Rokkoh and the Princess, Chapter 2

The door to the Court of Crowns stands tall, thrice our height and twice our combined width. The great oak things swing inward, revealing the smooth and polished stone floor and the ceiling so high that not even the largest giant could reach it. Rows of long pews form two columns, an emerald rug bordered in crimson separating as it stretches from the doors to the elevated thrones. We follow the rug to its end, finding a gaggle of guards cooing over something. Each adorn simple leather armor, a green cape like Captain Hunt’s and mine covering their backs. A cough rustles among them, sending them straight and to attention. From within them steps a woman draped in an elegant dress of many colors. A gold crown with pieces of jade embedded in the short spikes sits atop her hazel head. A warm smile greets us as she approaches, a mother’s smile. Her tan cheeks can hardly contain the grin.

“Captain Hunt,” she says, looking to him and offering her hand. Several rings clink on her fingers as he takes her hand and presses his lips to the largest one, a silver band with a black diamond.

“Rokkoh.” She turns to me, offering the same hand.

“I don’t do sloppy seconds, your Majesty,” I joke with a light chuckle. She returns a breath of a small laugh, but the hand remains in the air. I take it and, like Captain Hunt, kiss the black diamond.

“Ever the charmer,” Queen Mathilde smirks. Remarks of how that charm used to work on her in the past comes to mind, but I hold my tongue. No matter our history, she wears a crown now. The trouble my tongue could get me into now is far more perilous than when I was a young man. Say the wrong thing to the wrong lady and it meant a hand across the face. Say the same wrong thing to the same wrong lady now and it could be a day in the stocks or a date with the hangman. Then again, Mathilde was only ever bloodthirsty on the battlefield. The real trouble would be if King Domhnall caught wind of my flirtations.

“I try my best,” I offer. “How can I be of assistance, your Majesty?”

That warm smile of her fades for a moment. Her bright, green eyes flicker to from where she had come forth. I follow her gaze; behind the guards, laying on a chaise, is a thick white blanket. It sits like a tiny hilltop on the soft seat, a round head and soft rolling ripples on the way down. At the bottom, though, the fleece is tucked. From under the material, some small thing moves. A nearby guard looks to the little snowy hill, a delighted grin spreading on his baby face. I step toward the bundled blanket. The guards come together, shoulder to shoulder and blocking the way. I peer over their pip-squeak forms, finding a pink face wrapped in the white. Eyes closed, lips sucking on a pacifier, she sleeps.

“Mattie,” I say low, our eyes meeting again, “did you kidnap a baby?”

“Please,” she scoffs, turning away from us all and taking her spot in the row of thrones. She sits in the seat to the right of the center-most royal chair, the polished iron back as tall as me. “I had Captain Hunt do it.”

An arched eyebrow questions him as I turn to face him. That rugged, tough-as-nails scowl breaks into a humored grin. He lets out a single chuckle, his eyes averting my attention. The red carpet suddenly seems intriguing beyond measure. My look remains unchanged when the carpet becomes uninteresting and he looks up again.

“It wasn’t me personally,” he waves me away. “Found someone who would do it for me.”

“Hm,” I nod, slow. “Someone from the Syndicate?”

“The Syndicate?” he laughs, a short roaring sound that proves he is still, at least in part, human. “I wouldn’t ask one of them to steal an apple from the market.”

Something whimpers. All eyes turn to the girl. She sits up, the blanket falling to her shoulders. Her hair, golden silk, is held in a bow at the top of her head. Her eyes blink open, the bright blue orbs still full of sleepiness. She looks around, going from the guards around her and finally finding Queen Mathilde. Tiny arms stretch, the blanket falling around her as she crawls off the chaise. She drags it behind her as her little legs carry her to the Queen. She holds out her arms in a half-asleep request to be held. Queen Mathilde’s heart melts as she obeys, wrapping the girl back up as she picks her up.

“Hey there, beautiful,” she coos, lightly bouncing the tyke on her knee. “Would you like to meet my friend?”

The little bow bounces as she nods. Queen Mathilde smiles to me again, beckoning me. I approach and kneel before them.

“Evalina, this is Rokkoh,” she says to her. The girl holds up a hand and wiggles it in a wave.

“Nice to meet you, little one,” I smile to her. “How old are you?”

She curls three fingers down for a short moment before her eyes close and she latches onto Queen Mathilde. Back to sleep she goes, and I don’t have the heart to wake the sleeping angel.

“Stealing babes from their cribs,” I muse, rising to my feet. With slow steps, my attention goes to my commanding officer. “That’s a new low. I thought you knights had honor.”

“Like I said, they weren’t my hands,” he reasons.

“But it was your order.” We stand toe to toe. Unblinking, we stare at each other. A smug little smirk spreads on his lips, and I answer it with a scowl.

“Boys, play nice,” Queen Mathilde warns. “Besides, Rok, Captain Hunt is just a middleman. If you wish to unleash that holy rage on someone, direct it toward the King. It was his idea.”

My gaze refocuses onto the Queen. She watches in wonder as the child sleeps, gently rocking her. After a long, silent moment, her eyes rise. Her words, incriminating as they were, hold little burden for her. She looks at me, not a care in the world. Well, maybe one. Evalina. She treats the child like her own flesh and blood. That, however, I chock up to her desire for a child of her own as opposed to her love for this child in particular.

“I trust there was a good reason. She some special child of destiny or some bullshit like that?” I ask.

“Not quite,” she answers, growing bored of my image and going back to the ever-intriguing babe. “Mostly just a special child who needs help getting home.”

“Not keeping her, eh?” I chuckle.

“No,” she says, soft. “Her parents cooperated. It would be unwise for us to go back on our word.”

So many questions sprout from the seedlings of her simple phrasing. She says it like I know what she’s talking about. Am I supposed to? Did she slip me some information on crucial kingdom business during our last encounter? There were plenty of drinks involved that night, and I unfortunately cannot recall the entirety of the evening. Or, more likely, she is being cryptic on purpose. I, or someone in this room, am not privy to all the details. Thus, secrecy is a must.

“And to where am I to deliver her?”

It’s the the only question I know she will answer. Anything else could be laughed off as wild, paranoid speculation. Anything else could be conspiracy. Anything else could be the crazy thoughts of a drunkard. Yet, she offers no reply. She remains in her seat, fawning over little Evaline. Captain Hunt, on the other hand, steps forward and appears at my side. He presents to me a small square scrap of paper, folded and sealed with a green Oakwing stamp. I eye it for a moment; if it’s a contract, it must be a simple one. A blend of the old and new ways. I kind of like it. I accept the message and break the seal. A short note is scrawled in the center:

Bring the princess to Vicar Senthia

Lower Yellowberry

Walteria

“You’ve got to be shitting me,” I grumble under my breath.

“Something the matter?” Queen Mathilde inquires, looking up once more.

“You kidnapped a fucking princess?!” The words come out loud and fiery, echoing off the high ceiling. All eyes go to the little one and wait for her to wake up as before. Once the ringing fades into silence and she does not stir, focus shifts back to the Queen and myself.

“Again, I did nothing,” she says in a hushed tone. “It was Captain Hunt’s contact who did the deed. I simply passed the message from the King to who I knew could handle the job. Much like what I’m doing now.”

“Why?” I groan, covering my face with my hand as I heave out a heavy sigh.

“You might need to be a touch more precise, darling,” she says after a quiet moment.

“Why did you kidnap the Princess of Walteria?” I clarify, hand unmoving and exasperation unyielding.

“Since when are you interested in politics?” she asks, humor playing in her tone.

“Ever since you and your husband decided it was okay to steal our neighbor’s daughter,” I answer in a quick second with a glower aimed at her.

“I don’t want to bore you,” she says, trying to evade the subject. That humor has dissolved into the light tremble of nervousness.

“I’d rather be bored than pissed,” I tell her, taking a step toward her. Captain Hunt plants a firm hand on my shoulder, a silent warning to stay put. With a grunt, I obey.

“Then be pissed,” she shrugs while dismissing me. “I’m not telling you. It’s royal business. You’re not royalty. So, not your business.”

The Court of Crowns is overcome by quiet again. The gaggle of guards cast worried looks from Queen Mathilde to myself and back again. Captain Hunt keeps his hand on me, making sure I don’t make any sudden and violent moves. The Queen ignores us all, making sure Evaline sleeps happily and soundly. I roll my eyes with another sigh, this one softer and calmer.

“Fine.” The word comes in that bitter breath. Queen Mathilde offers a small smile, and the hand on my shoulder disappears. A wave of relief washes over the guards.

“Good,” the Queen grins. “You are to keep an eye on this precious angel at all times. We have already arranged a driver for the two of you. Torvald should be waiting for you outside the tower. He has been given instructions, of which he shall inform you.”

“Torvald?” The groan that escapes me is loud, bitter, deliberate. “That blond bastard can barely keep his boots tied, let alone lift a sword if the situation calls for it.”

“But he can drive a horse,” Captain Hunt steps in. “And that is all you’ll need him for. The road to Walteria has been safe and clear for quite some time now.”

“And if they are suddenly not so safe and clear?” I turn to him, sharp and with a furrowed brow. “That boy will be butchered.”

“But that’s why we’re sending you,” Queen Mathilde attempts to soothe me. “You’re more than capable of defending not only the little princess but Torvald as well.”

Silence envelops us once more until a heavy sigh fills the space.

“Alright,” I say. “Give me the princess.”

A single footstep closer to her, arms outstretched and ready to accept the child, is met with recoil. Queen Mathilde turns her body away from me, shielding the sleepy girl. She screams with wide eyes but a mute tongue, telling me not to come closer. Protective, instinctive, almost animalistic. I watch her for a long moment, arms relaxed back at my sides, curious.

“I’ll bring her down,” she says, composing herself. Eyes drifting back to the princess, she becomes calm. A small smile returns to her face. “Just one more moment.”

“Whatever the Queen wishes,” I breathe with a slight bow. I follow the long green and red carpet back to the enormous doors; they open for me without assistance and close as I exit.

Continue to Chapter 3

Rokkoh and the Princess, Chapter 1

A silver coin is met with a full tankard. Empty it, and another silver fills it back up. Repeat the exchange for as long as you can stay on the stool without falling off or falling asleep. If you’re lucky, the light of the early morning sun will cascade through the windows and greet you as a friend. The birds will chirp, cheering your victory. And you’ll go out into the world, conqueror of the drink and master of all that is alcohol. None shall oppose you, or dare raise a hand to you, for you wear the crown of brews. You just need to provide the silver and survive the onslaught of grog.

I have never been much of a lucky man.

A heavy hand rocks me, rustling me out of my stupor. The windows are still dark. There are no birds, only fellow drunks laughing and talking at their little round tables. Remnants of something stale remain on my tongue and need to be washed out. The mug held loose in my sleepy hand only contains more of the mead from whenever I last took a sip. The hand on my shoulders shakes me again, the contents of my skull moving a second slower than the rest of me.

“Fuck’s sake, get up,” the all-too familiar voice groans. 

Captain Hunt, though a decade younger, wears as much violence on his weathered face as I do. Things he has seen on the battlefield have dulled his once vibrant blue eyes. Some of our brothers joke that his hair once was as fair as straw, but his years of bloody conquest stained it orange forever. A near-permanent scowl has etched lines in his brow seen more commonly on a man my age. I can’t imagine how deep they will run in the next ten years. 

“I’ll drag you to your feet if I have to,” he warns. 

I rouse with a groan of my own, blinking eyes working to bring Leo’s Tap, the best and only tavern in Oakwing, into focus. Captain Hunt’s armor, polished steel gilded at the edges of his steel breastplate, is blinding even in the candlelight. From the shoulders down he’s covered, only his fiery crown remaining unprotected. His cape, a rich green, tickles the top of his boots. Even the pommel of his sheathed sword glistens in the low light.

For a seasoned veteran, he sure looks mighty pretty and pristine. Does he enjoy the exalted life, rubbing shoulders with Oakwing’s finest? Has he grown accustomed to the leisure of sending men out into the wild to face beasts and ill-intended folk? Or does the ginger bastard miss coating his blade with the crimson innards of inferior countrymen? 

“Haven’t you heard it’s impolite to wake a sleeping man?” The words come out sloppy, tripping over my ale-laden tongue. “I thought knights had manners.”

“And I thought the reverent were meant to abstain from the vices of man?” Captain Hunt shoots back.

“I didn’t see that in the job description,” I offer, getting to my feet. My joints wobble, threatening to take me on a trip to get a close view of the floorboards. My fingers lose the handle of the tankard but find the edge of the bartop to keep me steady. Two Captain Hunts blend into one, the blurriness of the duo sharpening at the union. It doesn’t feel like my body sways, but my arm stretches and folds as I grip the wood.

“You okay?” he asks, a humored grin lighting up his otherwise grave face. 

I can’t tell if my nod is fast or slow; all I know is that my stomach threatens to surrender its contents in a forceful blast. My mouth stays shut to quell the coming force. But the sick rumbling calls my bluff, and my mouth gets weak and lets a ball of acidic gas escape. I would recoil in disgust at the vile, but the look of revulsion infecting Captain Hunt’s face fills my heart with childish pride.

“Never been better,” I answer. “What can I do for ya?”

“Get dressed. Meet me at the Sheriff’s Tower in ten minutes,” Captain Hunt orders.

“Why?” I groan, taking my seat again. “I’ve been a good boy, I swear.” The amber liquid refreshes my mouth with its bittersweet alcohol.

“Ten minutes,” he says again. His cape fans out as he turns on his heel, making his way to the door. I make a face, narrowing my eyes and sticking out my tongue, once he’s gone. I go back to my tankard, finish it off with one big gulp, and leave a few copper coins on the bar for Leo. Not much of a tip, but it’s all I have left. As far as he’s concerned, anyway. 

Crisp air greets me as soon as I pass through the door of Leo’s Tap. Brisk, refreshing, but not quite sobering. The spinning world slows a little bit. The blurriness of building sharpens just a touch. The lights inside the sleeping box giants aren’t so blinding. Yet the world still moves. I can’t make out details on the signs. I wince at what little brightness fills the town circle. But the quiet, the peace only the moon can bring, takes over. Oakwing sleeps, leaving only a few guardsmen to patrol for ne’er-do-wells and runken ruffians. My lungs take it in, the chill breeze of nocturnal serenity, and my mouth gives it back in a light misty exhale. 

Standing tall in the center of the ares is the Sheriff’s Tower. A grand silhouette, it looms over the city. Watching, waiting, judging. It keeps an ever-vigilant eye on the citizenry, looking for the next person to send to the stocks for humiliation, a cell for justice, or the gallows for permanent punishment. Cold, hungry, malevolent. The door facing the north side of town, a gaping toothless maw, welcomes me in. 

Captain Hunt does not greet me here. The room is vacant, only a few sconces bearing lit candles. The little tables, lined up like a grip of gravestones, sit inpatient silence for the morning when their masters return. At dawn, the room will flood with bodies. Paperwork will be filed, fines will be processed and handed for couriers to deliver, wanted posters will be drafted and posted at the gates. Busy little worker bees will toil away until the evening, earning their pay as they fill the whole tower with their endless buzzing.

Captain Hunt does not greet me here. Even in my waning stupor I do not expect him to wait for me just inside the north door. No, that ginger grimace of his would be found at the top of the tower. He would be outside the Court of Crowns.

Up the stairs that hug the wall, I climb to the third floor. I thank the railing for keeping me steady. Stepping off the stone staircase, I come to the door with “Paladin Ward” burned into the oak in block letters the size of my hand. Inside, a well-lit room awaits. My eyes need a moment to adjust, but soon the small room comes together. Three chairs sit in the middle, separated by a large desk. Two of the chairs, small wooden things, show their backs to me. The other, bigger but not by much, waits on the other side. On the occasion of a commission, the paladin and the contact write up the agreement here. Boring, bureaucratic bullshit. Give me a bag of coin and a name and I’ll do the dirty work. No contracts or signatures required. No bullshit. 

Beyond the desk and chairs is another door, this one plain. To a hallway it leads, two doors on either side. One for each holy warrior enlisted under the city’s banner. The first two little apartments are occupied, their hosts sleeping soundly inside. At the back end, the room on the right misses its tenant; Miea went out for a job three days ago and hasn’t returned quite yet. The last door on the left groans as I turn the knob and step inside. Candles spark to life, but remain dim. Alcohol, tobacco, and sex linger in the air. I take it all in with a grin.

Home.

The main room holds little fanfare: a few basic chairs in various states of disrepair mingle around a low table in the center of the room; a green flag with a golden eagle resting on a tree branch hangs on the easter wall; a white banner bearing the visage of a faceless woman with flowing yellow hair and outstretched welcoming arms is displayed on the western wall. A doorway calls from the southern wall, the bed inside whispering sweet nothings in hopes that I will succumb. I enter, tired drunken eyes focusing on it for too long of a moment. The aroma of mortal pleasures is stronger here, more tempting here. In minutes this room could come alive, full of laughter and lust and life. All I would need is some wine and a woman. 

But not tonight.

I go to the water basin in the corner of the room near the head of the bed. The cold water on my face as I scrub it in sends a sobering, warm, invigorating jolt through me. The sluggishness in my head dissipates, the heaviness in my limbs lightens, and my wobbly legs find stable footing. Droplets trickle down from my hairless head and into my goatee and shirt. I remove the latter and the rest of my casual clothes in favor of the glistening steel armor and green cape modeled by the mannequin on the other side of the room. A display rack sits on the wall next to the now naked featureless figure. A sword, her blade long and broad and beautiful, shines there. I take her by the black leather of the hilt, marvel at her wondrous violent steel, and slide her into the sheath at my hip.

Ah, my glorious lady Lavender. Or, as the people call her, Drake’s Demise. The name sounds prettier in her native Elvish tongue. Still, as beautiful as she is, she hardly deserves the common name. Eradicate a nest of sleeping wyvern younglings and suddenly you’ve slayed a dragon. But what of her other tales? What about the countless bandit camps she has raided? Or that necromancer hiding in his cave to the west? Where are the songs regarding the nameless legion of men, women, and children who fell to her fatal sting during perilous times war? No, certainly there are none. Where is the glory in those stories? The bravery? The illustrious fame? The storytellers care not for the terrible things a weapon has done, the numerous affronts to the deities. The stories that spread like wildfire, the ones people seem to only praise, are those of great and mighty beasts who no longer breathe thanks to quick wits and strong steel. 

If only the bards and histories knew what my Lavender has done. If only.

At the landing of the seventh and final floor, Captain Hunt waits.

“You’re late,” he says, a hushed bark.

“It’s a lot of stairs,” I shrug.

“Follow me,” he grunts with a sigh.

Continue to Chapter Two

001 Beginnings

Beginnings can be really hard. In literature, you have that opening line, that hook. Stephen King said it best: “An opening line should invite the reader to begin the story. It should say: Listen. Come in here. You want to know about this.” There have been a great many iconic first lines, like those of Daphne du Maurier’s Rebecca, Ray Bradbury’s Fahrenheit 451, and Stephen King’s The Gunslinger (a personal favorite). I’ve always felt like I struggled with crafting a good opening line. Looking back, there has been a dud or two. Most of the time, I argue with myself on where in the story to start. These characters don’t just pop up out of nowhere; before my fingertips dance on the keyboard, they have lived a life. Granted, I may not know the extent of that life, but they have lived nonetheless. To plop the reader in, give them the viewfinder, and ask them to watch the goings on, there needs to be bait on the hook.

Beginnings can be terrifying. On the page or in life, that unknown sometimes can stop a person from trying at all. I can attest to that. This project has me scared to death. What if no one bothers to come here? What if this all falls on deaf ears? So thank you for being here. Even if you don’t read anything else here, thank you for stopping by. Thank you for witnessing my beginning. And if you stick around, thank you even more.

Beginnings can be exhilarating. Starting something new and seeing the endless possibilities ahead can sometimes be the best feeling in the world. The hype is very real, as the kids say. There is just so much excitement to start a project, it becomes all you think about. You plan and prepare, trying to make everything perfect. 

As I write this, I’m kind of there right now. I’m caught in between scared shitless and eager. I’ve posted my writing online before, I used to post to a site called Booksie all the time a decade ago, but this is a huge step for me. I’ve never had a place to call my own for my writing. So, here we are. Welcome, and enjoy!