For the Queen

High in her tower, the Queen watches as her country is devoured by war. Her only solution is to send soldiers, thousands of them, all brave young men, to their deaths. And so she does.

If some foolish person dared to ask Xanti her favorite sound, they would not have received an answer.  Not right away.  It would have taken some consideration.  There were so many to choose from, after all.  There was the mournful howl of the newly widowed when they discovered their beloved on a blood soaked battlefield, the helpless whimper of a child who watched as her parents were cut down defending her, the agonized cry of a soldier as spears cut through him.  These sounds and many, many more would have echoed in Xanti’s head, magnified by all the times she had heard them, over and over again.  She’d stand in silence, or perhaps sit upon her fine war horse, and ponder the question, blue eyes closed in thought.  Then, finally, with a laugh and a flip of her blonde hair, raspberry lips would part in a grin and she’d speak volumes with a single word:

 

“War.”

 

And she would go on in great fervor, “The screams of men and the thunder of hooves.  The clang of swords and the roar of fires.  The twang of bowstrings and the thump of arrows hitting their marks.  The squish of bodies on the ground and the cackle of carrion birds in the air.  The outrage of the Gods as I defy them!  As I twist their world and turn it to ruin!  The sound of war!  War, war, war!”

 

Then, smiling pleasantly, she would draw her blackened blade and swiftly relieve the foolish person of his head, as he obviously had no use for it.  That is what would happen if anyone dared to ask Xanti, Man Slayer, War Queen, what her favorite sound was.

 

But no one ever did.

 

They were all much too smart for that.

 

*          *          *

 

The smoke was thick and heavy, blocking out the sun on that most terrible of terrible days.  It was just as well--no sunlight, in any amount, could brighten Kayte’s spirits as she sat beneath a makeshift shelter, watching goop bubble in a pot before her.  She didn’t know why she bothered cooking.  Everything tasted the same--of burning towns, of rotting bodies.  There was nothing to eat but death.

 

The young woman sighed sadly and began braiding her wispy red hair, her blackened hands leaving smudges wherever she touched.  Glancing across the clearing, she was glad to note that Mitchell was still asleep beneath the trees.  Hopefully he would sleep all day.  She didn’t want to listen to him rant and rave.  Not today.  All his talk about war unsettled her, as strange as that sounds.  Though she was surrounded by War and his siblings--Death, Disease, Pain, Panic, Sorrow--day and night, she wouldn’t listen to Mitchell’s words.  They were bad words.  Terrible words.

 

The War Queen was coming.  She had been coming for months, sailing across the country as easily as one skims a sea of blood and decay, leaving horror and death in her wake.  She reached the outer villages only days ago, and already the air was full of burning things.  Houses, animals, people--it didn’t matter to her.  She just wanted to see the world burn, burn, burn.  The flames had driven Kayte away form her home, her family.  Somehow, Mitchell--old friend, dearest husband, love of her life--had found her.  They had escaped the horror, and made camp at the base of the fortress wall.  They were safe there, but Mitchell . . .

 

O’ lovely, loyal Mitchell!  O’ courageous, stubborn Mitchell!  O’ foolish, stupid, idiotic Mitchell!

 

He wanted to go to war.  He wanted to fight, to die for this filthy country, for a woman who didn’t care if he lived or died or just shriveled up and disappeared one mysterious night!  He would leave she who loved him to serve she who didn’t even acknowledge him!  He would leave Kayte, his love, for the Queen, his tyrant!

 

And he would die.  Those who went to war never came back.  Surely he would die.

 

Kayte bit back a sob, blood sticky on her chapped lips.  She pulled her thin shawl around thinner shoulders and ran wet, frightened eyes over the face of her love.  Curly dark hair, proud nose, scars from a life of adventure.  Oh, how peacefully he slept.  If only he would slumber on and on and on . . .

 

Crash, clang, tumble!

 

Kayte leapt up, hand on the rusty dagger at her hip.  Mitchell appeared to sleep still, but she knew his hand had closed over the hilt of the sword by his side.  Both were ready, waiting.

 

“Oh, put that thing away, you!”  A young voice hissed as a small, scrawny girl emerged from the brush, waving a dismissive hand at Kayte.  She wore a scowl and a variety of branches all over her body, blending perfectly with her surroundings, though her temper left something to be desired.

Scrambling to Mitchell’s side, the wild girl exclaimed, “And you!  Get up, you!  I’ve got a message for you!”

 

Kayte’s heart reared up in terror.  Mitchell was alert at once, on his feet and anxious.  The girl reached into her filthy shirt and retrieved a pristine, white letter, which she held out to the man with grimy fingers.  A golden seal flashed dully beneath the smog.  Kayte whimpered.

 

“Willow?” She moaned.  “She’s sent for him, hasn’t she?  That bloodthirsty Widow Maker?  That Queen Lynette?”

 

The messenger only shrugged, unable to meet the fury and pain on Kayte’s face.  Mitchell folded the letter, having read it, and tucked it into his belt.  His eyes found Kayte’s, and they said it all.

 

“Oh, no,” the woman sobbed, hand’s pressed tight against her mouth in horror as she swayed on her feet.  “No, no, no!”

 

Mitchell caught her in strong arms as she fell, helping her to the ground.  She clung to him, crying and cursing the Queen, the country, the war.  He spoke soothingly, rocking her, then softly said to the girl, “Willow, go to the barn.  Fetch my things.”

 

The messenger was gone at once, silently disappearing into the trees that shared her name.  Kayte slowly pulled way from Mitchell, her eyes wide as she searched his face in disbelief.  She whispered, “You’ve been expecting this.  Anticipating it, even!”

 

“It was inevitable,” he stated, trying to sooth her.  “When war comes, every able-bodied man must fight.  You know that.”

 

“No,” her voice was shocked, hollow as she stared at him, holding his arms around her.  Then her face contorted in anger and her nails bit into his flesh as she screamed, “No!  I won’t let you leave me!  Never again!”

 

“Kayte--”

 

“No!  Never!  You won’t leave me!  Not again!  Not like the baby!  Not like the baby!”

 

“Kayte!”  He grabbed her shoulders and shook her, silenced her.  “I am leaving!  You can’t escape this!  You have to accept it and get over it!  Exactly like the baby!”  His voice broke and sorrow swam across his face.  “Kayte.  I’m sorry, but I have to go.”

 

“No, stay,” she pleaded, her words rushed and fervent as she clung to him, her fingers twisting at his shirt as she hurriedly searched for a solution.  “Stay.  Or run.  We could run.  To the forest.  Willow will show us how.  You see how easy it is for her.  We could run.  We will run.”

 

He gently pulled her hands away, held them in his.  “No.”

 

The word was like an explosion rushing through her.  It broke through the walls and tears flowed uncontrollably.  She shook with misery and horror, memory and heartbreak.  She was paralyzed by the emotions as he stood and kissed the top of her head, while she pleaded, “Gods, no.  Mitchell.  Mitchell.  Please.  Don’t leave.  M-me.  D-don’t luh-leave me h-here . . .”

 

He ignored her, picked up his sword, and vanished into the trees, into the smoke, into the war.  Gone, gone forever.

 

Kayte collapsed, her hands grasping at the air where he had stood, tears streaking down her face.  Her lamentations rose with thousands of others all throughout the land as lovers, sons, brothers, fathers, were all torn away, sent to battle, sent to death.  The woes of those left behind ascended and mingled with the smoke and death, singing a haunting dirge for all those who were sent to die for the Queen.

 

*          *          *

 

 The sheer size of the army astounded him.  How many men were there?  A thousand?  Two thousand?  And how many more would be sent to their deaths before this horror ended?

 

Mitchell had no answers.  He had only his sword, and a new set of armor, given to him by a sullen, quiet man.  They were all like that, sulking in the silence that accompanied the relinquishing of the lives they might have had.  Every one of them knew there was no turning back, no returning.  From here on out, it was war, and nothing else.  There would be pain and death, horror after horror.  But there was nothing they could do about that.

 

The order was given to march, and the impressive company made its way to the battlefield in neat, organized rows.  The soldiers didn’t speak, didn’t weep.  They didn’t once glance back at the homes, the loved ones, the lives they had left behind.  They were going to war, by order of her Awesome Majesty, Queen Lynette.  Nothing could change that.  It was time to become a man, a warrior, a savior.

 

Days passed in silence.  There was only the heavy footfall of their boots as they traversed the country, slipping in mud and coughing in the poisoned air.  Then, finally, they reached the rise, and the battlefield spread out before them.

 

The terrible destruction shook even the bravest man.  There wasn’t a living thing to be seen.  All was black and burned.  Death had claimed this land, and gladly opened it to other fools seeking their demise.  A full army of such fools stood on the rise, staring down at the scarred earth where they would spend their final moments.

 

Mitchell was thinking about death, as was every man there.  Nevertheless, they stood at attention, hands at their swords, spears, maces.  Every one of them, alert and ready for battle, for war, for death.  Their commander, a great man of fame, having proved himself in wars past, advanced to the front of the lines, sat on a brilliant horse before them.  He spoke of valor, of bravery, of sacrifice.  He riled them, made them cheer, made them thirst for blood.  Every man, Mitchell among them, raised his weapon above his head and shrieked his fury, his desire.

 

Sword drawn, face red, the commander screamed, “For the Queen!”

 

“For the Queen!  For the Queen!”  His cry echoed throughout the ranks, was on the lips of a thousand men.  The commander turned, spurred his horse, and charged down the hill and into the valley of the dead.  His soldiers followed, weapons ready, bodies tense for battle, faces fierce.  Their footfalls thundered around them, the earth shook with every movement.  They were going to war.  They were going to kill.  They were going to win.  Every man knew it, told himself he knew it.  They were unstoppable, indestructible.

 

Their resolve didn’t last long.

 

They had only passed the first burning pile of mutilated bodies when the Shrieking Terrors attacked from the sky.  Great black beasts, ridden by men, indescribable due to their ever changing forms, they snatched dozen after dozen of soldiers from the lines and carried them away, belching foul gas that blocked the sun, sending the battlefield into a turbulent darkness.  Men scattered, panicked, screamed, died.  They brandished their weapons, hacking at anything that moved.  Their fear destroyed them form the inside out, turning comrade against comrade, brother against brother.  Mitchell was no different.  He bit at things and things bit at him.  The world had ended, for all he knew.  His mind held only one thought: run.

 

And so he did, racing through the murk, confused by intoxicating odors and disgusted with himself.  Why was he fleeing?  This was his duty.  He was fighting for the Queen, damn it!  He wasn’t a soldier, he was a disgrace!

 

“Gyaah!”  He screamed as something tore through the back of his legs, ripping ligaments and shattering bone.  Tumbling to the ground, he hit face first in a goop of Gods knew what.  He tried to sit up, but something stood on him, held him to the ground.  A scream caught in his throat, his tongue thick and useless.  The thing above him roared, and brought its fist down on his head again and again.

 

With each impact, Mitchell’s mind shifted.  Images flashed before his eyes, each no longer than an instant: Kayte before the war, healthy and smiling, round and happy.  Kayte with the baby--Oh, Gods, we lost the baby, didn’t we?--Katye crying, mourning, standing over the little mound and holding his hand for support.  Kayte, alone, completely alone, calling his name, pleading, pleading . . .

 

Whump!

 

Another blow, another image.  The Queen.  Widow Maker.  Lynette.  Sitting high in her throne, emotionless as men died for her again and again, watching the battle through a window, safe high in her tower.  Her blue dress, white hands, black hair . . . all stained in the blood of innocents.  It dripped from her, lethargically, like honey and false promises.  The promises with which she lured young men to their tragic, violent deaths. 

 

And nothing changed.  All the death, all the pain.  Nothing changed.  The War Queen came relentlessly, her forces endless and powerful.

 

So why did she send them?  To fight?  To kill?  To win this war for her?

 

No.  No, no, no.

 

To die.  She sent them to die.  Every death meant a little more time on her throne.  That was all she wanted.  By sending these men to their deaths, she prolonged her life.  But it wouldn’t last.  Soon she would run out of victims, but, in the meantime, she would send them, thousands of them, to the battlefield.  To die.

 

And so, blood, tears, snot mingling with that of his fallen comrades, the unholy mixture splattered all across his face, Mitchell did just that.  His soul simply gave up, and, far, far away in the forest, Kayte sobbed and felt her heart stop.

 

*          *          *

 

Stinging.  Needles.  Pain.

 

Mitchell opened his eyes, and moaned.  The darkness was gone, but the bodies remained.  The horrors of war surrounded him, soaked into him.  He found himself shaking, crying.  He couldn’t stop.  So much blood, death, gore . . . why?  Why would she send them to battle, when she knew perfectly well how it would end?  He glanced at the wreckage around him, and quickly snapped his eyes shut.  Nightmares lingered behind his lids.  The faces of the fallen would haunt him for the rest of his life.  Assuming he lived.  There was no help in this Hell, and it was more than likely he would simply die, alone and suffering.

 

He took a ragged breath, his body on fire, insides churning, lungs wheezing.  With a sob, he fell back against something warm, ragged.  He didn’t want to know what it was.  Lying there, eyes half open, he just wanted to stop.

 

“This one’s alive.”

 

A woman.

 

“Pfft.  Barely.”

 

A man.

 

They stood over him, both in the black armor of the War Queen.  They were identical but for their respective feminine and masculine features.  The woman wore a ferocious grin, the man a dark grimace.

 

The woman knelt beside Mitchell, who was slowly realizing that he was propped against a stack of charred bodies.  Some of them were still warm against his battered skin.  The wounded soldier watched her face, not daring to let his eyes wander for even a moment.  He didn’t want to see them, see his legs.  His ruined, smashed legs.  Seeing the fear, pain, confusion in his eyes, the woman’s pretty face smiled.

 

“Sorry about that, sweetie,” she said in a baby voice, mocking him as she brushed a patch of matted hair out of his face.  “But we had to make sure they thought you were dead.”

 

Mitchell tried to ask who they were.  His voice came out in a croak, dying in his cracked throat.

 

They knew what he was trying to say.  The woman gently patted his cheek.  Pain exploded across his face.  “I’m Eline, one of Xanti’s favorites.  This is my partner, Hailey.”

 

“Haile!” The man roared in anger, waving his arms for emphasis.  “It’s Haile!  Like the weather!  I swear to Gods, Eline, if you say my name wrong one more time--”

 

“Easy now,” a deep voice rumbled.  Both warriors turned to see their Queen approaching, riding her intimidating black stallion.  The beast seemed to radiate power as it gazed at Mitchell with knowing intelligent eyes.  The two warriors loyally stood at attention.  Fresh tears streamed down Mitchell’s face at the display.

 

War Queen Xanti smiled and dismounted.  She carried a bloodied spear in one hand, a silver box in the other.  The box was thin, and maybe only a foot long.  The formidable woman, her ebony armor shining red with the blood of her victims, of his comrades, casually sat beside Mitchell’s war torn legs, facing him, as if they were old friends.  She laid her spear across her lap and set the box on his.  Then, gently, she put one hand on his wrecked knee.  He started, biting his tongue to keep from screaming.  Her fingers briefly pressed against his lips, shushing him.

 

“You will die today,” she said with a devilish grin.  “Unless you do as I say.  No, don’t talk.  Listen.  In this box is a dagger.  I want you to take it to someone for me.  A gift from the battlefield, you might say.”

 

Mitchell’s brown furrowed.  He mouthed, “Why?”

 

Xanti chuckled.  “You know why.  You can feel the deadly magic in it.  Here--”  She opened the box, held the fine, thin blade out to him.  He hesistated, but she pressed it into her hand.  “Don’t worry--the enchantment won’t harm anyone except the one it is intended for.  Do this for me, and no one else will die.  No more lives need be lost, Mitchell.  You know that.  And you know I’ll just win anyways,” she added with a laugh and a flip of her golden hair.  “Do this for me, and no one will be hurt.  You and your little wife can live in the woods, peacefully.  Yes, I know about her.  I’ll even send you workers to build you a nice little cabin.  Wouldn’t that be nice, Mitchell?  A little house in the woods for you and your beloved, and all your children?  Yes, you will have children.  Under me, this country will prosper, and you with it.”

 

Breathing hard, Mitchell stared at the dagger in his hand, closed his fingers around it.  His skin stung where it touched, as though thousands of tiny needles were biting into him, spreading an icy poison through his veins.  Still, he held it there, feeling the pain, as if it proved he was alive.

 

Xanti watched him, amused.  “So, what do you say?  Will you do this for me?  For the conquering Queen?”

 

*          *          *

 

Kayte sat on a rock outside the forest, staring out over the battlefield, barely visible on the horizon.  She had seen it all.  The winged beasts, the fog, the death.  She’d even watched as the dark warriors descended to burn the dead, swarming over the hills like a mass of black ants.  The tears had ceased falling long ago.  The sorrow left her.  Now there was only emptiness, a dull hurt, a longing.  No matter.  Let him die.  Idiot.  She would survive.  It was like when they lost the baby.  It would hurt, but she would survive.

 

“But I’m alone now,” she whispered, death-laced wind playing with her loose hair, dancing around her.  “He’s not coming back.”

 

She had felt it when he died.  Every blow bruised her heart.  She didn’t know why or how, but she knew he was gone.  Sitting in the forest, isolated and distant, she’d felt the exact moment he passed.  In a million years, she couldn’t explain why . . .

 

She was looking straight at him.  Her breath caught in her throat.  She screamed, ran to him, flung herself against him and cried.  He laughed and held her with one arm as she ran her hands along his body, searching for injury or harm--and forcing herself to believe that he was really there.  He was completely untouched.  No burn, cut, bruise marred his skin.  He was perfect.  Even the scars from so long ago had disappeared.

 

“What sorcery is this?” She mused in awe, tracing his smooth face with shaking fingers.  He brought his lips to hers, and she knew it was him and not just some feverish daydream.  Pulling away, she noticed something in his other hand.  “And what is that?”

 

“A gift,” he said, holding a silver box out to her for inspection.  “From the battlefield.”

 

She almost took it, thinking it was for her, but then her eyes narrowed and she pulled away.  Her mouth dripped with poison.  “For her, you mean.  For that bloodthirsty, barbaric Widow Maker you so easily rushed to death for!  For her!”

 

“Yes, dearest,” his laugh, his smile, the fire in his eyes chilled her heart.  “For the Queen.”

 

*          *          *

 

Author's Note

For a contest. Had a lot of fun writing it :)
My main issue with it is that I can't think of another "S" word for the part where I list "War's siblings" . . . suggestions?
(Not sure what to rate it either; Teen just in case....)

Reviews

[zendikar]

well although I believe mine wins (by a very tiny bit) with only having 2 characters yours pretty much blows mine out of the water in all other areas!