The Maid of the Cursed Princess

“Shall we entice the Slave Prince towards the city’s fringes?”

“Yes. I’d like you to portray the Princess.”

For the grand design to safeguard the Princess, Dorothy had anointed the chamberlain and Clopân Trouillefou as her chosen confidants.

“The assassins of Königsberg will undoubtedly surmise that the Princess seeks sanctuary within the Court of Miracles. Had she sought refuge elsewhere – be it the royal palace or some other haven – whispers would have surely rippled through the realm like wildfire.”

In the rarefied air of high society, secrets are but fleeting wisps. The silver tongues of nobles never cease their relentless pursuit of the latest morsel of gossip.

Furthermore, while Dorothy’s knowledge of their identities remained incomplete, she comprehended that the central nobility stood as the puppet masters behind the nefarious plot against Sibylla’s life. Their desperation to unearth Sibylla’s whereabouts might have reached a fever pitch.

“You, like I, are well aware that none surpass the central aristocracy’s voracious appetite for even the faintest whisper within Orléans.”

Not deceased. Not returned to the hallowed halls of the palace. Yet neither ensconced in a place of obvious refuge.

In the end, what remained were the slums – those shadowy corners of the city that elude the gaze of the privileged and prove treacherous for nobles to tread. Among these squalid sanctuaries, the Court of Miracles stood as the most impregnable fortress. Moreover, it had been confirmed that she had dwelt there for a time, albeit against her will. Thus, Dorothy deduced that the Slave Prince would inevitably be drawn to the Court of Miracles.

“I suspect you’d be loath to engage in combat within the Court of Miracles. The confines would severely restrict your freedom of movement.”

“A sage observation.”

Within the labyrinthine passages of the Court of Miracles, teeming with the infirm and the aged of limited mobility, Clopân would find himself hamstrung. Particularly when faced with multiple adversaries rather than a solitary foe.

“Yet a question gnaws at me. Having never crossed blades with the assassins of Königsberg, can I truly hope to match the Slave Prince’s prowess?”

If there existed a single flaw in their stratagem, it lay in the impossibility of gauging which of the two – Clopân or the Slave Prince – held the upper hand.

“While I harbor no doubts about my martial skills, I am not a human weapon honed solely for the art of assassination throughout my entire existence.”

“Cast aside your trepidation, for the chamberlain shall stand as your steadfast ally in this dance of blades.”

With Clopân and the chamberlain united in combat, Dorothy calculated, they could subdue even the formidable Slave Prince.

“Well, if that be the case…”

…

“…Ha! Curse the fates!”

If only they had exercised greater caution in their deliberations.

The one crucial factor that had eluded both Clopân and Dorothy’s consideration was the possibility of the Slave Prince summoning reinforcements.

What materialized before Clopân’s eyes, who had steeled himself for a duel with the Slave Prince alone, were eight assassins. Or more precisely, seven remaining after one had already been dispatched to the realm beyond.

Moreover, the Slave Prince they had so eagerly anticipated was conspicuously absent from this deadly assemblage. It could be said that their carefully laid plans had unraveled with devastating thoroughness.

“Haah!!”

With no time to wipe away the beads of sweat or the crimson rivulets flowing from his cheek, a testament to a dagger’s caress, Clopân channeled every ounce of his being into evading and deflecting the relentless onslaught of the assassins’ attacks.

Clopân’s once-ashen attire had long since been christened in a baptism of blood. He stood drenched in crimson to such an extent that it became impossible to discern whether the life essence coating him originated from his own veins or those of his enemies. Immersed in the chaotic ballet of battle, Clopân pressed on.

“Kuhkuh…”

The chamberlain fared no better. Just as in days long past, when he stood taller and unlined by the ravages of time, serving the current King amidst the tumultuous tides of political intrigue – where nary a day passed without fresh blood staining the resplendent palace floors – his pristine white shirt now bore a macabre Jackson Pollock of scarlet splatters.

“Ho there, chamberlain!! How… fare… you… in… this… maelstrom?”

“Cease… your… prattle… when… breath… comes… so… dear…oh!!”

Yet, despite the dire circumstances, neither warrior yielded to despair.

“Haahh!!”

Be they the anointed King of the Court of Miracles or the esteemed chamberlain of the Orléans royal family, neither could suffer the ignominy of falling to mere assassins’ blades.

* * *

The insurgents swept through Hyperion with an ease.

Bereft of their command structure, the demoralized constabulary either took flight or perished without mustering even a semblance of meaningful resistance. The armory, a critical linchpin in any military endeavor, had already fallen under the iron grip of the central army from the outset.

Thus, the initial stages of their insurrection unfolded with remarkable fluidity. In less time than it takes for the sun to climb a finger’s width in the sky, they had completed their armament, secured their rear flank, and established a formidable encampment before the very gates of the royal palace.

It was in the aftermath of these initial triumphs that complications began to rise.

“The resistance we face is nothing short of ferocious. Already, the cold embrace of death has claimed over 500 of our brave soldiers.”

“…This defies all expectations.”

Contrary to the central faction’s presumptions, which had dismissed the royal guard as a spent force, the truth proved far more resilient.

Certainly, more had fled or pledged allegiance to the rebel army than remained steadfast. Yet a small cadre of royal guards, their hearts burning with unwavering loyalty, refused to abandon their sworn duty to the royal family.

Standing shoulder to shoulder with the gendarmes who had cast their lot with the loyalists, these indomitable few, armed with firearms presumed to have been sequestered away in anticipation of this very day, had forged an impenetrable bulwark of steel and resolve. The palace itself had metamorphosed into an unassailable fortress.

Moreover, the rebel army found itself in a predicament far less favorable than initially anticipated.

The decision to dispatch approximately 6,000 men to secure the rear echelons was, in principle, sound strategy. Even with this allocation, they still boasted an eight-fold numerical superiority over the palace defenders.

“Um, is this… really okay? If by any chance His Majesty gets hit by a stray bullet…”

The true cancer gnawing at the heart of the rebel forces was the rapidly eroding morale of their soldiers.

The central army, more accustomed to the pomp and ceremony of peacetime than the brutal realities of combat, found themselves ill-prepared for the psychological toll of their actions. Worse still, the very act of turning their weapons upon the royal palace, the sanctum of their rightful sovereign, was an inescapable act of high treason. Such was the burden borne by those born under the banner of Orléans.

Compounding this already precarious state of affairs, a grim discovery awaited them at the armory. Though they had successfully seized control of this vital installation, they found the implements most crucial for siege warfare, the artillery, disassembled and damaged beyond hope of swift repair. It was as if some prescient hand had anticipated their designs and moved to thwart them. Thus, the rebel army found itself stymied in its efforts to breach the palace defenses.

“We must steel ourselves and maintain our resolve…”

Yet even in the face of these setbacks, Viscount Lusignan refused to allow despair to cloud his judgment. He reasoned that no matter how extensive their preparations, there must surely be a limit to the supplies that could be stockpiled within the confines of the palace – a structure not built with prolonged siege in mind – in so brief a span.

If they could but maintain steady pressure, the Crown Prince’s forces, bereft of both provisions and manpower, would inevitably find themselves driven to the brink.

“Viscount! Viscount Lusignan!!”

But when a comrade, one who should have been steadfastly guarding their rear, materialized before him, his visage a mask of abject terror.

“Catastrophe has befallen us!!”

Faced with such a piteous sight, even Lusignan’s iron composure began to crack.

* * *

Initially, those rebels assigned to safeguard the rear, particularly those stationed near the city gates, had secretly rejoiced in their fortune.

They had been spared the moral quagmire of training their weapons upon the royal palace, their hearts heavy with the weight of their actions. Moreover, they could harbor hopes of emerging from this tumultuous affair with their lives intact.

“…By all that’s holy, what… what’s all that…?”

“…Gulp…”

Their complacency was shattered as they beheld five armies marching inexorably towards them. These forces swept over forest and ridge, pouring into the fields that lay before the city. Each contingent bore aloft pure white banners, emblazoned with names that struck terror into the hearts of all who gazed upon them.

“Merciful heavens…”

A collective shudder of dread rippled through their ranks.

“Ahem… uhhmm…”

And there, at the vanguard of this formidable host, astride a magnificent steed at the very fore of the cavalry, rode a man adorned in a uniform so resplendent it dazzled the eye:

Allons enfants de la Patrie!!!

(Arise, children of the Fatherland!!!)

His voice, like a thunderous dragon’s roar, rang out across the battlefield.

Le jour de gloire est arrivé!!!

(The day of glory has arrived!!!)

As one, the massed cavalry arrayed behind him took up the chorus of their general’s impassioned recitation.

Contre nous de la tyrannie

L’étendard sanglant est levé.

(Against us, tyranny’s bloodstained banner is raised.)

L’étendard sanglant est levé!!

(The bloodstained banner is raised indeed!!!)

The content of their song was nothing short of seditious – a battle cry more befitting revolutionaries than the sworn protectors of a nation.

Yet unlike the central army, paralyzed by doubt and fear, the force that now stood beyond the city walls knew this audacious anthem by heart.

Entendez-vous dans les campagnes

Mugir ces féroces soldats?

(Do you hear in the countryside

Those ferocious soldiers bellowing rage?)

Ils viennent jusque dans vos bras

Égorger vos fils, vos compagnes!

(They come right to your arms

To slit the throats of your sons and women!)

For this was the martial hymn they had bellowed until their throats were raw on countless blood-soaked battlefields across the continent.

Aux armes, citoyens!!!

(To arms, citizens!!!)

Formez vos bataillons!!!

(Form your battalions!!!)

Marchez, marchez!!

(March on, march ever onward!!!)

Qu’un sang impur

(Let an impure blood)

Abreuve nos sillons!!!

(Drench and saturate our furrows!!!)

Following the lead of the man at their fore, who conducted their chorus with sweeping gestures as if possessed by the very spirit of war itself, the soldiers roared their defiance to the heavens.

Aux armes, citoyens!!!

(To arms, citizens!!!)

Formez nos bataillons!!!

(Form our battalions!!!)

Marchons, marchons!!

(Let’s march, let’s march!!)

Qu’un sang impur

(Let an impure blood)

Abreuve nos sillons!!

(Water our furrows!!)

This passionate battle cry, a song of revolution and righteous fury, would surely resonate through every stone and timber of Hyperion.

The man, his arms outstretched as if to embrace the very heat of battle, soon opened his eyes. His gaze, sharp as a rapier’s point, fixed upon the castle gate with unwavering intensity.

“Children of Orléans! Veterans whose cavalry has scourged every last battlefield across the continent – undefeated and forged in the most unforgiving crucibles of warfare!!”

Just as he had done countless times before, rallying his troops against all who dared stand against Orléans, from every corner of the continent.

“Our beloved liege, the sole individual to whom we owe our eternal fidelities, now finds himself surrounded by those treacherous reprobates beyond these very gates!!!”

The man, his voice a tempest that seemed to emanate from the very depths of his soul, drew forth his sword. With a gesture both dramatic and decisive, he leveled the blade at the castle gate and bellowed:

“We shall go forth and liberate our one true master on this day!! Viva la Orléans!!!”

The standard bearer raised high their battle flag, its fabric snapping in the wind like the wings of an avenging angel.

His name, writ large in letters that blazed brighter than those of all other foes, stood out even when viewed from afar.

“””Viva la Orléans!!!”””

And with that battle cry ringing in their ears, the Crown Prince’s soldiers charged forth, their hearts aflame with the desire to save their former lord from the jaws of treachery.