The next two weeks went much more smoothly. Mildred appeared every day for a lesson, and Heron found her an apt pupil. She rarely made the same mistake twice, and he shaped her bastardized fencing stance into something resembling a warrior’s steady footwork and powerful attacks. If she wasn’t usually about to collapse before he released her, Heron would suspect Mildred of practicing the forms again each night as well.

By the fifth day Heron found himself going as far as rigging together the same sort of wood and straw dummies his teacher had used. By the eighth, he convinced himself it was no more than his duty; Mildred had taken his teachings as seriously as she had claimed, and he supposed he owed her after that first day. If she was going to be a real swordswoman, she would have to learn the force and follow-through it took to cut a man down.

At her current pace, she had probably just about met that goal of hers, Heron thought to himself. Mildred could probably take one of the piss-poor foot soldiers most countries trained farm boys into. He casually stretched his shoulders, enjoying the warmth of the sun in their haphazard training yard as he ruminated.

What came next, he pondered. She knew the parries well enough, and how to keep her sword hand guarded. Her cuts were still basic, perhaps they could go more into chaining feints. Though she was also still poor at recovering from being successfully evaded. Heron had unsheathed his true blade with little thought, falling into old forms to warm-up.

It would be better to practice her defense against someone coming at her with a knife or club, too, they were far more common than actual swordsmen. Mildred had a good instinct for distance, but he would not want her to get in bad habits. She had good instincts for most of it, really. Some of those generations of noble breeding coming through for once, he supposed. His eye caught on the sheen of his blade cutting through daylight. Maybe this one would even be able to Hear it, someday.

A wry smile cut Heron’s face and he smoothed into standing normally. “…exactly how long do I expect to hang around for?” he mused aloud. “Should I start tutoring her angry little friend as well, so she can have someone to practice with? The Sound, really…what has gotten into you?” With an effort, he fought the smile down. He sheathed his blade next, and regarded the empty field alone for a time.

She was late. Heron’s eyes flickered to the bright sun in the sky and his ear attended to the rising bustle of the city. Quite late. Nero, that was her name, had appeared early the day previous to tell him Mildred wouldn’t be able to make it then. That hadn’t really surprised Heron. He was duly impressed she had gone this long straight, in fact he probably should have made her rest her muscles long prior. He had been thinking about keeping today light. The girl’s especially sour expression when she left had left him fairly assured him Mildred did not intend to skip twice.

Heron frowned. It was not necessarily her intention. The festival had been over for some time, and he was already a little surprised her papa had lingered around the capital this long. He must have been up there to tarry on the king’s hospitality. He allowed his hands to come to rest at his belt and he strolled back to the street. She knew where to find him, he could wait a day for a message to get to him. If she really had finally taken a break only to try and convince her father to dally a little longer, he would cuff her one in the next lesson…assuming they ever met again.

He tuned out the hubbub around him as the city became ever more lively…Heron stopped, ears perked. Their lessons started at noon. It had been the middle of the day for some time. He took the street in, finally: It was noisy, populous, even more people stepped from their homes—but no one was moving. The crowds did not flow around him, traders were not haggling.

But they did mutter. And point. Heron let his eyes track the fingers, a sinking feeling in the pit of his gut. He whistled.

“Her papa picked the right time to finally skip out after all,” he mumbled, watching thin pillars of smoke rise from the distant Castle Bocastreon. He turned, steps quickening, toward the Drink. “I don’t want to get caught up in this either.” The way to the inn, and his room, was unbarred. The tavern below was empty, even the barkeep disappeared somewhere. Locked away safely in his own room, probably, Heron thought while he threw his pack together.

Outside, the crowd had grown louder. A few called for guards, and most went unanswered. The bulk of the force had already gone onto the castle to investigate, Heron heard a lone captain assure. Everything was under control.

“Good for them,” Heron said aloud, shouldering his belongings as he followed the winding path to the gate. “It’s none of my business if some servants started rioting something.” He could smell the smoke now, the stench of something burning. “They should have hired me, if the security was so piss poor, and not been such bloody prats about it.” He sighed, loudly, through clenched teeth.

“If only more noble folk were as sensible as Mildred,” he said. “Too bad she’s gone by now. Should have asked for her House.” He walked a little faster. “She never did introduce herself, kind of rude actually. I figured out she was a noble already.” Walking, walking. “That’ll bother me now. I mean, really, who could have stayed at the king’s castle for any longer?” He slowed again. “…Or this long.” Heron came to a stop.

“She’s the princess, isn’t she?” He smiled, wide and wry. “Ahaha…shit.”

A half dozen townsfolk, milling about nervously, were tossed unceremoniously to the ground by a black blur going the opposite direction. Near the northern gate, close enough to the castle to see dark dots streak down the great stone walls to the unforgiving ground below, a broad shouldered-and bellied-vendor of horses stood outside his shop, watching the castle and wringing his hands. Then he was picked off his feet and whirled around to an eyeful of gold.

“I need a horse, a fast one,” the gold said, and released a vice grip on his collar. Or rather, the frigidly calm man in leather armor holding the gold. “Angry or unbroken is fine, if it’ll be cheaper. I’m not going to haggle.”

The vendor squeezed suddenly slick hands. “I, all of my stock are very well trained,” he said on reflex, then flinched. As if on cue, a white colt-almost a stallion-slammed its hooves against its gate and whinnied like a roaring bear for the sixth time that hour. The stranger, the armed stranger he just noticed, flipped four fat coins at the vendor and stalked past him.

Heron reached the horse’s stall in a few short strides. The white beast’s long neck stretched forward, muscles tensing to flatten the ears and flair the snout. Lips pulled back to reveal teeth like grinding blocks. Heron wrapped a fist around its muzzle and jerked the horse’s head to the side, pulling it suddenly against the door, to look the creature straight in the eye.

The vendor gaped. Hopefully the customer wouldn’t think to ask for his money back after he lost those fingers. But the colt didn’t move.

“Normally I might humor you with the chance to buck me off first, but I am in a hurry,” Heron began. He spoke smoothly, but his eyes never left the horse’s own. “You will obey or I will slit your throat for an expensive supper, and the next horse will.”

“That’s-“the vendor started. Heron unlocked the stall and led the colt out with a palm under its jaw. “Horse’s don’t-you can’t just-” Heron performed a cursory sweep over the horse’s back with a brush from the wall, then pulled a saddle, bridle and padding from a nearby hook. His movements were quick and steady; he cinched the saddle around the unmoving colt in perhaps record time, and mounted in an easy motion.

The vendor stood back, mouth and hands working as if to offer help, but something told him to go no closer. Heron shouted, and the colt came alive, all straight surging muscle.

The streets near the gate had nearly emptied, and those still on the road were easily avoided. The screaming and desperate leaping away were wholly unnecessary, a small part of Heron considered. The rest of him kept low, body streamlined along his mount.

The wooden portal of the gate was open, a pair of guards staring through it curiously at the burning castle beyond. Likely, they were looking for any sign of their comrades sent on ahead. Heron shouted again, a wordless sound still clear in meaning. The guards parted, that one had needed to dodge, and Heron shot through to the rolling hill beyond and the stronghold built atop it.

It was maybe ten minutes of rolling grass to the castle by a good horse, and the colt was nothing if not fast. Most of the pillars of smoke had died down to rising wisps now, leaving behind a great swirling cloud of grey drifting just above the highest towers. Heron sat back hard in the saddle, uttering “Whoa” under his breath and more gently pulling back the reins. The horse eased up quickly—he could feel its muscles dancing skittishly under the saddle. The walls of the castle seemed undamaged, but a familiar stink sullied the air.

“Blood and shit,” Heron muttered. His eyes drifted along the castle’s contours. The portcullis was withdrawn, the wooden gate open and unmanned. No one stood atop the parapets. He patted the horse down and dismounted. “Stay.” He glanced at the beast just long enough to make eye contact, and passed his pack over to hang on the saddle.

He made a brisk pace for the wall at the nearest rounding of stone before the gate proper, then slid along the shadow of the castle until he could peer properly into the bailey. A swift intake of break. That is a lot of corpses, he thought. Pushed together in piles to either side of the gate, they were invisible to someone looking directly through. Two living men stood among the bodies, clad in armor colored like bronze in contrast to the steel of the fallen. He did not recognize the style, probably the color of some rebelling lord, but that was beside the point. Heron craned his neck around the gate as far as he dared. It really seemed to be just the two of them; at least one paid more attention to rummaging through the bodies than his surroundings. Stragglers, rather than guards or scouts. Things were finished here, then.

Gut sinking, Heron’s ear twitched. It was faint, but he could hear something like shouting and striking metal coming from the castle proper now. So not quite finished after all. No time to waste. He saw the other guard, unoccupied by looting but slouching idly, turn away from the gate.

Great bounds ate up the open ground of the bailey. Sound muffled by soft grass, the soldier turned just in time for Heron’s blade to draw across his throat. His collapse, armored in chain and plate, was much louder. The other looked up, but Heron had already come too close.

“Shit, shit, hel-” stumbling over corpses, hands full with ill-gotten treasures, the blade drove up through the gap in armor around his waist. His cries turned to wet gurgling. Heron drew the sword back before he fell for good, swinging his sword free of blood and bile. His eyes darted around the open space of the bailey as he made for the shadow cast by the inner wall.

He needed to find an entrance so he could search for Mildred without worrying about archers or burning oil. He ran alongside the stone, giving way, reluctantly, to haste over caution. He eyed the windows high above. It was a pity he had used up his old fifty foot rope before the tournament. However, reaching the main door turned out to be more nerve-wracking than difficult. It was a little less grand these days than usual, he reckoned. The tall wood portal was reduced to scattered splinters, and the inside of the castle was trashed. His brow furrowed. That seemed pointless, if they had already had their men stowed away inside the castle. Really, the whole thing was too odd.

Heron whipped away from the door, hugging the corner between the passage and the outside of the wall when four men in bronzed plate hustled through the main hall. He waited for the stomping of boots to die down before he slipped through the door. The last two soldiers were jokes, but if they had done this much damage with a force small enough to sneak into the fortress, there had to be a few competent warriors. Heron squashed the itch in his sword hand and hurried around the bits of debris into the closest corridor.

Most of the doors hung open, or were smashed open, which made his search easier. Or it would have, if he was looking for brutalized corpses. Heron really hoped he wasn’t. He all but ran through the halls, taking every corner he could that would lead him closer to the center of the castle and stairs to the top. It was his best, and only, guess where you might keep a princess. Finally he reached a proper flight of stairs. He heard a desperate battle cry from above, then a crash. Heron scowled. He had tried to avoid any sounds of battle, but this was the only way up.

He took the stairs quietly, back against the wall and sword low behind him. It sounded like the fighting had ended as soon as it began, though Heron doubted he was that fortunate. He pressed tightly to the coming corner and peeked around. The breath caught in his throat. Two men, armed and armored, lay dead at the trunk-like feet of a towering behemoth. Its skin was gray as the stone walls, and less smooth. A dome shaped head framed by colossal pointed ears turned, and bleary white eyes caught Heron’s own. For a moment he hoped the creature, half-again the size of a knight in plate even hunched over, missed him. Then it roared, a thunderous sound that stretched its mouth into a gaping pit around rock-like teeth.

As a wall of muscle rippled with action, Heron came to two choices: run and let this monster chase him who knew how far away, or fight and go forward.

The creature had brought its massive arms up to lunge forward when Heron was already underneath it. His sword lashed out, catching under the arm and slicing through the soft meat around the joint. The blade whipped free before the beast even had time to scream, and then Heron was behind it. He struck at its opposite hip with the pommel on the return, a blow strong enough to break human bone. The furious monster did not even seem to notice, but as it turned reaching out with its good arm it stumbled. Heron slid past the wild limb and drove his sword straight through its eye. The weapon jarred his hands from an impact a second later, and then near the full weight of the monster was pushing down on him. Heron drew his weapon back at an angle, stepping quickly to allow the corpse to fall naturally with a titanic thump.

He turned to the opposite side of the room, pausing only long enough to offer the fallen knights a raised fist in cursory salute. From there battle occurred more often, and Heron sidestepped it where he could. The men in bronzed armor he faced were largely as unprepared as the first guardsmen. He supposed they were more to guide the horrors their employer had somehow brought into the castle.

The first had been very much like a troll, but a variety of nightmares stalked the corridors. Most were gangly things that were more frightening in appearance than ability. One-on-one, tough hide and wicked claws proved a poor match for precision and good steel.

Heron finally came upon a surviving soldier in time to see the giant of a man crush his last foe’s skull with a mace of equal size. The knight, for no peasant soldier dressed in such fine full plate, looked up from his kill to meet Heron’s gaze through the slit of his helmet.

Before Heron could open his mouth, the knight erupted. “Traitorous scoundrel! For great justice, have at thee!” Then he barreled down on the swordsman like a shiny steel avalanche.

“Wait-” Heron backpedaled and ducked underneath a mace swing that rippled the air. His eyes widened. This guy was almost as strong as the troll-thing!

“I’m not-” Lean back.

“Would you-” Duck again.

Heron’s eye caught on something over the mad knight’s shoulder as he dodged a swing that cracked the floor. He turned the movement into a rounded step onto the mace before his unwanted opponent could raise the weapon. One more step onto the shoulder and a push sent Heron into the air, shoving the man away from the predator charging at his back.

Heron came down on the creature, the apparent hate-child of a bat and a cougar, sword first. It died with a cut off shriek and a crunch. Heron raised back up at the same time as the knight. “I’m on your side, dammit!”

The sudden change in posture, and the disappearance of any violent intent, made the tackle completely unexpected. “Comrade!” The voice was loud and clear over Heron’s own gasping as a plated arm good-naturedly abused his throat. “Forgive me, I took one look at your scruffy appearance and mistook you for a brigand trying to take advantage!” Heron was so grateful to be released he almost forgot to be offended. Almost. “We were all taken by surprise by this dastardly scheme! To come out to face the enemy before you could even arm yourself properly—how bold, good sir!”

A response that might have soured the knight’s new impression was cut off by the cacophony of another battle breaking out down another hall. Heron’s head naturally snapped to attention, and he was turned around by the shoulder before he could head in the opposite direction himself.

“No time,” the knight said. “The men are launching a last stand to distract the enemy. I know it is hard but we must find Princess Mildred and get her away from here lest their sacrifice be in vain.”

She actually used her real name in disguise, Heron thought while he was half-dragged through the castle’s many halls.

The rest of the journey went quickly. The knight set a fast pace for a man in some forty pounds of metal and seemed sure of every turn. Upon climbing yet another flight of stairs, Heron saw the man’s shoulder suddenly relax when they reached an empty hallway lined with untouched tapestries. “Thank goodness-” A sharp ringing sound and a feminine shout had both of them racing to the far door full tilt.

Heron overtook the heavier warrior and had to rear back as the door burst open, expelling a reedy man in expensively enameled bronze armor. He hit the ground limply, a thin blade lodged between plates. Heron and the knight looked down at the obviously dead man, his unarmored face twisted forever in surprise, then back up to the exposed room.

Dressed in a well-tailored yellow gown, lined with pearls where they hadn’t been torn off, stood Mildred, hilt of a fractured rapier in one hand and a broken manacle hanging from the other. Hair mussed and panting, she still managed to seem composed.

“Your Royal Highness!” the knight’s exultant cry masked Heron’s sigh of relief. He eased back as the man dropped to his knees and fussed over his princess, and idly kicked the corpse. Heron eyed the broken off length of blade a little proudly. It was a clean strike, even if the withdraw had been clumsy. He looked up again and met Mildred’s eye.

There was no confusion or surprise in her expression; she wore a perfectly content smile, like of course he would come but she still appreciated it anyway. Something caught in his throat. Then Mildred turned to the knight and gestured him to stand. “Thank-you, Master Heron, Sir Roch-”

“Oh, but we have failed!” the knight cried. “The princess herself was captured, and had to dirty her own hands for freedom!” Mildred hushed him with a raise hand.

“But I am alive, and far more confident I will stay that way with you two here,” she said. “I know as much that the castle is lost,” her voice wavered for only a moment, “but now we need to get into the city and warn them to bar the gates before these men move on.” Roch made a strangled sound like he was trying not to weep with pride.

“Nice thought,” Heron said. “But there are a whole lot of bodies between us and outside, and they average a few more pointy bits than the normal army.”

“Nero built a number of hidden passages over the years,” Mildred replied. “No one knows about them but us, and they should get us clear of the castle safely.” Then she grabbed the waist of her dress and pulled it over her head in one motion. Roch made a very different strangled sound and whipped toward the wall so quickly his armor chimed like a bell. Heron’s own about face wasn’t much more dignified.

Mildred continued talking like she hadn’t just stripped to her underclothes. “The first is a crawl space hidden behind the tapestry of the roses. From there we can reach a waste tunnel where she stowed a ladder…” She outlined an extensive, almost ridiculous, plan to escape while she affixed a practical outfit of breeches and tunic. Heron couldn’t immediately find fault in it, but something was off. After the cloth finally settled, he heard her open a chest and risked a look. She drew a full pack from it, complete with dagger.

“You were expecting this,” he said. He ignored Roch’s shocked squawk. Mildred shouldered her pack and rose to meet him face to face.

“I did,” she said. “I tried to warn my father-” she took a breath. “I will explain later, but right now I can only ask you to put your trust in me.”

Heron wanted to say something. She had been lying to him since the moment they met–but he could hardly work up any real anger in front of such a sincere plea.

“Of course, Princess,” Sir Roch answered for him, more or less. “We are but your faithful guardians.” Mostly less.

Mildred smiled again, and Heron let irritation become weary acceptance.

The journey down was uneventful, though frequently cramped and smelly. The sounds of fighting were dying down-Mildred’s jaw visibly clenched tighter and tighter as they distanced themselves from the core of the castle.

The three came out into a narrow strip of the bailey, and face to face with a certain mousy little girl. “Millie!” Nero cried. The smaller girl almost buckled at the knees when she grabbed Mildred around the waist. “Oh, you’re alright! When you didn’t make it to the spot on time and…I…” she trailed off as she became increasingly aware of a loud sniffling that definitely did not belong to her friend.

Sir Roch muffled a snort. “Oh, such stalwart loyalty and courage from such a small girl-a truly beautiful bond!”

Nero frowned at him without letting go of Mildred. “Hey, I’m-” she caught sight of Heron next, and her face curdled further, then relaxed. “You’re safe, that’s all that’s important,” she muttered and finally let go of the princess.

“Thanks-you Nero,” Mildred said. She covered a chuckle with the palm of her hand, but it quickly became a frown. “Anyway, we have to get going. The city needs to be warned and the guard gathered if there is to be any hope of…” There was more smoke rising in to the air, dark clouds that extended well beyond the walls of the castle. Heron didn’t need to see the apprehension tighten Nero’s face to understand, but the princess stared into the distance without comprehension.

“An army,” Nero started, “It was so fast…thousands of them riding in on these terrible monsters. I barely spotted them in the distance on my way here and then they were almost on the city already. It…It didn’t take long, Millie.”

“No,” Mildred said. “Sorcery to summon an entire army… that kind of power…that can’t be.”

Well, that explains a little, Heron thought. “There’s such a thing as plain old marching,” he said. “Knock out any scouting eyes ahead of time and you can move quite the force without being seen, if you know what paths to take.” Mildred’s mouth worked silently. Nero took her unresponsive hand. Hesitantly, Heron touched her shoulder.

“Come, we need to get our here,” he said. “My horse should still be around here somewhere.”

“No!” Mildred came to life. “We can push them back.” Her composure slid enough to chew her lip, and she took her hand back from Nero to pose it under her chin. “…They won’t be expecting an attack. There should still be knights yet alive, if we can break through the enemy assault in a pincer, we can save them. Then-”

“The city is already burning, Millie,” Nero said. “The walls are broken.” The princess stood stock still. Her eyes darted to and fro, desperately thinking.

“We passed the last of the fighting already,” Heron added. “If they aren’t all dead yet, it’s still not any less hopeless for them now.”

Mildred’s eyes stopped their frantic dancing and honed in on the distance. She started walking back the way they came. The others started, but Heron moved to her side. “No, if they knew to withdraw the knights could have survived,” she said. “Made pockets of resistance. We can use the passages to get around the castle safely and-”

The princess gasped, folding around Heron’s fist, then sagged.

Carefully, he raised her into a bridal carry and regarded his stone-faced companions. “Any problem with that?” Silence.

“…Raegys,” Nero said after a moment. “They’re Bocastreon’s ally, and strong. Milly’s uncle is a duke there.”

“Then we have a course of action,” Sir Roch said. Heron nodded, and they followed Nero’s lead the rest of the way beyond the wall. After that it was a matter of finding his horse. The white colt hadn’t strayed too far, and accepted Mildred’s weight with some persuasion.

From there, it was easy to sneak away in the background noise of war.