"I hope so!" she called, returning to her position outside the throne room.
Ramil gave orders for his assistants in the command center to fall back out of sight into the
robing room. He checked that the archers were up in the rafters, bows trained on the doors, and
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then took up his post on the throne, sword across his knees.
As anticipated, a few minutes later the doors were thrown back and Empire soldiers poured into
the room, fanning out to the edges to take up defensive positions. A man appeared in the
doorway, hands on hips, gazing
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straight down the hall at Ramil. He drew his sword and marched forward confidently.
Ramil rose and bowed.
"Hello again, Fergox."
A soldier rushed towards Ramil, his sword raised. An arrow flew from the ceiling and brought
him down sprawling at the Prince's feet. Fergox glanced up once into the roof, but continued
advancing.
"Ramil ac Burinholt. I confess that I'm surprised to see you here. I thought you had scurried
home to Gerfal," Fergox said coldly as he reached the bottom of the steps. "Though perhaps I should have realized that no ordinary slave could have got so far."
Ramil held out his sword to stop Fergox from coming any closer. "If you bothered to investigate
your own subjects, you'd find out that there is no such thing as an ordinary slave."
Fergox raised his sword. "How touching. But tell me, before I kill you, what have you done with
my little Tashi?" He took a swipe at Ramil, no more than a probing of his guard. Ramil blocked it and swung away.
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"She is not your Tashi and never was."
Fergox smiled. "You've warmed to her, I see. That makes it all the more perfect a revenge when I
kill her. I'd like to keep you alive so you can watch me do it."
Ramil swung but Fergox jumped back out of range.
"In fact, I hope you've got her hidden away somewhere in the palace for me to hunt down," the warlord continued. "I have some unfinished business with her which I'm looking forward to
settling."
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Ramil brought his sword round in a high strike; Fergox blocked so that they were face to face,
wrestling for an advantage.
"She's not here," Ramil hissed. "She's dead."
It was the first time he'd admitted this aloud and he felt a yell of fury inside.
This man had brought about the death of the woman he loved. Ramil
launched himself into an attack for real, entering into a glittering pattern of thrusts and strikes.
Fergox's eyes widened with surprise but he matched Ramil, parrying each blow efficiently,
experience telling him to let his opponent tire himself. Sweat ran down Ramil's brow, his
breathing fast, his muscles singing with the strain.
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Fergox gave ground until he had his back to a pillar swathed in red cloth.
With a swipe he cut the cord and the cloth fell down in folds, burying Ramil's sword. Before the
Prince could get it free, Fergox thrust at his heart. Ramil dived, feeling the blade nick his left
arm. He rolled, now weaponless, his sword still caught up in the cloth. A soldier behind him
moved forward to finish him off.
"Leave him!" barked Fergox. "He's mine."
Ramil sprang to his feet and sprinted back to the throne.
"Pathetic!" Fergox laughed. "Still clinging to power, are we, Prince?"
Ramil kicked the chair over and picked up a short spear from among the weapons he had hidden
there. He levelled it on his shoulder, knowing he had only one shot before Fergox ran him
through. The warlord
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charged, mouth open in a yell. Ramil threw his spear. It struck Fergox in the throat, above his
breastplate, cutting off the cry.
"We never did finish best of three, did we?" Ramil said.
The warlord staggered, then stopped, the sword clanging on the floor as his arms lost all
strength. He swayed, then fell backwards, a look of shock on his face.
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With a shout of fury, the soldiers rushed forward to avenge their commander.
Ramil swept up Fergox's sword and leapt back on the dais to defend himself. A soldier swiped at
his legs, catching him on the calf. Ramil cut him down with a back stroke. His slave supporters
burst from their hiding place in the robing room; arrows hissed from overhead. Bloody
confusion reigned as fighters exchanged blows and some cut down their own side in mistaken
frenzy. When Ramil was finally able to lean on his sword, surrounded by the dead, he saw that
he had lost many of his men, including the surly man who had challenged his authority on that
first day in the market. He had turned out to be a fierce and loyal fighter and left a family in
eastern Holt. Others lay there, each with his own history, united only by their belief in Ramil's
promise to offer them a better life.
Ramil bowed his head in respect, vowing to fulfil their expectations if he survived the day, then
limped to the door.
"Toll the bell," he ordered one of his men.
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The great bell of Tigral began to boom--the prearranged signal that Fergox was dead. Ramil
thought he could hear faint cheering around the palace. He stepped through the open door and
looked down into the courtyard.
The killing had gone on here too. As ordered, Yelena and her troops had engaged the army as it
entered the courtyard. The rebels had been losing ground against the best-disciplined of
Fergox's soldiers when a mass of purple-robed horsemen had appeared out of nowhere,
sweeping through the North Gate. Galloping into the courtyard, they had been like a scythe
through corn, cutting down the warlord's men. A small band resisted, fighting back to back
surrounded by the bodies of their comrades, harried from all sides by slave fighters and the
ruthless men of the Horse Followers.
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Ramil gave a shrill whistle. Gradually, the rebels heard the signal and stepped back, their
weapons red with blood.
"Soldiers!" Ramil shouted, brandishing the warlord's sword. "Fergox Spearthrower lies dead on the steps to his throne. This battle is over. Put down your weapons and I will be merciful. Carry
on fighting and it will be to your deaths."
One soldier howled with rage and threw himself at the large chieftain of the Horse Followers.
Before he even reached him, the soldier died with a kitchen knife in his back, thrown by the
resistance-friendly cook. This seemed to convince the others. They dropped their weapons.
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Ramil nodded. "Good. Yelena, take the prisoners to the barracks."
The Dark Prince gazed around his kingdom. What a way to start his new order: men lying in
bloody heaps, limbs severed, the wounded groaning.
The wounded. The thought prompted him back into action.
"Sir Cook!" he shouted to the knife thrower. "Can you gather some men and see to the
wounded, please? Tell Professor Norling that we treat friend and foe alike."
Professor Norling jumped down from the wall, where he had been expertly firing a crossbow for
the last half hour, and rolled up his sleeves.
"Professor Norling wouldn't let you have it any other way," he muttered.
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The chieftain dismounted and walked up to Ramil, leading a familiar blue roan by the bridle. The
prince thought that in his exhaustion he might be hallucinating: Thunder here? But how?