The man’s smile broadened. “Oh, I don’t matter. It’s killing the king that matters.”
He swung his sword two-handed overhead, looking to split Therrador’s skull; the king blocked the blow, but his own sword arm wilted under its force. Reflexes bred in battle helped him recover to intercept the next attack, but he knew he wouldn’t be able to do so for long-this man was too powerful for his under-trained left arm to handle.
Therrador’s eyes darted from the man attacking him to the bodies littering the ground around them, then back. He blocked another blow. His gaze flickered to the horse approaching more quickly now with fewer men blocking its path. The man attacked again; Therrador ducked under his sword and lunged forward, striking the man in the chest with his shoulder.
The Kanosee soldier stumbled back but didn’t fall. Therrador pressed the attack, glancing at the horse closing fast at the man’s back. Their swords clanged again and again. Sweat rolled into Therrador’s eyes, stinging them and blurring his vision; his shoulder protested with every swipe and block, but his opponent seemed not to tire.
The horse was close enough now Therrador felt its hoof beats through the soles of his boots. The other man must have as well, because he stole a worried look over his shoulder.
Therrador jumped on his enemy’s distraction and lunged forward, the tip of his sword aimed at the man’s belly, but the soldier side-stepped and the attack grazed off his mail. He lowered his arm, trapping the king’s blade between it and his body. The malignant grin returned to his face.
“We’re done here, King Therrador.”
“Yes. We are.”
Therrador let go of his sword and put his boot to his adversary’s chest, catching him by surprise. The man stumbled back a step into the path of the oncoming horse and the destrier’s training took over; the animal lowered its head and the spike at the center of its champron entered the Kanosee soldier’s skull through the back of his head.
The man’s eyes went wide and a gout of blood spewed from his mouth. The horse skidded to a stop and raised its head, pulling the man’s feet from the ground. His sword dropped from his grip as his body spasmed once, twice, then went still. An ugly tearing sound wrenched the air as he fell from the horse’s spike.
Only when the man hit the ground did Therrador notice the soldier dragged by the horse. He immediately recognized him by his armor.
“Sir Alton.”
Therrador leaped over the dead man to fall to his knees at his general’s side.
Scrapes covered Sienhin’s face, rendering him unrecognizable if not for his bushy mustache caked with blood from his nose and cheeks. The arm tangled in the horse’s reins was twisted around and around, the way a wash cloth is wrung out. One of his boots was gone. His head lolled to the side.
Therrador put his hand on the general’s cheek and propped his head up to look in his open eyes. Life yet remained in them, but it was dim and far off, as though it tried to flee this broken body but couldn’t quite get away. They looked into Therrador’s but he wondered if they saw him. His answer came through the general’s shredded lips and broken teeth.
“My king.” The words hissed from his mouth, breathed without the aid of tongue or lips.
“Don’t speak, old friend. I will find you a healer.”
“Is too late.”
Therrador already knew the truth in his words. His arm was destroyed, his body mangled beyond repair. The manner in which his head hung made the king suspect his neck was broken. It was a wonder he still lived.
“I’m so sorry, Alton. This is my fault.”
The general’s dispassionate eyes stared back at him and Therrador searched them for forgiveness. He found none. He found nothing. The general’s breath hissed into words again.
“Release me.”
The king closed his eyes tight. He knew Sienhin wasn’t asking him to untangle his arm from the reins; he wanted him to ensure the witch wouldn’t bring him back to fight against his own kingdom. He didn’t want to be made into a monstrosity.
Therrador opened his eyes. The general’s gaze remained upon him, though he suspected it was because his eyes no longer moved rather than a desire to look upon his king-the man who betrayed the kingdom-in his last moments of life.
The king nodded and reached for his dagger with his right hand as he held Sir Alton’s head with his left. His lack of a thumb made holding the blade awkward, but he got his fingers wrapped around the hilt and unsheathed it. His grip wouldn’t be tight enough to best a man in a knife fight, but a knife fight wasn’t the task he intended to accomplish.
He raised the dagger, the point held an inch from the general’s left eye. He hesitated.
“Goodbye, my friend.”
He plunged the dagger in to the hilt.
Therrador remained kneeling, aware of the battle raging around him, but exhaustion had crept into his limbs. Part of him wanted to stay there, to give in to whatever monster wanted to plunge its sword into his back and end his suffering for what he’d done to his kingdom, his friends, his son. But another part clung to the hope that, somewhere out there, Graymon yet lived, and that hope for the kingdom’s survival remained alive with the boy.
When he heard a horse approaching at a gallop, it was this part that brought him to his feet and turned him around, tired arms dangling at his sides.
***
The bodies lay thick on the ground, like a macabre snow fallen from malicious Heavens. In the distance, he saw the ruby dragon rise up in the air and spew fire on the men below. Black smoke rose to the sky and the wind picked up the smell of brimstone and burning flesh.
Darestat’s dragon! How can it be?
Khirro stared as the beast dove back to the ground and roared before gathering another breath. He shuddered with the memory of the beast and its fire.
He reined his horse to a stop, looked back over his shoulder; there was still time to turn the horse around, go back to Emeline and Iana. She would understand-she’d already lost Lehgan.
But Athryn wouldn’t. Nor would Maes, or Shyn, or Elyea. His parents wouldn’t understand his decision when Kanosee soldiers marched onto their farm to end their lives like he’d seen in the Mourning Sword’s prognostication. They wouldn’t understand when the Archon transformed them into monsters.
Khirro turned back to the fight and coaxed his horse to a walk. He breathed deep through his nose, pressed his lips together. The smells of the battle brought a lump in his throat large enough to gag him. He swallowed hard to dispel it.
I can do this. I’m no longer a farmer. I’m a warrior.
With the Mourning Sword at the ready, Khirro guided his horse through the corpses, noting their armor: the Kanosee insignia, Erechanian colors, the black splashed with red of the dead. There seemed equal numbers of each.
The fighting began a few yards ahead. A torrent of men ebbed and flowed, swords flashing, blood spilling. Men shouted and cursed, screamed in pain amongst the din of steel and the growl and roar of the dragon.
The runes running up and down the length of the Mourning Sword began to glow, dully at first, but more intensely with each step closer the horse brought him to the battle. The brighter the blade glowed, the more he felt heat build within him, an ember sparking to life in his chest that his blood carried out to his torso and limbs as it pumped through his veins. It fortified him, strengthened him and he sat straighter in the saddle, held the Mourning Sword with a more sure grip.
The first man approached him: a soldier in Erechanian mail and a deep killing wound in his chest oozing blood. He raised the pike he held in both hands, poked it at Khirro’s face; he brushed it aside with his free hand.
“I’m not your enemy.”
The man thrust at him again and Khirro blocked it. He saw the blank look in the man’s eyes and it reminded him of the way his parents' eyes looked in the vision. This man was no longer a soldier of the king’s army, but a servant of the Archon. Khirro brushed aside another poke then brought the Mourning Sword down in an arc that split the man’s head in two. He crumpled to the ground amongst the other corpses and the sword’s blade glowed fiercely. Triumph and despair mixed through Khirro as he stared at the man lying on the ground, brains seeping out of his head. He stared until he heard a voice call out.