“This is the man who saved my life, Father,” Bane shrilled. He turned, reached out for the assassin.
Hugh drew his blade, slowly, clumsily. He lifted it high, let the firelight catch it, gave out an attention-getting roar. Then he launched himself at Stephen.
The King’s Own reacted swiftly, instinctively. Seeing the flashing blade, hearing the assassin’s shout, they dropped their spears and leapt to throttle him from behind. The captain knocked Hugh’s sword from his hand, drew his own sword, and was about to grant Hugh the swift death he sought when a huge, furry shape struck him.
Ears up, eyes bright, the dog had been watching the proceedings with interest, enjoying the excitement. Sudden movement, shouting, and confusion startled the animal. Men smelled of fear and tension and danger. The dog was jostled, stepped on. And then it saw the captain lunge at Hugh, about to harm a man the dog knew as a friend.
Jaws closed on the captain’s sword arm. The animal dragged the man to the ground. The two tumbled over each other; the dog growling and snarling, the captain trying to fend off the animal’s vicious attack.
The King’s Own had firm grasp of Hugh. The sergeant, sword in hand, dashed over to deal with the assassin.
“Hold!” Stephen bellowed. He’d recovered from his first shock, recognized Hugh.
The sergeant halted, looked back at his king. The captain rolled on the ground, the dog worrying him like a rat. Stephen, perplexed, arrested by the expression on the assassin’s face, came forward.
“What—?”
No one, except Hugh, was paying any attention to Bane.
The child had picked up Hugh’s sword from the ground, was advancing on the king, coming up on him from behind.
“Your Majesty—” Hugh cried, struggled to free himself. The sergeant struck him a blow to the head, with the flat of his sword. Dazed, Hugh slumped in his captor’s arms. But he’d drawn Anne’s attention. She saw the danger, but was too far away to act.
“Stephen!” she screamed.
Bane gripped the hilt of the sword in both small hands.
“I will be king!” he shouted in fury, and plunged the sword with all his strength into Stephen’s back.
The king cried out in pain, staggered forward. He reached his hand around in disbelief, felt his own blood run over his fingers. Bane wrenched the blade free. Stumbling, Stephen fell to the ground. Anne ran from the tent. The sergeant, stupefied, unable to believe what he’d seen, stared at the child, whose small hands were wet with blood. Bane aimed another stroke, a killing stroke. Anne flung her own body over that of her wounded husband. Sword raised, Bane rushed at her.
The child’s body jerked, his eyes widened. He dropped the sword, clutched at his throat with his hands. He seemed unable to breathe, was gasping for air. Slowly, fearfully, he turned around.
“Mother?” He was strangling, lacked the voice to speak, his lips formed the word.
Iridal stepped out of the darkness. Her face was pale, fixed, and resolute. She moved with a terrible calm, a terrible purpose. A strange whispering sound, as if the night was sucking in its breath, hissed through the night.
“Mother!” Bane choked, sank to his knees, extended a pleading hand. “Mother, don’t...”
“I’m sorry, my son,” she said. “Forgive me. I cannot save you. You have doomed yourself. I do what I have to do.”
She raised her hand.
Bane glared at her in impotent fury, then his eyes rolled, he slumped to the ground. The small body shuddered and then lay still.
No one spoke, no one moved. Minds tried to assimilate what had happened, what even now seemed impossible to believe. The dog, sensing the danger had ended, left off its attack. Padding over to Iridal, the dog nudged her cold hand.
“I shut my eyes to what his father was,” said Iridal in a quiet voice, terrible to hear. “I shut my eyes to what Bane had become. I’m sorry. I never meant for this to happen. Is he... is he... dead?”
A soldier, standing near, knelt down beside the child, laid a hand upon Bane’s chest. Looking up at Iridal, the soldier nodded wordlessly.
“It is fitting. That was how your own child died, Your Majesty,” said Iridal, sighing, her gaze on Bane, her words for Anne. “The baby could not breathe the rarefied air of the High Realm. I did what I could, but the poor thing choked to death.”
Anne gave a gasping sob, averted her head, covered her face with her hands. Stephen, struggling to his knees, put his arms around her. He stared in horror and shock at the small body lying on the ground.
“Release this man,” said Iridal, her empty-eyed gaze going to Hugh. “He had no intention of killing the king.”
The King’s Own appeared dubious, glowered at Hugh darkly. The assassin’s head was lowered. He did not look up. He had no care for his fate, one way or the other.
“Hugh made a deliberately clumsy attempt at murder,” Iridal told them. “An attempt that was meant to reveal my son’s treachery to you... and to me. He succeeded,” she added softly.
The captain, on his feet, dirty and disheveled but otherwise unharmed, cast a questioning glance at the king.
“Do as she says, Captain,” Stephen ordered, rising painfully, gasping in agony. His breath came short. His wife had her arms around him, assisting him.
“Release this man. The moment he raised his sword, I knew...” The king tried to walk, almost fell.
“Help me!” Queen Anne cried, supporting him. “Send for Trian! Where is Trian? The king is grievously hurt!”
“Nothing so terrible as all that, my dear,” said Stephen, making an attempt to smile. “I’ve... taken worse than this...” His head lolled, he sagged in his wife’s arms.
The captain ran to support his fainting king, but halted and turned in alarm when he heard the sentry’s voice ring out. A shadow moved against the firelight. Steel clashed. The nervous King’s Own snapped to action. Captain and sergeant raised their swords, stepped in front of Their Majesties. Stephen had fallen to the ground, Anne crouched protectively over him.
“Be at peace, it is I, Trian,” said the young wizard, materializing out of the darkness.
A glance at Hugh, at the dead child, and at the dead child’s mother was sufficient to apprise the wizard of the situation. He did not waste time in questions, but nodded once, took charge.
“Make haste. Carry His Majesty into his tent, shut the flap. Quickly, before anyone else sees!”
The captain, looking vastly relieved, barked orders. Guards carried the king inside. The sergeant lowered the tent flap, stood guard himself outside it. The young wizard took a few moments to speak a few brief words of reassurance to Anne, then sent her into the tent to prepare hot water and bandages.
“You men,” Trian said, turning to the King’s Own. “Not a word of this to anyone, on your lives.”
The soldiers nodded, saluted.
“Should we double the guard, Magicka?” asked the ashen-faced sergeant.
“Absolutely not,” Trian snapped. “All must seem as normal, do you understand? The wolf attacks when it smells blood.” He glanced at Iridal, standing motionless over the body of her son. “You men, douse that fire. Cover the corpse. No one is to leave this area until I return. Gently, men,” he advised, glancing again at Iridal.
Anne appeared at the tent flap, searching anxiously for him. “Trian...” she began.
“I’m coming, Your Majesty. Hush, go back inside. All will be well.” The wizard hastened into the royal tent.
“One of you, come with me.” The sergeant and a guard moved to obey Trian’s commands, cover the small corpse. “Bring a cloak.” Hugh raised his head.
“I’ll take care of it,” he said.
The sergeant looked at the man’s haggard face, gray, caked and streaked with blood, oozing from a deep slash that had nearly laid bare his cheekbone. His eyes were almost invisible beneath the jutting, furrowed brow; two tiny points of flame, reflecting from the watch fires, flickered deep within the darkness. He moved to block the sergeant’s way.