One of the armsmen at his back moved toward the prince. He had barely taken a step when the other armsman’s spear gutted him like a fish, punching through his chain mail with a sickening crunch. Octavia cried out in horror, as did several other courtiers. The guard collapsed to the ground.
Lokus now called out in Norse, the guttural language almost abrasive on Octavia’s ears. It was too quick for Octavia to translate. Bismark bellowed in return, swinging his goblet around and cracking the traitorous armsman on the head. As the soldier dropped like a stone, the king grabbed his discarded spear, and faced down his son.
The crown prince drew his massive chain-axe, the weapon humming ominously as the teeth began to move. Octavia was able to translate this time: “I should be king. I will lead our people to greatness, not leave us cowering here in these frozen mountains like pitiful sheep.”
Lokus began to circle his father. Suddenly Lokus charged, axe teeth blasting through the meager defense offered by the king’s spear. The king fell back, blood welling from his hands, and Lokus punched him with his gauntleted hand. The king spun about and collapsed to the floor right before his throne. Octavia heard retching, and Lokus backed off for a moment. When the king turned back toward the feast table, Octavia saw black streaks running up and down the side of his face. What is happening? Is that from some kind of poison?
“How are you feeling, Father? Do you like being punched?” Lokus taunted.
The king dragged himself up the steps of the throne platform. No other guards were coming to help, and it appeared that none of the courtiers were willing to make a move. Octavia looked about, trying to find anyone willing to help. She had just gathered the nerve to stand when she felt two hands drop onto her shoulders. A voice in Latin made her freeze.
“Now there, Senatora, leaving so soon? I think you’d really like to watch this. After all, this is an event months in the making.”
“Corbus,” she hissed under her breath.
“The one and only.” Octavia could practically feel the smirk on Corbus’s face.
With her escape thwarted, Octavia had no choice but to watch Lokus slowly murder his father for the next several minutes. By the time the crown prince decided to end the king’s life, the honorable man who had welcomed the Roman emissary so far from home to his table was no more. Instead there was a shivering, pain-wracked man with no more control over his body.
Somehow, Octavia found his eyes in the bleeding mess of his face. Bismark’s eyes held hers until the last glint of life was snuffed out. Octavia let out a small sob. The rest of the throne room was silent, save for the whirring motor of the chain-axe as it powered down.
Lokus stooped and lifted his father’s crown from where it had rolled off the bald head of the deceased king. He took the dais steps two at a time, then dropped onto the Copper Throne and settled the band of metal onto his head. “The king is dead. Long live the king,” he proclaimed.
His supporters took up the cry. “Long live the king! Long live the king!”
It’s rather telling when even the men paid to fawn upon the king aren’t doing so, Octavia thought as the men at the table sat, silent and stunned by the recent events.
Another door slid open and a smaller party entered.
“Why, Duke Laufas, how kind of you to join us,” Lokus called from the throne. “You’re just in time to congratulate me.”
“Why are congratulations in order, Prince Lokus?” Laufas asked, walking closer to the throne. Various aides and supporters grouped behind him.
The table and Lokus’ supporters were screening the dead king from the duke’s view, and Octavia watched as the traitorous guards in Lokus’ employ began to unobtrusively surround the duke’s party.
Octavia made up her mind. “It’s a trap, Duke Laufas, he killed the king!” she shouted in Norse before Corbus practically lifted her up off the bench and hurled her behind him. She tumbled across the floor. As she slid to a halt, the senatora first thought her head was ringing, then realized it was actually the clash of swords as the duke’s guards and the new king’s men fought briefly. With shouts and screams, the sounds of battle quickly faded.
Are they dead? Did they escape?
Without warning, Octavia was roughly hauled to her feet. An open-handed slap made her see stars. “I knew I should have killed you earlier,” Corbus growled at her. “But don’t worry, we’ll take care of the duke and his pesky men. After all, it’s not like there’s anywhere to hide.” His laughter was echoed by several other conspirators in the throne room.
Corbus turned to the dais. “If you’ll excuse me, Your Majesty, I’ll take my leave. I need to escort the senatora to more. . suitable. . chambers.” The menace of those words hung on the air, and Octavia felt her throat tighten.
King Lokus turned to look first at the senatora, then at Corbus. “Ah, I see. Well, please hurry back. We must catch the duke before he tries to gather a force to resist our rightful ascendance to the throne. Don’t let your. . distraction. . keep you for long. And be sure to clean up any mess. I’d hate to have to clean up after you.”
Nodding, Corbus tossed Octavia over his shoulder as if she were a sack of potatoes. Octavia screamed and kicked, but the assassin’s rock-hard hand buffeted her about, then he set her down on the ground. The tip of his knife rested on her throat. “There’s no need for that,” he said.
With her protests silenced, Octavia felt panic rising in her breast. Gods protect me.
Chapter 19
Julius
While the clang and clash of fighting was familiar to Julius, the sudden appearance of fifteen fully armed and armored warriors in his cellblock both intrigued and terrified him.
“What is it?” whispered Scipio.
Their leader was obviously giving orders, and Julius heard the clanging of the cellblock door as it was slammed shut. Fists hammered on the door, echoing down the cold stone hallway.
“They’re locking themselves in? Why?”
“Dunno, legionnaire. Something must be happening. You remember that bell we heard earlier?” Julius asked.
“Oh yeah. Escape attempt, perhaps? There must be other dungeons somewhere around here.” Scipio looked thoughtful. “Hopefully they aren’t looking for us.”
The warriors were looking into each cell carefully. Finally, one Nortlander stepped up to their cell and held up a lantern. The light spilled into the cell, illuminating the two ragged Roman soldiers.
“Ro. . mans?” the man asked in heavily accented Latin. Constantine nodded. “You. . fight?” he asked, obviously trying hard to come up with the right words.
“Is he asking us what I think he is?” Scipio whispered.
“Yes,” replied Julius. “And I’m going to take him up on the offer. Anything to get out of here. Might as well die fighting. You in?”
The young legionnaire was about the same age as the centurion, but he deferred to his officer’s judgment. “If you feel it best, sir.”
Julius turned back to face the warrior and saluted him, legionnaire style, then replied in his best Norse. The man’s grin was fierce under his bushy brown beard, and after a few short whacks with his war hammer, the cell door groaned and submitted to being pulled open.
The freed Romans stood in the hallway, letting their eyes adjust to the less gloomy atmosphere.
“I feel better already,” murmured Scipio.
“Keep a sharp lookout. I’m still not sure what these guys are planning,” Julius murmured.