Of Gods and Warriors ✓

Chapter 56

Oh, the things one does for friendship.

Especially when said friend is the heiress to the throne.

Indeed, in the history of humankind there had always been brave souls who moved mountains for their friends, mighty heroes who sacrificed their lives for loyalty.

Alas, it turned out, Ellanher Marches, youngest Royal Sorcerer of Midaelia, was not one of them. He couldn't bear so much as a few sore limbs.

But he was currently in the middle of the woods of Kinallen, already too far into the plan to pull back. Besides, the high-speed, sorcery-run Dark Saints carriage moved too fast for him to simply step out, dig his own grave into the freshly fallen snow and end his own misery.

He wondered if Princess Lysandra would give him a royal funeral if he indeed died today.

As the carriage thundered down the rocky dirt road, the sorcerer struggled to read the grimoire sprawled across his lap. The book shook and pitched and danced much like its reader, the words upon the yellow pages blurring into incomprehensible, wiggly lines.

This carriage, stolen-- or rather, borrowed in Her Highness's words-- from a Dark Saints warehouse was perhaps one of the most ridiculously impractical works of sorcery Marches had ever seen. The wheels were powered by energy crystals mined from the volcanic plains of the south Midaelian peninsula-- which was not so bad in itself.

But the lack of necessary horse gear to help adjust the steeds against the high-speed wheels, and minimal upholstery on the interior to cushion the blows made for a bone-breaking, teeth-shattering ride. The morning's snowfall made the road a solid blanket of powdery white, so the carriage hit a bump every now and then.

By now Marches was sore in at least ten places, strained three tendons and after a particularly rough turn-- became a begrudging owner of a lump on his forehead the size of a small potato. The fact that his luxurious desk-job had made him stiff as an eighty-year-old man did not help his case.

When Princess Lysandra burst into his tower this morning, saying she would whisk him off to a grand adventure, Marches should not have complied. Ah well, too late now.

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"You alright back there, Your Magicality?" called Princess Lysandra from behind the wooden panels that separated the front seat. She was seated beside her black-clad spy who was driving this godforsaken vehicle.

"Wretched," said Marches. "Absolutely miserable."

"Good. We're almost there."

"Uh, Your Highness?" His shoulder slammed painfully into the wall of the carriage.

"Speak your mind, sir."

"If I die here today, do me the honor of putting red Dahlias upon my grave."

The spy driving the carriage choked. Lysandra sounded confused. "Odd request, but one that can be arranged. What does that signify? Unrequited love?"

"No. Betrayal. You tempted me with the prospect of adventure and tossed me into this death trap!" he said. "I was working on something important, you know?"

"Tracking down crows with your magic. Very important work indeed."

"Ravens," corrected Marches. "In their hundreds and thousands, are heading towards Midaelia."

The top of the wood panelling slid to one side. Princess Lysandra's sharp, dark eyes looked back at him, shapely eyebrows raised.

"Trust me, Your Highness. Sorcery is my forte as espionage is yours. I have sensed a sorcerous turbulence in Drisia. Kept well-masked for years, it seems, but now I have managed to track it down. Its source is a cemetery near Calbridge Castle."