias asked, kneeling in front of her.
“The Black Queen…” Alice said softly, a haunted look in her eyes.
“You know her?” Tobias asked.
“I… don’t know,” Alice said. Pain flickered in her eyes — the pain of confusion, and unknown loss. “There’s something. A ghost of a memory, a… fear.” She shivered. Slowly, her eyes tracked past Tobias, to the dead man who had come to kill her. “He… killed himself.”
“Yes,” Tobias said.
Alice kept staring at Baskerville, so Tobias shifted to the side, so that he was front and center in her line of sight. “You’re safe,” he said. “That’s what matters.”
Slowly, Alice looked into his eyes. “Yes,” she said softly. “Thank you. But… more will come. Won’t they?”
“If he was telling the truth — and I’m sure he was — yes,” Tobias said. “And Flynn and I will keep you safe. No matter what.”
Alice stared at him. There were a million words unsaid in those big blue eyes, an aching to say something, but not knowing which words to choose. Her hand stroked Flynn behind his ears, absently, like an automatic reflex.
Then, abruptly, she stood, turning away — towards the manor. “We should see what happened, and make sure Guin’s all right,” she said.
“Stay close,” Tobias said.
“Of course,” Alice said, nodding resolutely.
They ran — Tobias, Alice, and Flynn — none of them casting a second glance back at the death behind them.
——
Guinevere ducked aside from an axe blow, then parried a sword slash and stepped away, bare feet sliding on a floor slick with — she didn’t want to think about it. The axe came again, and she blocked it, but awkwardly, and felt its impact resonate up her blade into her hand and forearm, making her wince in pain.
Just as a sword thrust for her heart, and she found herself moving too slowly, a flash of silver sliced through her two opponents, and they dropped. Guinevere gasped in relief, and nodded her appreciation to Tycho, who stood now in front of her, ready to guard her from all foes.
I’m slowing. My arms and hands ache, my feet hurt, my heart’s racing… it’s hard to take a full breath. I can see it in my Knights, too — they don’t have the same energy they started with. This fight is wearing them down. Tycho still fights as if he’s fresh, and Elliot and Sheena are holding strong against the Nocturne…
But the rest of us are running out of steam. So are our foes, but there are more of them, so they can keep bringing in fresher bodies against us.
We have to end this, and soon! Where’s —
She stood, raising her sword, ready as she saw the black-bearded leader of the mob rush the center of the line with a tightly-packed formation. They crashed into Lancelot and his squad, and the Knights were hard-pressed to hold on. They couldn’t, and were being swept away almost as soon as the fight began. In moments, Guinevere and Tycho would have to stand alone against dozens of foes, hungry for Guinevere’s capture…
But then there was a dart of reddish-brown fur, across the floor. Four of the League henchmen had their feet fly up into the air, falling flat on their back. A second later, a black blur sliced through their ranks. A dozen men fell in an instant. When the black-bearded leader looked around in alarm, and then started to cajole his followers to fight harder —
Another blur of jet-black — obsidian. The bearded leader gasped, his eyes rolled back into his head, and he fell, along with six others.
Tobias stood in the gap, at the center of the line, Flynn at his side, the pair of them staring down a small army as if daring them to charge them all at once.
“Guin!” Alice cried, racing to Guinevere’s side. “You’re hurt — oh, no, it’s other people’s blood. That’s fine, then.” She smiled up at Guinevere. “We aren’t too late, are we?”
“No,” Guinevere said. “You’re just in time.”
“Well, someone has to be dramatic,” Alice said. She smiled again, and Guinevere thought it looked forced. But now wasn’t the time to worry about that.
“Come on!” shouted someone in the crowd of the League. “We still outnumber them! And we’ve a Nocturne on our side! Take the Queen, and the day is ours!”
Just then came a high, beautiful whistle. A streak of starlight shot into the ballroom, crashing into the Nocturne. Elliot and Sheena backed off, as the starlight resolved into the form of Rosalie, and her squad soon followed her to stand against the Nocturne.
“Sorry!” Rosalie called to Guinevere. “I didn’t realize they were coming in threes tonight. But we’ll have this one defeated in no time.”
It was no empty boast, either. Without another word, the five Knights Aurora laid into the Nocturne with all their striking magics and strength of arms…
And the Nocturne perished in panicked shrieking. The nightmare ended.
“Now, then,” Rosalie said, turning with her squad to stand alongside Elliot and Sheena. And the Anti-Promise League was suddenly caught between Tobias, Flynn, Guinevere, Tycho, and the Knights of the Promise on one side, and Elliot, Sheena, and five Knights Aurora on the other.
No one even had to call for them to surrender. The remaining members of the League — still nearly a hundred strong — laid down their arms and gave themselves up.
Guinevere let out a sigh, letting the tension drain out of her. She looked up at Tobias, who had turned to look at her, concern in his summer sky-blue eyes. “I’m all right,” Guinevere said. “Just tired, is all. There are others in need of actual medical attention.”
“I’ll send for the medical staff,” Tycho said. “Doubtless they’re close by.”
“Thank you,” Guinevere said. Ava came to her, now that the guests were definitively safe, and nuzzled against her, providing much-needed comfort.
It was just then, just as she was getting ready to accept this victory and take heart in it, when someone screamed. Worse still, she knew that scream.
“Mother…?” she asked.
“Outside!” Tobias said. He and Flynn ran across the ballroom, towards the main doors and the manor’s guest entrance. Guinevere and Ava raced after him, desperate to end this waking nightmare.