Chapter 13

   

The Briavellian guards died swiftly. The attack, as violent as it was unexpected, was over as quickly as it was begun and the mercenaries were adept at killing silently. Celimus was playing a slippery game. While Romen thought he was spearheading this band of soldiers, another of them—a man called Arkol—with a ransom on his head and little else to lose from murdering more people had agreed to run a killing raid.

Promised immunity from those who hunted him, as well as an irresistible sum of money, this killer had bigger prey on his mind than General Wyl Thirsk. His orders were to murder the King of Briavel. Celimus’s evil mind had concocted a plan to leap all the obstacles in the way of his getting precisely what he wanted. Having met the man, he judged that Koreldy would not agree to assassinate a King for little other reason than he might not agree to marrying off his daughter. Arkol lacked even fundamental scruples, it seemed, and Celimus noted this immediately, deciding he was definitely the person for his third tier of the mission.

His threefold aim was this. First he would use Thirsk to open doors in Briavel. Celimus felt convinced that Wyl’s name would win the audience, and get his men into Briavel without suspicion. He also rather hoped Wyl might win Valentyna’s hand for him—not that he cared either way. Marriage was not to his liking but it was necessary—and it was essential with this supposedly plump and fragile Princess of Briavel.

With or without Wyl Thirsk. he would get his way with marriage—of this Celimus was sure. But the second aim of the mission was to ensure Thirsk was off Morgravian soil when he was killed. It was just such a neat plot to use Romen Koreldy to rid Celimus of the annoying presence of Wyl Thirsk—once his task was done in winning Valor’s trust, that is.

And finally, his favorite of all the intertwined plots was the slaying of his neighboring King. If he could he would lay that peacetime atrocity at Thirsk’s feet, further damaging the family name. However, his main achievement would be to dispense with any necessity to deal with Valor. If the Princess did not submit immediately to his demands to marry and thus join the two realms once and for all, then he would bring the full might of Morgravia crashing down upon her inexperienced and no doubt hysterical shoulders. He would take Briavel by force and he would see to it that she died in the process.

In killing Thirsk and Valor he believed he could lay open a path of hopelessness and indeed helplessness for the young Princess of Briavel. Without her father she would be nothing but a whimpering, spoiled Princess. And staying married to her—even if she did agree—was only ever a temporary situation; an immediate way to satisfy his burning desire to straddle the two realms. Celimus had full intention to rid himself of the cumbersome wife after a couple of years, perhaps by which time he might have sired an heir to genuinely sit upon a single throne ruling both Morgravia and Briavel. The irony of its comparison to his own parents’ marriage and siring of an heir was not lost on him.

He loved the way his own mind worked. Killing Thirsk among it all was his master stroke. Being able to bring the Legion entirely under his own command was his dream. And then why stop at Briavel? With both realms under his rule, he could look to other, weaker kingdoms. Celimus already saw himself—in his daydreams—as some sort of Emperor in the making. It would mean disposing of the self-proclaimed King of the Mountains, of course, but for some reason this did not impact Celimus as being particularly troublesome. Oh, he had listened to his father flap his gums about the threat from the north but the barbarian’s capacity was unknown in truth. How could he possibly put together a raggle-taggle fighting unit that could even begin to match the well-drilled prowess of the Morgravian Legion? Celimus had from early adolescence entertained himself with notions of empire that had eluded his father—the seeds of which had been planted by Adana in the bright youngster’s mind. Magnus, he thought, sneering in a way his mother would be proud of had only ever wanted to keep Morgravia safe. It had never occurred to the old fool to look beyond her borders. Why not take Briavel? Take the north?

So while the King of Morgravia lost himself in pleasant thoughts of killing Cailech, King of the Mountain Dwellers, Arkol in Briavel smiled as he surveyed the mercenaries’ handiwork.

“Good work. men. Now muffle your horses’ hooves and any weapons. Get rid of anything that makes noise—we move silently toward the palace.”

“How do we get in?” someone asked.

“The messenger who arrived ahead of us is one of ours. He will kill the guards on duty at the gate and open the portcullis.”

“That easy, eh?”

“It’s better than easy. King Celimus has planned for another company to raid into Briavel and create a disturbance on the northwestern fringe of Werryl. Those men will draw away most of the Briavellian Guard while we storm the palace.”

“And the others left behind?”

“Will be drugged, if our man can pull it off. Either way, they will not be expecting a direct strike and we will only move when the night is late. We’ll catch them in their cups.”

The soldiers laughed.

“And Koreldy?”

“Will die by my sword,” Arkol cautioned. “No one else is to take that arrogant, ever-smiling bastard. Understood?”

They nodded and got busy with their horses.

Deep in the shadows of a small, nearby copse, Fynch shuddered. Despite Wyl’s cruel words of the previous evening, he had doggedly followed and watched with horror as the recent events unfolded. Having heard the mercenaries’ plan he knew it was up to him alone to save more lives tonight.

“We have to get to Wyl,” he whispered to Knave.

They set off ahead of the soldiers, using the trees and undergrowth for cover and cutting across the fields so they could get to the palace before the killing spree began.

Wyl gambled everything. Appetites lost but glasses refreshed, he began to tell Valor and Valentyna of how he came to find himself here at their table. A shocked stillness had descended about the room as they absorbed the enormity of the General’s sickening tale of Celimus’s brutality and betrayal. When he haltingly described how his sister had been paraded among her new husband’s blood, Valentyna took Wyl’s hands in her own and when his voice broke, telling them of how Ylena was forced to carry Alyd’s blood-soaked head back to the dungeon, she moved to hold him close and even held him to her as she wept for people she did not know.

When Wyl had finished speaking. Valor stood and paced. “And that man you came with, who is he to you?”

Wyl desperately wished he didn’t have to move away from Valentyna’s sweet embrace. As he pulled his emotions together, he noticed with gratitude that she did not let go of his hands.

“My murderer.” he said flatly.

“What!” she exclaimed. “This is preposterous!”

He explained everything he knew about Romen and the deal they had struck regarding Ylena’s safety.

It was Valentyna’s turn to stride distractedly around the room. “No! There has to be another way. You will not bargain with your life.”

“My life is all I have to give.” Wyl admitted.

“Father!” she begged. “What do we do?”

“Celimus is obviously certain he will win our permission for the marriage.” Valor replied, looking to Wyl for confirmation.

Wyl nodded. “One way or another.” he said, ruefully. “As I think about it now I realize he will win it either way—with your consent or by force.”

“So it’s Briavel he wants, rather than my daughter?”

Before Wyl could respond they heard a commotion coming from behind the tapestry.

“What in Shar’s Name—” was all Valor could get out before the privy door burst open and a small boy covered in something unspeakable and smelling just as unpleasant toppled in breathlessly through the opening.

Wyl regained his wits first. “Fynch!”

The youngster had run so hard he could hardly speak. “It’s a trap. Wyl. They’re coming to kill you. Koreldy and the King also. A man called Arkol leads them!”

“Who is this?” Valor demanded.

Wyl swung around to Valor. “Someone to trust. Where is the Briavellian Guard, sire?”

“On hand. I’ll rouse them.”

“Too late!” Fynch said. “Those who were supervising the mercenaries are all dead. And the bulk of the palace guard has already been lured away. Look out your window if you don’t believe me.”

Valor and Wyl did just that, while Valentyna had the presence of mind to slide the two huge bolts into place over the main door before running out of the secret door, returning moments later with her men’s garb. She threw the bolts on that door as well, for a few in the palace knew of it and might be persuaded by pain to reveal it. She could hear the two men making noises of despair at the window.

The boy was telling the truth then, whoever he was.

Putting her finger to her mouth, she unbuttoned the gown, ripping it in her impatience and to Fynch’s wide-eyed surprise, stepped out of it and proceeded to pull herself into her preferred working clothes. By the time her father and the General turned back from the window, she was just fastening the buttons on her shirt.

“Right, that gets rid of the Princess,” she said grimly and turned toward a cupboard.

Opening it with a key from a nearby drawer she took out three swords. “I hope you keep these blades keen, Father.” She locked the cupboard from habit as she spoke.

“Sharpened each moon, child.”

“Good.” she said, turning toward the two men. “We’re going to need them.”

Wyl began shaking his head. “Not you, highness.” he said to her. moving quickly across the room.

“Don’t you dare, General Thirsk,” she cautioned, her eyes glittering with anger. “This is Briavel, not Morgravia. The women here do not shirk from duty. I may be a Princess but I am my father’s daughter. I fight alongside him.”

She’s magnificent, Wyl thought. He wanted to kiss her then and there and almost laughed at the realization that he would probably have to stand on tiptoe to do it. “I meant,” he said gently, “that we have to get you away from here, Valentyna. You are too precious to risk.”

“He’s right,” her father commanded. “My death is coming soon anyway, child. We have already discussed this.”

Telltale tears began to leak from her eyes at her father’s words but she fought them down. “No! We both flee if we must. I am not leaving without you, Father,” she said.

Valor shook his head and smiled. Then his face became gravely serious. His voice cold. “You will do exactly as I command. Valentyna. I am your King first. Don’t forget what I have always taught: you embody all of Briavel’s hopes for its future.”

Valentyna bit back the words she was about to hurl at her father. There was no mistaking his tone. This was no longer her indulgent father talking to her. A sovereign was speaking now.

She folded her arms defensively. “There is no escape, anyway. Not from this chamber. If they have the front gate—” her words trailed off.

Fynch looked around at their beaten, resigned expressions. “There is a way out.” he blurted. The trio turned back toward the small boy. “The same way I got in,” he added, shrugging.

“Of course!” Wyl said. “Fynch. you are an inspiration. Quick, your highness, follow the boy. Is Knave down there?” Fynch nodded. “Good, tell him to protect her with his life.”

Valentyna was still contemplating the ugly passage out when she asked. “Who’s Knave?”

“My dog. Believe it or not, he will understand the message. Hurry, Valentyna, this is our only chance.”

They could now hear the fighting raging beneath them. It would not be long before the mercenaries reached this chamber. Banging had started on the door. The King looked at Wyl, wondering if it was already too late.

“It’s Romen, ignore him.” Wyl said grimly. “We’ll deal with him later.”

They stepped inside the privy.

“I’m not sure I can.” Valentyna admitted, looking down and feeling disgusted by the thought of what encrusted the walls.

Wyl had no time for this. “He did it to save your life. Now you’ll do it, your highness, or I’ll throw you down there myself. Don’t be misled by my height—I am far stronger than you credit.”

She could tell he meant it and she appreciated his forceful directness—in fact, she admired this Morgravian General for everything he had said and done here this night. But still she hesitated.

“Don’t make me pick you up, Princess,” Wyl threatened, urging her down the drophole.

“He is damnably strong, your highness,” Fynch echoed. “Please, I’ll go first and you can follow. Breathe through your mouth—it will help.”

Valentyna nodded, fighting the urge to scream. She glanced toward her father with a pained expression as Wyl helped her to clamber into the drophole. It was more than wide enough for the Princess’s slim frame.

“You’re next Father.” she warned, her eyes peeping over the edge as she gulped air, not daring to breathe through her nose.

The King nodded his encouragement at her. knowing full well his bulky body would not be able to fit the width of the opening. Wyl knew it too and diverted her attention by telling her to concentrate on the small footholds in the stone. She called down to Fynch in the shadows and he whispered his reply as she began her descent.

The banging on the door increased and now Romen was bellowing at Wyl. They ignored it still, focused only on Valentyna’s safe journey down. They could not see her once she was consumed by the darkness but they heard Fynch call up the all-clear.

“I have her. She’s safe, sire.”

“Father, be careful, it’s slippery.”

There was a pause.

“Father?” Her voice traveled eerily from the dark beneath them.

“No, my darling. I cannot.”

Before she could raise a noise, Wyl interrupted and his tone was firm. “Valentyna, listen to me, now. The opening is too small for the King. But I will remain with him and I swear I’ll die trying to fight him safely to freedom. You must, however, for all our sakes, follow our plan and flee. Listen to Fynch. He will guide and protect you. I am dropping a purse, Fynch—use it to hide yourself.” The King disappeared and reappeared with a larger pouch, which he warned he was dropping.

Wyl continued: “Princess, you must hide your hair, disguise all features that might give away who you are.”

“How will you find us?” her voice called harshly up from the depths.

“Somehow, I will. Knave will find us—be assured. The mercenaries won’t remain here long. They are a raiding party—whether they succeed or not. they will not tarry. Now run!”

“Father—”

“Go, child. Remember who you are and that I couldn’t love you any more than I do.”

“General.” she said, her voice trembling, “thank you for being honest and a friend to Briavel, despite your loyalties. Keep your promise and save him or die trying!”

Valor and Wyl thought they heard a stifled sob but it was Fynch’s voice that whispered up now. “Good luck. Wyl.”

“You’re a brave lad. Fynch. I thank you—and I’m sorry about last night. I didn’t mean a word of it. I just wanted you to be safe.”

Fynch’s spirits lifted as he heard the words. Then he turned and took Valentyna by the hand, looking for Knave, who suddenly emerged from the shadows, startling his companion.

“Don’t be afraid of him,” Fynch whispered. Then he spoke to Knave softly, telling the dog what had happened and explaining that their task now was to protect this woman.

The three of them began to run. heading through the orchards and on toward Crowyll, north of Werryl. Valentyna was glad of the dark so none would see her tears.

The King looked at Wyl. “Save yourself, boy. You can. It’s your chance.”

“Perhaps. But there is unfinished business here, sire. And I will not leave you here alone.”

Valor felt the swell of admiration for the young General. “Whoever thought a Thirsk would fight on the side of Briavel, eh?”

Wyl had to smile at the irony of it but there was no way he would let this good man perish, knowing what he did about his own faithless and conniving King. He would not be able to hold his head high if he did nothing to help. Anyway, how would he ever face Valentyna?

He walked to the door. “Romen!”

“It’s a trap” came the resigned reply.

“How many?”

“All ten, I think.”

“They’re under orders to kill you. Arkol apparently.” Wyl warned.

“Hmm—I suspected Celimus might do something like this.”

“And still you came?”

“A seer once told me I would lead a dangerous life,” Romen replied and then barked a laugh. “I guess this is its end, then.”

Wyl unbolted the door and dragged a surprised Romen in. “No. If we die, then we die honorably, fighting the enemy.”

Romen was taken off guard. He had not expected the General to permit him entry. He had already accepted his own death. He bowed to Valor. “Your majesty, I would not have been a part of this had I known who the real target was.”

“But you would accept payment to murder a man just as good, just as valuable to his kingdom,” Valor snarled.

“Well, right now it looks as though we’ll all die fighting for different reasons, sire. Forgive me if I don’t enter a philosophical debate with you just now.”

“When this is over, mercenary, if I still breathe, I’ll kill you myself.”

Romen let it be. He looked to Wyl. “How did you find out?”

Wyl shrugged. There was no way he would reveal Fynch.

His companion grinned his acceptance of Wyl’s reticence. “All right. Our deal sticks. Just so long as you understand I never go back on my word,” he said, taking the offered sword.

“So you keep reminding me. Now hush!” Wyl cautioned. “Here they come.”

Clutching their weapons, they faced the door. It was only a matter of time before several axes and some beefy shoulders would smash through it.

Valentyna had run until the breath burned in her lungs. She stopped, sitting down heavily against a boulder, hardly noticing her clothes’ ripe smell. Knave trotted back and licked her face. It was that tiny show of affection that broke her heart. The Princess buried her head in her own lap. Fynch, breathless too, tiptoed back and sat alongside her. They were both filthy but she no longer seemed to care, he noticed, about what clung to their clothes and boots.

“Why, Fynch? Why? They’re going to die. I know it.” She banged her fist against the ground in anger.

“We’re safe here for a while, your highness. You can rest.” He did not know what else to say. had no words of comfort, for he too believed Wyl and Valor would perish.

“Who are you?” she asked.

“A gong boy. I work the royal apartments at Stoneheart.”

She gave a bitter laugh. “I’ll bet you’ve never made Celimus climb down his drophole.”

“No, but then I wouldn’t offer to save his life, highness,” the boy replied gravely.

Valentyna considered him more intently now. “Wyl was just as surprised to see you as we were,” she said and let it hang.

Fynch nodded. “I’d overheard the conversation between the Prince and Koreldy, who accompanied Wyl. The plan had been to use Wyl’s name to win the audience with your father.”

“And then kill both of them,” she finished, angrily.

“No, highness. I knew only of one planned assassination—of Wyl. I followed with Knave and managed to get word to him of the plot.”

“And still he came here,” she said, slightly in awe of Wyl now.

Fynch shrugged. “Not sure he had much choice, your highness. He was trapped, really. He had to win the audience to save his sister.”

“Yes, but what you don’t know, Fynch, is that he told us the truth. And in so doing doomed his sister.”

“Oh.” he replied. “That would have been a horrible decision to make. Wyl worships Ylena.”

“She’s lucky to have him,” Valentyna said softly. “I think I am too.”

“Yes, you are, highness,” he answered, confused as to Wyl’s intentions but unable to be anything but direct and honest.

“There’s a stream nearby here. It will be freezing but I’ll chance it if you will,” she offered.

“I’m so used to the smell, highness, but yes, let’s clean ourselves. We’ll have to rely on Knave to keep us warm.”

The three lonely figures headed toward the stream Valentyna spoke of and in the cover of darkness, stripped their clothes and washed them and their bodies. Later, shivering, damp, and naked, Valentyna—who knew these lands better than any—guided them toward a tiny copse.

“It might still be standing,” she said.

“What might be?” Fynch queried.

“One of my camps. I built it years ago. Come.”

It was still there and she breathed a sigh of relief.

“It’s stood the test of time, highness,” Fynch said, his approval obvious.

“I was taught how to build it by a master.” she said, finding a smile for her private thoughts.

“Who was that, highness?”

“My father,” she replied sadly. “Follow me. It’s cramped but it’s dry and sheltered. We can rest safely here for a while.”

Fynch felt numb from the cold and allowed Knave to push himself in between them. His large body gave comfort as much as warmth. Even Valentyna finally laid her aching head against the dog.

“He’s enormous, isn’t he?” Valentyna said.

Fynch smiled, enjoying the earthy smell of the hide. “He terrifies everyone at Stoneheart except a few who are true to Wyl.”

“Tell me about Wyl,” she said, unable to think of what else the two of them had in common. She needed idle chatter to stop her from feeling as if she might just fall apart.

Fynch shrugged and, bringing together the items from his vast storage of information, he began to impart some of that knowledge on General Wyl Thirsk from his earliest days to the present. In spite of her gloom Valentyna found herself fascinated by the story of Wyl and amazed by Fynch’s recollection of the General’s life. She was especially interested to hear that Wyl’s dislike for Celimus went so far back.

“So he’s never liked the new King?”

“No, Princess. He has always despised him.”

“How can he serve a man like this?”

“He has not had a chance, to tell the truth. King Magnus died the same day Wyl was dispatched on this mission.”

“Well, that means Celimus has been plotting it for a while; his intention always to rid Morgravia of its influential General. You say Wyl controls the Legion?”

“Completely. If he chose, he could overthrow Celimus in a blink.”

“And this business with the witch. You actually saw his eyes change color?”

“One gray, one greenish. It was very alarming but it disappeared so quickly, I hardly dared believe what I saw.”

“And Knave belonged to her?” Valentyna asked, deliberately double-checking the more curious facts of Fynch’s tale.

“He was a pup apparently. She gave him to Wyl just moments before her death. I hope you won’t consider me loose-headed, your highness, but it is my belief that Knave is somehow enchanted.”

“How so?” she asked, her interest irresistibly piqued now as she stroked the big dog’s head, though completely disbelieving of Fynch’s claim.

Fynch told her everything he could about the curiosities of Knave.

“Well. well, you certainly have my attention now.” she said, nodding while Knave groaned with pleasure as she scratched his ears. “How strange it all is,” she admitted.

“Do you believe in magic, your highness?”

“I don’t. I’ve never been exposed to anything magical,” she admitted. “I believe only what I see.”

“I’m the opposite, your highness. I do believe.” The boy shrugged. “I’m used to his oddities now. Knave really hates other people unless they are somehow linked favorably to Wyl. That’s why he likes you.”

She smiled at the serious little boy. “You are very loyal to him, Fynch. He’s fortunate to have you in his life.”

“I am compelled, your highness. Knave chose me.”

She frowned in some bemusement at this, then grinned sadly. “Fynch, I’ve been thinking—I must return to the palace. I can’t believe I ran away in the first place. I have to go back and see my father.”

“No. your highness! I promised to take you away, to keep you safe.” her small friend implored.

“I can’t stay in hiding. It’s cowardly, Fynch. surely you appreciate this?” Her voice had a pleading tone as she beseeched the grave-faced child to understand.

“I don’t, your highness. It is not cowardly to protect yourself—the heir to the throne—against killers.”

“Then I shall fight them—alongside my father!”

“And you’ll die.” he said quietly. “You’ll be useless to Briavel.”

“How dare you!” she raged, jumping to her feet. “Who are you to order me about?”

Fynch shook his head and she saw his despair. “Forgive me. your highness. I am a nobody. A gong boy who clears the sewers and not fit to so much as be in your presence. But I am charged to protect you and I would sooner die than let anyone harm you.”

It was his sincerity that broke her anger and she was on her knees in a moment, hugging him and apologizing for her haughty behavior. “Fynch. I didn’t mean it. You and Wyl have been true. Say you’ve forgiven me. I beg it.”

She was so distraught that Fynch could tell she was drowning in a sea of emotions, from grief to guilt. Perhaps there was a way he could alleviate her despair. “Your highness, what would you say if I asked you to remain here a little longer? Knave will stay with you.”

“And where will you go?” she asked.

“I’ll go back to the palace and see what I can find out. It is not dangerous for me.”

“I would thank you. Fynch. and ask you to leave immediately.”

“You must give me your word, your highness, that you will not leave this place,” he cautioned.

“Not until I hear back from you.”

Fynch looked at Knave and realized the dog already understood what was required of him. He bowed to the Princess. “Knave will keep you safe, your highness.”

Valentyna had no doubt of it as she watched the little boy run off into the night.

The fighting was ferocious in the confined space of the chamber. Man after man had burst through the door only to be slain by the superbly balanced and supremely skilled pair of Wyl and Romen, fighting back-to-back. Valor could only watch for the time being, for Wyl had cleverly blocked the entrance with his attacker so that the men coming from behind would have to wait for the outcome. So far he counted four corpses.

Romen called over his shoulder: “Six more.” Then he grunted as he leapt over a fallen chair and spun on his heel to strike low and viciously with a two-handed slash. The fifth fell, one leg almost chopped through at the thigh. Romen kicked his sword away, knowing a major artery was severed. The fellow would be dead within a minute or so.

The King could not help but marvel at these two beautiful fighters. Both had contrasting styles. Wyl was dogged, a real thinker. To Valor it seemed that Wyl had interminable patience; he was content to parry and block, feint and twist. But now two of his opponents were dead, testimony to his skill.

Romen was far more flamboyant, preferring to be the aggressor and taking the fight to his enemy. Romen would never give ground, Valor observed. He continued to push his opponent with a barrage of scintillating cuts and thrusts where the man found himself with no option but to defend constantly. And Romen was fast: lightning speed in his strokes, which was probably the reason why his third attacker had just taken a mortal wound. Valor watched Romen kick the dying man’s sword away. The groaning man already forgotten, Romen stepped over him to engage his next opponent, leaping through the door.

Except this time two came through. Valor knew his time had come. It had been too many years since he had lifted a sword in battle but he did not hesitate. With a roar he lifted his trademark sword with its intricate and beautiful carvings on its hilt. He raised it over his head and brought it down with a second roar, a battle cry this time. Sparks flew off the two swords as they met and Valor once again fought for his life. He was a match for his opponent—where the mercenary had brute strength, Valor had height—but the man who grimaced back at him was far younger.

Valor knew immediately he would have to dispatch him fast if he was to survive or, more likely if the fight continued, he reasoned as he went through a series of hard blocks and parries, that he would need one of his younger companions to finish it for him.

He did not mean to lose concentration but his thoughts helplessly fled to Valentyna. She was still so young and yet with the right people around her there would be no better sovereign for Briavel. She possessed his courage and genuinely loved her people and this land of theirs with a fierce passion. But she was headstrong, like her mother. That would need to be controlled or at least channeled in the right way. He felt sure Valentyna would be willing to lead the charge onto a battlefield if she could—if it meant one more Briavellian might be protected. But war must be avoided. He wished now—as he recalled her look of despair as she climbed into that drophole earlier—that he had counseled her about Celimus. He should have said that no matter what, the marriage should still be considered if peace was to be achieved. And yet Wyl’s advice was so alarming. He hoped he had gathered the right people around him these past few years who would advise her well, should he fail today. She would need strong counsel—shrewd counsel in the decisions ahead.

Valor felt a dazzling blaze of pain at the top of his sword arm. He yelled and winced but did not have time to look at the damage. He knew that cut would not have made it through his defense had he not lost concentration. Angry with himself and spurred on by the throbbing pain, he now used his height to beat the man back. Already, though, he knew he was in real danger. Apart from fatigue, so shockingly swift in its claim over his body, his muscles in that all-important arm felt weak and a numbing tingle was edging its way toward the fingers that gripped that famous hilt. He intensified his effort. He would not be able to fight for much longer; the man must fall soon.

Wyl realized as he killed another mercenary that the more cunning amongst them had held back. With each new opponent greater skills seemed to present themselves and this had been a clever ploy. Using the less skilled “hackers,” they had worn himself and Romen down, making them perhaps easier prey for the more talented fighters coming through. He hated that one had managed to engage the King and as he grimaced at this thought, it seemed Romen read his mind.

“Valor has taken a serious cut. He’ll tire quickly” was all he had time to say.

“Two left.” Wyl said in reply, chancing a look towards the King.

There was no doubt the King was exhausting his last reserves of stamina. Blood flowed freely and fast from a particularly nasty slash at the top of his arm. Wyl understood immediately that muscle had been severed, which would mean Valor would be rapidly losing all strength in that fighting arm. He wondered if the old campaigner had trained himself to use either arm. He thought not. Many had scoffed at the suggestion but the new breed of Morgravian soldiers—such as Gueryn—had insisted upon the level of skill being upped in the non-natural hand. Wyl knew no different. Although his right arm was strongest, he was certainly adept with his left.

He glanced toward Romen. “Can you hold them off?”

Romen grunted his reply and slashed his man across the throat. “Help Valor!” he roared, kicking his opponent over and out of the way so he could see what was rushing toward them.

Just as Wyl turned to deal with the man intent on killing a King he heard the monarch cry out.

Valor staggered backward, another, deeper sword wound evident at the top of his shoulder, slicing diagonally through major vessels, blood flowing in a torrent from it.

“Protect our Queen, Wyl,” was all he had time to say before he hit the floor.

Arkol, who had struck the blow, laughed and spat at the prone body of the King of Briavel. Romen had dispatched his own opponent with a high slash that nearly decapitated the man. He turned around to see the wrath on Wyl’s face and the familiar figure bleeding on the fine carpet.

“Wait. Wyl! He’s mine.” he said. “There’s one more outside, probably hiding.”

As Wyl dropped back. Romen even found time to thank him and with a grim smile on his face went about pitting his skills against his would-be killer. Wyl had already been amazed at Romen’s swordplay. His own abilities aside, if he thought he had seen the best fighter in Celimus then he was wrong. Romen was indeed superior and he felt sure it would not be long before Arkol’s smile was wiped once and for all from his ugly mouth.

Wyl and his final opponent ended up fighting in the hall. The man soon discovered that despite his own high skills he was no match for the General, but he knew how to defend and so it was simply a case of wearing his man down. Wyl cleared his anger as he had been taught. He found his focus, withdrew into himself, and began a flurry of attacking strikes, one finally finding its mark to sever an artery. He left the man bleeding to a swift death and returned to the King’s chamber to see Romen all but toying with a savagely wounded Arkol, struck in many damaging places, but none fatal yet.

Wyl dropped on one knee by the King and felt for a pulse, knowing it was useless. It was a momentary joy to find a faint heartbeat but good sense told him it would disappear within moments. Valentyna was about to become Queen of Briavel. He cast a silent prayer for her safety as he heard Arkol gurgle to his death. Romen’s sword thrust through his throat.

“Help me get Valor on the settle,” Wyl said. “No King should be left like this.”

Romen grinned without his usual humor. He was not even out of breath, although his face and clothes were spattered with other men’s blood. “Do you always do the right thing, Thirsk?”

“I try,” Wyl said, heaving at the old man’s body.

They carried the dying man and laid him on a couch. Wyl took his hand. “Sire?”

Valor opened his eyes, their sight already blurring as more of his life force leaked out onto the couch. His breath rattled through his throat as he struggled to speak. It was little more than a mumble. “You must protect her, son, despite your loyalties.”

Wyl nodded. “I will give my life for her, sire. I promise.”

“Even better than your father,” the King slurred and then in one last rally of strength he whispered, “Overthrow Celimus. Take the crown!”

Valor, King of Briavel, died holding the hand of the General of Morgravia, leaving between them a thought of such treachery that Wyl caught his breath. Valor was the second King now to urge Wyl to commit a traitorous act. But Wyl could not bring himself to think on that now. He rubbed away the dampness that blurred his vision, deeply upset that he had failed to save this man’s life, and his thoughts rushed toward Valentyna. Once again, as if reading his mind, Romen echoed his thoughts.

“Where’s the daughter, by the way?”

Wyl realized Romen had not seen Valentyna enter her father’s chamber, having used the concealed internal entrance. Romen was perhaps not even aware that she had been in their company.

He told the truth. “I have no idea.”

“And what did Valor say to your suggestion?” Romen asked as he settled one of the old man’s legs that had slipped from the couch.

Wyl folded the King’s arms across his chest and then leaned down to kiss the man on both cheeks. Romen held his tongue. He watched Wyl stand up and waited for an answer to his question.

“He agreed with my reasoning that such a union would bring peace to both realms.” He did not lie.

“Congratulations. Your part of the bargain is kept, then,” Romen said, reaching for his sword. “Now I must keep my side of it.” He flicked Wyl’s sword from the floor into the air and Wyl deftly caught it. “Unfinished business, my friend.”

“We don’t have to do this, Romen,” Wyl said, desperately hoping he could persuade the man not to duel.

“We do, Thirsk. We have a deal. I have a purse to collect—and a score to settle.”

“And if I best you?”

“Then you must settle it for me. You hate him enough to do it.”

“I promise,” Wyl said, realizing his hopes of them both surviving were very much in vain. One of them would die in this room.

“And so what can I promise in return?” Romen asked, tapping his sword against Wyl’s.

“Aside from your original promise to take care of Ylena?”

Romen nodded. “I will marry her, if I must, to give her security. It would hardly be a chore. She is very lovely.”

Wyl considered and then dropped his sword to speak solemnly. “I want your word that you will offer your services—your life—to Valentyna.”

Romen was amused at this. “To the new Queen? Why? You kiss your enemy King while you hate your own. Passing strange. Wyl, for someone who claims to be a loyal Morgravian.”

“Swear it, Koreldy!”

“Or else?” he said, the smile back.

“I won’t fight you. You’ll have to just run me through in cold blood and I know you are too honorable. Nobility runs in your veins. Romen. It is obvious.”

“You would change your loyalties? A Thirsk wanting to protect the Briavellian monarch? Oh. this is rich.”

“Swear it. Romen.”

“Yes, yes. I swear.” he agreed as if weary of a pointless conversation.

In a flash. Romen found a sword leveled at his throat, reminding him not to underestimate the prowess of the short but powerful man who stood before him. “Mean it!” Wyl yelled.

Romen’s silver-gray eyes darkened. He slashed his blade across his palm and, relieved, Wyl immediately followed suit.

“I swear it, Wyl Thirsk. I will protect the Queen of Briavel with my life,” the mercenary said, joining his bloodied palm with Wyl’s. “Now fight for your life.”

Wyl kissed his blade. And Romen smiled. A new dance had begun.