The Sword of Darrow (5 page)

I
f you believe in history, grand events are the work of heroes. But in this respect, history tells little truth. Who are these heroes? They are the product of legend, of tales told over and over, until they tower in size far larger than any real memories of the time.

The truth, could it be known, is that the largest events are often shaped by the smallest hands. Tiny circumstances, unnoticed by any at the time, grow in consequence until they unleash vast powers, topple empires, crumble armies, and leave the mightiest of monarchs resting in their graves.

In the kingdom of Sonnencrest at the palace of King Henry, one such event, arising from a simple act of childish mischievousness, empowered the many great deeds that followed.

The moon was full and high in the sky as midnight approached. Though the soldiers stepped softly, the muffled drumbeat of their footsteps filled the streets of Blumenbruch. Beltar lifted his hand to signal for quiet. Among the soldiers not a word was uttered. But in the houses that surrounded them, barely a mile from the palace, citizens peered through their windows fearful and certain of the terrible events that would surely come to pass.

Inside the castle, no warnings had sounded. Few lights shone from windows. A handful of sentries manned the towers. Unaware of the impending attack, most soldiers and citizens lay fast asleep. However,
most
did not include the eight-year-old princess, Babette.

Outside the castle, beneath a pear tree, the little princess sat, waiting for an unusual visitor, a rare and precious serenading bird from the faraway island of Annisa.

The bird was a gift from a visiting prince and Babette had named her Principeelia after an angel in an ancient fable. So precious was this bird and so beautiful was her song that Babette could not bear to keep her captive. With tears in her eyes, she had released Principeelia through a window. But finding no others of her kind in the forests of Sonnencrest, the little bird returned, and every Wednesday night the princess sneaked through a window, departed the palace, and waited for her bird to return.

Principeelia landed on the branch. Barely bigger than a chicken’s egg, her feathers were a dazzling yellow, accented by blue eyes and a bright red beak. Babette lifted her hands to offer Principeelia the raisins she always brought. When the little bird finished her meal, she hopped back to her perch, opened her bright beak, and let forth her song. Lost in the melody, Babette’s mind wandered to faraway places.

She imagined herself a sword fighter, a sailor, or even a spy, disguised as a man, whose designs bring an evil kingdom to its knees . . . anything but a princess. Eyes closed, she galloped across a great desert pursuing evil bandits, determined to deliver the punishment they deserved.

A great thundering clap interrupted Babette’s dream. Sand and small bits of rock exploded through the air, stinging her skin. A small cut appeared on her arm. The dust made her cough and when it settled, she saw a large round stone lying broken on the ground.

Another stone struck, hitting the palace wall a little farther away. Loud claps began to sound, near and far with a random but more frequent pattern. Trembling, Babette curled into a ball, wondering why such stones might fall from the sky. She reached for a branch and pulled herself into the tree.

For a moment the stones stopped. Babette crouched in the tree, ready to jump. A great bang sounded and began to repeat with an even rhythm. Next to her tree, the wall shook. After each bang, the sound of creaking wood cried out in response. “The gate,” she realized. “Something is banging at the gate.”

A great crash reached her ears and the banging stopped. A shrill cry, joyous and evil, filled the yard. A sea of torches floated inside, spreading like milk across a black table. Her tiny hands shook. She climbed higher in her tree. For moments, she simply trembled, eyes closed, too afraid to look.

When she opened her eyes, she saw wagons and boxes and trees alive with flame. In the stone buildings, great yellow plumes roared from the windows. Strange shadows pulsed chaotically, in a vile and wicked dance. A figure approached. Its face was dark, the light at its back. Then she knew. The goblins had arrived.

Across the yard, gleams of silver showed the rise and fall of a hundred swords. Bodies dropped to the ground. Amongst the cries, she heard voices she knew—not just soldiers but servants, craftsmen, and even their children. In and out of the palace compound, the goblins flowed, some wearing shirts stuffed with candlesticks and gold.

Torches approached, five in all. Babette gripped the trunk, trying to make herself small behind the leaves. The torches passed. She climbed higher and stepped out onto the wall. There, a watchtower cast a shadow that concealed her tiny frame.

A great cry arose. Across the yard, movement slowed. Her eyes darted frantically about, searching for the reason. The torches moved toward the palace. Her eyes rose to the balcony and she gasped.

There stood her mother, father, and three siblings, bound with ropes, motionless as statues commemorating some unspeakable tragedy. Babette clutched her heart, fearful to look but unable to look away.

A goblin wearing a black mask climbed to the rail of the balcony and lifted his hands. A high-pitched cheer arose from the yard. Babette staggered backwards. The goblin unsheathed his sword and lifted it high in the air, prancing back and forth across the balcony rail. More cheers, louder. Trembling, Babette stepped back again, but this time her foot stepped beyond the wall.

When she awoke, she lay on her back, looking up from the ground. She rose. Screams and cheers filled her ears. She was outside the wall, so she turned and ran.

She had no idea where to run as she took off across the open grounds and into the streets of Blumenbruch. As she fled deeper into the city, the noise from the palace faded. Soon, only the sound of her footsteps echoed in her ears.

She stopped, pressing her back against the wall of a small building. She had seldom left the palace, and the streets of her own city were strange and unfamiliar. They were empty and cold. She looked left and right, wondering where to go.

Footsteps. Footsteps pounding rapidly and moving her way. Again, she ran. A goblin voice shouted. She looked back to see a soldier in pursuit. Ducking into an alley, Babette covered herself with trash and listened as the soldier passed barely an arm’s reach away. She feared that her heart might beat too loudly. But the soldier only muttered a curse and walked away.

Shunning the streets, Babette ran deeper into the alley, searching for an open door or lighted home. The alley branched in different directions. She did not choose. She just ran. She ran and ran until the alley came to an end.

A dog barked nearby. She froze. Then her courage was lost. She collapsed onto the cobblestones, sobbing loudly, helplessly, and without restraint.

It no longer mattered that her sobbing might be heard. She was beyond caution, reason, or any ordered state of mind. She placed her small head in her tiny hands and wept. Minutes passed. A door opened.

An older man with a cane peered out and whispered harshly, “Who are you? Quiet yourself! Do you want to bring the goblins upon us all?”

Babette looked up and tried to speak. At first, she only stuttered. But with great effort, she finally mustered these words.

“I am Princess Babette.”

The man’s eyes grew large. “Princess! Your Majesty.” Then the man paused. “You cannot stay here. If they find you . . .” He paused again and hung his head. “If they find you here, they will kill us all.”

These words jolted Babette from her sobbing. Terrible thoughts tumbled into her brain. Leg irons. A dark dungeon. A guillotine. Perhaps the good fortune of a swift sword. She lifted her head, quite unable to speak, and stared at the old man with desperate eyes.

She was covered with mud, her face bruised, and her eyes desperate and pleading. There she sat, eight years old, helpless against all the forces that conspired against her. For a moment, the old man glanced downward. Then he lifted his eyes to face Babette and spoke in a voice strong and stern.

“Leave. Run away. You must run far, far away! There is no time to be lost!”

The door slammed shut. Babette sat motionless, considering the old man’s words. She climbed to her feet, but her feet did not move.

A minute later, the door opened again. Babette turned to look at the man with hopeful eyes. But the old man did not invite her inside. Instead, he handed her a small cloth bag containing a piece of bread, some dried meat, and a flask of water.

“Go,” he said, almost shouting. She nodded slightly but remained still.

“For heaven’s sake, run. Run until you can run no more and then keep running anyway. Do you understand? Run until there is no city. Then hide in the woods. Travel only at night. But run, run, run, as far from Blumenbruch as you can.”

Babette looked at the man, blinking. The door shut. She ran.

She awoke the next morning in a cornfield. The sun was high in the sky. The stalks towered above her. Carefully, she crawled to the end of the row to look out and see where she was.

The field stopped at the edge of a road. The road was empty and the landscape was wooded, without a building in sight. She wondered how far from Blumenbruch she had run.

From the cornfield, she watched the road, trembling as groups of goblin soldiers passed. She knew the cornfield was not safe. But she had no idea where to go.

Carefully, she peered from behind the stalks. She saw a wagon, driven by a small man. His face was wrinkled and what was left of his hair stood in short gray tufts pointing straight out from his head. He had broad shoulders and big hands. As the wagon approached, Babette could sense a kindness about him.

“That man would never hurt me,” she thought. “He might even help.” But try as she might, she could not find the courage to move.

The wagon was pulled by two horses. In the back, a dirty white cloth covered a large load. “A hay wagon,” Babette thought. As the wagon passed, Babette looked up at the man. She tried to cry out, but the words did not come. The wagon passed her hiding place, and she knew it was almost too late.