Swarm of Flies
Myra rolled her eyes. And here it comes… She should have expected an argument; the peace had lasted far too long.
“What are you talking about?” Tristan said. “I know it will be hard and painful, but we better do it now.”
“I will lose too much blood if you remove the arrow,” the Prince said. “I will be useless in the fight.”
Tristan stared at him, gaping, his eyes wide. Myra tore her gaze from the bridge to glare at Vlad. “And you’ll be extremely useful with an arrow inside you. You mean to keep fighting?”
“Of course,” Vlad said. “We have not reached safety yet. I have to help you.”
Tristan picked up his bow and fired five arrows in rapid succession at the vampires on the bridge. “Are you insane? In case you have failed to notice, there is a piece of wood inside your heart! What if it moves? What if the tip breaks off? What if a splinter breaks off and goes deeper? Do you realize how risky this is?”
“I know it is risky,” Vlad said calmly. “Which is why we will remove the arrow as soon as we have reached safety. But I cannot let you fight alone. And we need to find Armida.”
“Armida is safe.” Tristan fired another arrow. The last approaching vampire fell, and for a moment, things seemed quiet on the bridge. Even the rain was slowing down. “I saw her. She made her way across the Western Bridge, and there was no one pursuing her.”
“Are you certain she is safe? Perhaps there was an ambush…”
“She is well,” Tristan said. “I am sure she is already waiting for us in our cave.”
“And what about you?” the Prince asked. “Did you suffer any further harm?”
“Not a scratch. Now that we have established that both Armida and I are well, you can see we do not need your protection.”
Vlad looked up, eyes wide. “You got up the hill, fought your way through swarms of enemies, destroyed the Wizard in a whirlpool of fire and smoke, and returned, without getting a scratch? Tristan, you are incredible. I couldn’t have done it myself.”
“Flattery will not help you,” Tristan said sternly, although the corner of his lips twitched.
“I am not trying to flatter you,” the Prince said. “I am simply saying what I think.”
Now it was impossible for Tristan to hide his bright smile, but the resolve in his eyes remained. “Come now, I am going to remove the arrow, but only after I have your permission. You didn’t turn me against my wishes. Even though you knew I was not thinking clearly, you didn’t wish to take away my free will. I will return the gesture.”
Oh, come on, remove the arrow already and give me a hand, Myra thought, annoyed. The bridge was still empty, but she worried this could be the calm before the storm.
“What if I don’t allow you to remove it?” Vlad asked, and Tristan bristled.
“Come on, be reasonable. This arrow is a time bomb. It needs to go. Now.”
“And it will go, once we are back at our cave,” Vlad said. His eyes narrowed. “You haven’t been crying for me, have you?”
“What? Don’t be ridiculous!” Tristan snapped. “Why on earth would I be crying for a filthy barbarian? Ah, you mean this.” He brushed against the salty tracks across his cheeks with a sharp move. “A fly got into my eye.”
“I see,” the Prince said with a smile. “But it must have been a whole swarm of flies. Quite unusual for this climate.”
Tristan glared daggers. “Perhaps, in your delirium, you have forgotten we are in the middle of a battlefield. Dead bodies attract flies in any climate.”
Vlad’s smirk grew. “Not freshly killed dead bodies. The air still smells of iron and blood rather than rot. It will be a while before decay sets in and the flies arrive.”
“I have sensitive eyes, if you must know,” Tristan snapped. “If you have no meaningful point to make, I suggest you drop the subject.”
Vlad’s smile softened, and, with an obvious effort, he reached out and held Tristan’s hand in his. “Peace, my child. I will do as you ask. I will let you remove the arrow. Is that all right?”
Myra blinked. The fight was over? Just like that? But Tristan had paled, and his eyes shimmered. “All right?” He brought the Prince’s hand to his lips and kissed it. “How can anything be all right? You have a piece of wood in your heart! What if I cannot remove the arrow properly? What if a splinter breaks off and stays?”
“You should not worry about that,” Vlad said, his voice calm. “You can use a metal blade to cut around the wound and make sure nothing is left inside.”
“But it will hurt a lot,” Tristan protested.
The Prince tried to give him an encouraging smile. “Yes, it will hurt, but that will pass. I have seen wounds such as this, and I know I will make a complete recovery.”
A large group of vampires approached the bridge. Myra fired into the crowd and reloaded, firing again. Was this why the bridge had stayed empty for so long? Had the vampires used the time to regroup and charge all together?
Tristan stood still for a moment, his eyes squeezed tightly shut. Well, Myra did not have the luxury to wait for him. “Tristan,” she whispered urgently. “Vampires crossing. Out of bullets.” She reached out to reload, but knew she could not be fast enough.
Tristan looked up, changing completely in the blink of an eye. “Sorry, my lord,” he said as he carefully laid the Prince down and stood up, drawing his sword. “This will not take long.”
It did not. Myra had seen Tristan fight before, and she had seen him do magic with his sword. She had seen him write poetry with his blade as a quill. She had seen him dance, a dark and deadly dance, but no less beautiful.
This was nothing like that. This was short, and to the point, and desperate, and brutal, and ugly. Tristan was like a bear protecting her cub—strong, and fierce, and invincible. The intruders lay bloody and dead before the fight had even began. And when Tristan knelt back by the Prince’s side, Myra knew that the true fight was barely beginning.
“Forgive me the delay, my lord,” he said. “Please, keep drinking. We still have a lot to face.”
Vlad shook his head. “I will drink no more. No matter how much I drink, I will be useless in this fight once you remove the arrow. Better not waste your blood on me. Keep your strength.”
“All right,” Tristan said reluctantly. “Should I find you someone else to drink?”
“This is enough,” the Prince said. “Let us get this over with.”
Tristan shrugged out of his tunic and started cutting it into long strips. Myra eyed the makeshift bandages, half-soaked in the light rain, but they were the best they had. Vlad raised an eyebrow, grinning. “Your favorite shirt?”
Tristan glowered at him. “I figured I couldn’t mend the tear, anyway. You didn’t think I would sacrifice a perfectly good shirt for you, did you?”
“Such a thought never crossed my mind,” said Vlad, eyes twinkling.
Tristan looked at Myra. “Can you guard the bridge while I do this?”
She nodded. Strangely enough, she could. After Tristan had dispatched the last vampires, no one else had come even close to crossing. It was as if they were not even trying, and something about the idea bothered her.
Tristan undid his leather belt, cut off a large part, and folded it in two. He then gave it to the Prince to bite on, so that he would not bite off his tongue in pain. “Try not to fight me,” he said softly as he pressed down on Vlad’s chest with one hand while he held the arrow in the other.
Myra tried to look away, to shut off her eyes and ears, but she could not help hearing the Prince’s strangled cry, or seeing his body arch back and his hands clutch at Tristan’s forearms so hard that his knuckles turned white. It must have lasted moments only, but it seemed as if ages had passed before Vlad finally relaxed and fell back listlessly, his eyes closed.
Tristan was shaking and pale as a sheet as he brushed a sweaty strand of hair away from the Prince’s forehead and removed the belt from his mouth. Myra shuddered at the sight of the deep toothmarks in the thick leather.
“It was always I who was in trouble,” Tristan said softly, his fingers moving swiftly, applying and tightening the makeshift bandages. “It was always he who took care of me. To see him like this… I had no idea what to do.”
“You did well,” Myra said. “There was nothing you could have done better.”
Tristan snorted. “We will see about that.” He stood up and walked to the bridge.
Myra frowned. “Where are you going?”
“Back there.”
“Why?” she cried, incredulous.
“I have to find Armida.”
“But I thought you said…” Myra froze. So this was why he had stopped her from cutting the bridge. “Let me guess. You haven’t seen her since the battle started.”
“Exactly.” Tristan ran a hand through his long hair, now soaked in rain, blood and soot. “He will never forgive me if anything happens to her. Stay here. Protect him. I imagine I will not take long, but if I am delayed, take him to a shelter. The sun could be out any minute now.”
“Tristan,” Myra cried as he stepped on the bridge. “You know that he won’t forgive you if anything happens to you either, right?”
He grinned ruefully. “I am not in a very good position, am I?”
Only now did Myra understand what the Prince had meant when he had said Tristan had a fear of heights. Watching the vampire clutch at the rope and take small steps, shaking, was painful. Perhaps he had crossed the bridge much faster and easier on the way here, when he had believed the Prince dead, but now that the adrenaline was out of his system, the fear was back.
After what seemed like a lifetime, Tristan reached the other side. Myra shot at anyone coming near him, and it took Tristan little work to take care of his wounded attackers and go on forward. Soon, he disappeared behind the rocks, and she could no longer protect him.
Myra’s heart clenched. Perhaps the Prince was a monster, but Tristan was not. He had been merely a young man, a young boy, in a difficult situation. So different from his fellow villagers, living in a small and closed community, unable to fit in and unable to relate to anyone. Then the Prince had come along and had saved him from the life he hated. He had taken Tristan out of the mud and shown him the way. His way. And although she could never forgive Vlad for any of the atrocities he had committed, she would forgive Tristan in a heartbeat.
Tristan was always so cocky, so arrogant, so annoying. And yet the Tristan she had just seen had been none of that. He had looked so scared, so vulnerable, and strangely young.
Be safe, she prayed, her eyes fixed on the spot where she had seen him for the last time.
No one tried to cross the bridge, and Myra stood there, her eyes darting along the edge, looking for signs of Tristan’s return. This could take forever. Armida could be anywhere. Perhaps she was hiding in one of the cave systems. Or maybe she had indeed escaped on one of the other bridges and was not on the Peak at all. Or she could be badly wounded… or dead.
The dark clouds danced high above. Beyond them was the sun. At any point, the cover could crack and sunlight could spill all over the battlefield. She needed to get Vlad to safety before that happened, but she wanted to wait for Tristan. But how long could she wait?
And then, Tristan reappeared. Armida was by his side, limping, putting more weight on her left leg. She was dressed to avoid attention, in earthy colors, mostly brown and green. Yet attention was the last thing she lacked as many vampires turned towards the pair. Yong had returned and joined the fight. Tristan grabbed Armida’s arm, told her something, and pointed to the bridge. She nodded and ran on, but he stayed behind, holding back the others.
Myra raised her gun, ready to shoot at any vamp going after Armida, but there was no need. No one followed. At first, Myra breathed a sigh of relief. Her aim had improved, but she would not trust herself to aim at anyone in Armida’s proximity. But then another thought struck her—why was no one following?
Armida limped along the bridge, but as soon as she had taken a few steps, she stood up straight and ran forward. Myra frowned. Either Armida’s pain had miraculously disappeared, or she had summoned her willpower to overcome it, or… or she had never been injured at all. But why had she pretended?
Armida reached solid ground and rushed to the Prince. She knelt by his side and placed her hand over his, her face twisted and her eyes shining. She stayed like this for a moment, and then stood up and drew out her sword. Myra frowned and clutched at her gun. Why draw her blade now, when she was far away from her enemies?
Armida walked to the end of the bridge, her sword raised high. Fire burned in her eyes as she glared towards the other side.
“Yong, you brainless rat!” she shouted. “The deal was the Prince remains unharmed!”
“Another part of the deal was the Wizard remains undestroyed,” he shouted back, his voice carrying over the pit. “I am not the one who broke my part first.”
“Really?” Armida yelled. “You and your witless goons allow the Prince’s puppy to climb all the way to the top all by himself, destroy the Wizard and come back unharmed, and somehow it is my fault?”
“Fine,” he cried. “I shot your beloved Prince with a metal-tipped arrow. If you give us the other thing we asked for, we will not pursue him.”
“Done,” Armida said, and with a powerful swing she cut down one of the ropes keeping the bridge attached. “The silver honey-cake is all yours.”