Kore's Field Read online

  Kore’s Field

  A myth retold

  N.C. Sellars

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual events, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Published by Eskar, LLC

  Text Copyright ©2018 N.C. Sellars

  Cover design and formatting by www.ebooklaunch.com

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.

  For Brad

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  My story is a quiet one. The greatest myth-makers will not remember it; few poets will ever reference it, and then only in passing. Even now, the rumors are rife with inconsistencies. Some present me as the very model of a devoted wife while others call me a weak victim. Or else they praise my act of sacrifice, yet condemn my motives. My husband receives no respite from criticism, either. According to various accounts he is a selfish fool, a wise king, or some combination of the two.

  The gossips can’t even agree on my fate. One says a hero rescued me before I could taste death, while another swears I saw Kore face-to-face and stirred her pity with my harrowing tale. I leave it only to you, Reader, to decide what is true.

  My story is a quiet one. You must listen carefully, for it begins and ends in the most curious of places:

  A wheat field.

  • • •

  That morning many years ago, when it all began, I heard the army before I saw it.

  The great crash of the battering ram against the castle gates didn’t come as a surprise; for days we had waited for the cascade of soldiers to come pouring down the mountain. It was the early hour that alarmed me. I crept to the window and peered out, exposing as little of my face as possible. Dark shapes moved from the vineyards and into the orchards, lit only by the moon. I could only guess they had descended without torches. A bold, yet dangerous, ploy. A second crash sounded in the distance and I lunged for my trunk, breaking the latches and throwing off the lid in one fluid movement. The gates were old and ill-tended; it wouldn’t take long for invaders to crush them.

  I dug through the trunk, pulling out the clothes gathered for me and specially set aside for that day. They didn’t fit quite right; the shoes were too big and the bodice slipped even though I laced the stays as tight as they could bear. One by one I pulled on each layer; autumn was approaching early and the balmy days of high summer were a distant memory. I took a deep breath and crossed the chamber. As I reached for the door latch I caught a glimpse of myself in the tiny glass hanging on the wall and saw a stranger staring back. With a trembling hand, I opened the door.

  The stairs were deserted. Again: not surprising. Most of the guards had been called to supplement the army. The nobles had abandoned the kingdom weeks before, as soon as the first whispers of the Itomian invasion reached their ears. Several servants had followed suit. Despite the king’s orders to remain in the castle they had fled in droves, slipping through hidden doors and vanishing over garden walls in the dead of night. I stood in the doorway for a moment, waiting for a guard to come charging toward me and order me back into the tower, but none ever came. I picked my way slowly down the swirling steps, pausing again when I reached the door at the base. I pressed my ear to the wood, hardly daring to breathe as I listened for sounds of battle on the other side. When I heard nothing, I turned the handle, slipped through the heavy door, and ran.

  The corridor stretched before me like an endless stone tunnel with smaller hallways splitting off left and right. I counted them carefully as I sprinted past, praying I hadn’t made a mistake and missed one. Half the torches were unlit, leaving large pockets of shadow that left me second-guessing my instructions. I had never seen this corridor before; I could only rely on the information provided to me by others. I turned left, finding myself in a darkened hallway. I slowed my pace for fear of colliding with a wall and knocking myself senseless. My breath came in short gasps and for the briefest moment I squeezed my eyes shut, pleading with the gods to guide me to safety.

  “Here!” a man’s voice shouted. “Down here! More men to the gates!”

  A handful of guards thundered past. I flattened myself against the wall and listened for their footsteps to fade. Another crash sent the castle trembling and for the first time, I heard screams. They were shrill and somehow deep, as though bursting from a place of inhuman agony. The sound ripped through my ears and made me wish I could do something, anything, to help the poor man in such pain, even if it meant bringing his final moments to an end.

  I hesitated only a few seconds longer, to be certain the footsteps were gone. I kept one hand on the cool stone as I walked, feeling for the kitchen door. I knew it was short and narrow, positioned just below the great hall to give the servants quick access while burdened with heavy trays for feasts. Not that Myrilla had enjoyed much feasting in recent years. It’s difficult to bake bread when your fields are barren of grain.

  The surface beneath my fingers changed from stone to wood. I felt for the latch and lifted it slowly, muffling the click with the fabric from my skirt. It swung open easily and I stepped into the kitchen. It was a disaster: overturned bowls and limp vegetables scattered across every surface. Shrunken carrots and wilted lettuce and diseased potatoes. A pitiful harvest if there ever was one. The coals in the stove burned on, unaware of the violent tide creeping closer. I darted past the work tables and tore open the door to the gardens, exhaling with relief.

  For the first time all night, I felt safe. The royal gardens were a maze of paved walkways and stone walls. Laid out behind the castle and inaccessible to anyone but the royal court and a few hand-chosen servants, they carried an air of mystique and secrecy. Logic told me the Itomians cared nothing about the gardens and would have no reservations about swarming and destroying them in pursuit of victory, but I still felt secure as I recited the maids’ instructions under my breath.

  “Three right turns,” I whispered. “Three right turns and then you’ll come to the fountain. Just after the fountain—”

  “Lord Blackwall!”

  I froze. Heavy footfalls carried toward me, but I couldn’t tell which direction they were coming from. I looked for a shrub or low tree to hide beneath, to no avail. They were all too small or else had already dropped their leaves. I couldn’t afford to make the slightest sound. Panic descended as I ran along the closest garden wall, searching for the door. I finally found it, covered in peeling dark paint with a key jutting from the hole. I turned the key and stepped inside, then let it swing gently closed, not daring to bolt it.

  The voices stopped just on the other side of the wall. I strained to hear the speakers’ accent, though neither Myrillan nor Itomian would be much help to me.

  “One of the volunteers saw someone leave through the kitchens.” He spoke
in the thick, heavy brogue of the Itomians. I couldn’t help shuddering in disgust.

  “Man or woman?”

  “Woman.”

  The second speaker was unimpressed. “A woman’s no threat to us.”

  “But she can’t have gotten far—”

  “Let her run. The prince needs all hands to help take the throne room.”

  Still bickering, their voices grew fainter and soon vanished altogether. I stayed crouched in the garden, unable to stop myself smiling. I couldn’t believe my luck. I rose to my feet and prepared to resume my search for the south castle gate once more when a tangle of overgrown vines on the back garden wall caught my eye. Early dawn light spilled through the cracks between the vines and I realized they weren’t covering the wall at all, but an ancient iron gate. My relief swelled as I wove my hands into the brambles and pushed hard. It opened with a metallic creak and I saw neither battle nor carnage nor even a single soldier, but an open field bordered by trees on three sides. I could barely make out the temple in the distance, perched on the eastern hill and hovering just above the pointed silhouettes of the treetops. The sky had turned pink since I’d entered the garden and any moment now the sun would rise and give me away.

  I picked up my heavy skirts and, wasting no time, darted toward the trees. If I could just reach their cover I’d vanish forever. The Itomian prince could dethrone Myrilla’s king, but his triumph would be short-lived. After all, Itomius had plenty of enemies; it wouldn’t be difficult to convince one of Myrilla’s neighbors to take action on my behalf.

  My feet pounded the hard earth and I had nearly reached the tree line when I tripped and fell forward. At first I thought I’d caught my toe on a stone or fumbled in the too-large shoes, but a sharp pain erupted from my ankle. I scrambled to my feet, only vaguely aware of the blood dripping into my shoe. I made for the trees once more, but I hadn’t taken two steps when a strong hand caught my arm.

  “Kern, we’ve got a runner!”

  It wasn’t the same voice I’d heard in the gardens; this man’s was rougher, to the point where I could barely understand him. But I understood enough to know he wasn’t planning to let go of my arm any time soon. I threw my whole weight against him, hoping to startle him into releasing me, but he just held tighter.

  “You’re a fierce one, no question,” he said, laughing. “The prince’ll be glad we didn’t let you get away. He’ll want a good look at you, I’m sure.”

  Fear coursed through my body and I drove my elbow back as hard as I could. I must have caught the man in the throat because he choked and sputtered and loosened his grip slightly. Before I could run, however, he spun me around and raised his hand so fast I didn’t even see it fly. My neck snapped back and I stumbled and sank to my knees, cradling my cheek. Water gushed from my eye and I tasted rust. When I pulled my hand away my fingers were bloody.

  A second man—Kern, I assumed—appeared. He was older and looked weary from fighting. No blood stained his clothes, though a bow dangled from his hand. The dawn light etched deep lines around his eyes and he looked at me with something like pity. He pulled me up and studied my face. “For the love of the gods, Sir Hartford,” he swore, “you didn’t have to bludgeon her.”

  “She attacked me!” Sir Hartford shouted. “She nearly crushed my throat!”

  “You’re wearing mail, it can’t have been too terrible. Prince Admetus wants all survivors brought back to the castle in the best health as possible. Those were our orders. That’s why I clipped her foot with the arrow, instead of aiming for her heart.”

  “Sounds like the perfect excuse for a missed shot,” sneered Sir Hartford. “Some marksman you make, old man—”

  “Please.” I interrupted their quarrel. “Please let me go. I’ll be no trouble, I swear it. I’m nothing, nobody, I won’t be missed. You’ll never see or hear from me again. Just let me go and I’ll be eternally in your debt.”

  Kern gave me that pitying look again. “I’m sorry, sweetheart, truly. But we’re under orders. We have to bring you back to the castle. The prince won’t tolerate disobedience in the field.”

  “Don’t! Don’t, I beg you—” I dragged my feet but my resistance was fruitless. They ignored my pleas and cruelly led me back the way I’d come. Shock numbed me and eventually I walked with them, as complicit as a child. I simply could not believe my change in fortune. I’d planned this escape for months, learning and studying, waiting for the perfect opportunity. Now it lay in shambles around me, destroyed by a hateful, pagan prince.

  Kern and Sir Hartford escorted me past the twisted, broken front gates and through the castle doors. The sun had risen fully and cast its pure, lemony light over the destruction left by the battle. Scarlet rivers ran in the street and bodies littered the walk. Most were grown, but others disturbingly small. I tried very hard not to look too closely at anything. I took in my surroundings in small gasps of color, avoiding any lingering sights. We passed through the entry hall and the great banquet hall; both were swarmed with Itomian soldiers filling their bellies with wine from the castle cellars and celebrating merrily.

  By the time we reached the throne room Kern and Sir Hartford had all but forgotten about me. A large cluster of prisoners huddled near the wall, and it was there they took me. I sat on the cold stone floor, surrounded by disinterested Itomian soldiers trading war stories in their barbaric accents. I glanced at my companions; most were young families or elderly folk. I felt eyes on me and turned to see a little boy with a rag wrapped tightly around his forearm. He stared at me, his eyes wide, and I wiped my cheek with my apron, smearing it with blood. Behind me, an old man coughed and wheezed in a way that made the hair on my arms stand up. It didn’t stop, and when a lady sitting nearby asked one of the soldiers to have mercy and bring the old man something to drink, the soldier just laughed and jabbed the butt of his spear into the woman’s shoulder. The cluster became much quieter after that.

  In spite of the many bodies surrounding me, the throne room felt cool. I ignored the shuffling soldiers and kept my eyes on the door behind the dais. I knew it led to the king’s private chamber, and I felt sure he was waiting within. He’d never ride out to battle; he probably hadn’t even seen the enemy’s army. I could picture him and his frigid wife on the other side of the door, probably toasting Myrilla’s fall with crystal goblets and royal wine. From what I heard in rumors, that was how they handled most of the kingdom’s problems. They’d known for weeks that the Itomian prince was planning an invasion, and all they’d done to stop it was take a few servants from the kitchens and order them to keep watch at the castle walls.

  The old man stopped coughing, and at the same time I felt a gnarled hand close around my wrist. I pulled my gaze from the chamber door and turned to find the old man staring into nothingness with milky eyes.

  “Tell me what’s happening, please,” he said, his voice thick with phlegm.

  I didn’t want to speak, certain my voice would give me away to an elderly Myrillan, but the plum-colored splotches on his scalp, visible through tufts of white hair, stirred my sympathy. I shifted closer to him and tilted my head toward his. “We’re in the throne room with probably two hundred other Myrillans,” I said quietly, so no one else could hear. “The Itomian soldiers are double our number, at least, with more pouring in every minute.”

  “What standards do you see?”

  I raised my head. “A gold lion on a rust red field. And”—I craned my neck, trying to catch a glimpse of the limp flags—“what looks like a…silver pig…on a white field striped with crimson.”

  The old man nodded. “It’s a boar. The wild boar of Itomius. The lion belongs to Warkenland; Prince Admetus must have promised their king tribute in return for alliance. It’s the way of young princes to make pledges before holding currency in their hands.”

  I looked at him with new respect. “Are you a soldier, sir?”

  His weathered face cracked with a grin. “I was, many years ago. When the grain still grew and Kore s
miled down on us.”

  It was difficult not to scoff. “That must have been well in the past, sir, for Kore has never smiled down on me.”

  He looked like he was about to say something else, but before he could speak a great shout went up from the soldiers. With the rest of the Myrillans I turned to see the chamber door open and the king emerge, trailed by the queen. We rose upon his entry, a chorus of scraping feet and muffled groans. I gripped the old man’s elbow and held him steady, afraid he would crumple without support. Just as I suspected, the king held a crystal goblet in one hand and a staff in the other. Both he and the queen were richly dressed in the Myrillan style: sweeping robes for him and draped silks for her. A finely wrought gold crown sat on the king’s head, and he smiled at the crowd of defeated Myrillans crammed into the throne room as though it were all a masque that had caught him off guard.

  “Have no fear, my people,” he called, almost jovially, and raised his cup. “I’ve not been deaf to your cries. Our enemy is breaching the gates, but we shall triumph in the end.”

  Silence filled the room. In a strange way, the king’s command was obeyed: the people feared no more. The terror that had gripped the Myrillan hearts around me dissolved into contempt. Even the Itomian soldiers took pause in their celebration to turn their disdainful faces toward the king, studying him as if he were mad.

  The king took no notice of the palpable hostility, he only drained his cup and called for more wine. A trembling servant obliged; his hands shook so violently that the wine sloshed from the cup and splattered the hem of the king’s robes. Before the servant could stammer an apology the king hurled the goblet to the floor, where it shattered into a thousand crystal fragments.

  “Fool!” the king screamed. “Count yourself lucky I have been stripped of my arms, else you’d taste my steel in your gut. As it is, I’ll have to satisfy myself with watching you lick these shards from the floor.”

  He brought his crushing hand down on the servant’s shoulder, forcing the man to his knees. The servant begged for mercy, but before the king shoved the poor man’s face into the stone, he glanced up, as though to make sure we were all watching.