How Not to Poach a Unicorn

Twenty-Eight

The young sorcerer was revelling in his newfound freedom. He had spent almost a decade no more than a few yards from Mercutian, unable to so much as defecate by his own will. Now he could soar high in the sky under his own power and nobody would ever own him again. He had been dominated and held in thrall, an idle observer of his own life. But he had watched and he had learned. He had power now that his master couldn't even imagine and he knew every spell the old bastard had ever conjured. He had plans. He would explore and adventure through the world. He would attract women with his own charm and intellect just to show up the old creep and his bug collection. But first, he would help his poor brother muck up every last one of Mercutian's plans.

His brother, his twin, ran below him carrying the barbarian battle maiden. He was no longer the tortured wreck of a boy that he had known. He was strong and happy and oblivious. Juvai envied him a little. He had no shortage of memories he would happily part with. Since he was stuck with them, though, he would turn them into weapons against those that had wronged him.

He flew low and, with a thunderous curse, shattered the prison portcullis into a thousand frozen rose petals and glided into the courtyard beside his near-feral brother and the eastern princess, who had not yet recovered. 

He paused dramatically as his thrice-stolen magical cloak shimmered with all the colours of the rainbow and flowed around him, caught in a magical breeze. The wind was somewhat taken out of his sails, though, as he surveyed the yard. 

There were a half-dozen men laid out neatly, arms crossed and eyes closed. There were nearly a dozen more in various states of bloodsoaked distress being tended to by four privates and an executioner. The metal Reaper guards were all toppled and motionless. The courtyard was soaked in blood and spattered with a variety of bits of human. He also thought that he could hear the faint magical residue of sour candlelight.

"It's about time you showed up!" grumbled the executioner as he caught sight of the young sorcerer. "Your damned machines are broken!"

"Where are the prisoners?" demanded the sorcerer as he reached out an invisible hand and plucked up the executioner by the foot.

"They were taken," yelled the burly axeman as he was lifted uncomfortably skyward. "by the damned Sorcerer King of all people." He groaned as blood rushed to his head.

"Why didn't you stop him?" shouted Kish angrily. She was still wobbly and having trouble focusing, but she was lucid enough to be angry at having lost Prinin to the Demon Prince.

"Stop him? I thanked him!" The executioner was rubbing his head after being dropped unceremoniously to the flagstone below by the wizard's apprentice. "Look at what those two did to us. What do I care if it's he or me that kills them?"

Kish giggled. She was suddenly very proud of her frail little prince. She imagined him and Prag chatting as they casually escaped and cut through their ranks. She suddenly remembered Prinin's tender touch and soft skin and her legs went a little gummy as her mind wandered uncontrolled into fantasies she didn't know she had.

The boy was investigating on his own. He scampered about on all fours following their scent and poking curiously at the broken Reapers. He also gathered up things that looked useful: four swords, a backpack, and a couple of uniforms off of some dead guards. Stripping the dead raised some eyebrows, particularly those of one survivor who had been on the original mission to capture the prisoners.

"You're already dead!" he shouted at the boy as he scrambled away on his one good foot. "And you're a prisoner!" he continued as he recognized Kish. "And you don't talk or fly!" he said, pointing fearfully at the hovering sorcerer.

"We escaped." The sorcerer floated menacingly over the terrified soldier and grinned. "Mercutian is dead and my brother isn't. Now, you wouldn't know where Vestin and his pretend princess went, would you?"

"To the front," the soldier yammered. "They're going to rally the troops and lead the battle."

The three escapees held a brief and lopsided conference while the soldiers considered and quickly dismissed the possibility of mounting an attack. Instead, they focused on stopping their bleeding and trying not be noticed.

"Where is Cari and where is Prag?" the boy pouted.

"Beyond our reach, I suspect, if they're even still alive," said his brother dejectedly. "I'm not strong enough to fight the Sorcerer King. Hells, I'm not even sure if he can die."

"Then I need to go home," said Kish sadly as she felt the cool sensual steel of the swords the boy had given her. "I need to lead my army. Without me, they'll be slaughtered."

"Do you mind if I tag along?" The young sorcerer plotted as he rolled Cailo's mask in his hand. "I still have some strong words to exchange with Lizzy."

"Lizzy?" questioned his brother.

"Delizah, Mercutian's daughter. She tortured the both of us for most of our lives." His brow furrowed sympathetically. "You really don't remember at all?"

"No!" He grinned and started to help Kish walk out of the prison. The sorcerer followed, deep in contemplation. As they walked through the shattered prison gates, he gave an idle gesture and they formed anew, trapping the beleaguered soldiers inside.