Constantine spat in Minnicus’ direction. Minnicus smiled evilly. “Kill the guards.” Before Constantine could move, crossbow bolts shot out, striking each of his bodyguards.
Constantine stood in shock, watching as they collapsed as if in slow motion into the churned mud and snow around him. Sinking to his knees, he cradled the head of Hadrius. Blood leaked from the man’s mouth as he tried to say something. Constantine placed his ear to the man’s mouth.
“My. . wife. . please. .”
Constantine’s eyes filled with tears as he met his aide’s eyes and whispered an affirmative. The light in Hadrius’ eyes went out and his eyelids closed.
Constantine looked up in time to see a vaguely familiar face approaching. “You. . you were at Brittenburg. You’re one of the traitors at the landing pad. I remember you,” Constantine managed to say. His mind was unfocused, shifting from grief and sorrow to anger and frustration.
“Very good, boy prince. Good to know I’m somewhat famous. I am Corbus. Lay down your weapon.” Constantine hadn’t realized he was still holding his spatha. “You’d be dead before you could even get off your knees, pathetic man that you are. But just think about how heroic your ballads could be!” Corbus’s voice practically oozed sarcasm.
Seeing no other choice, Constantine sheathed his sword and stood, undoing the sheath from his belt and tossing it to a nearby guard; his steely demeanor barely held against the waves of anger and grief that tried to overwhelm him.
“Very wise. Not what I was hoping for, but then again, you can only kill a future emperor once, I hear. That is, if you live to become emperor.”
Rough hands grabbed his arms and slammed manacles onto them as Corbus turned, laughing. I will see your head on a pike, Minnicus, I swear. But the sinking feeling in Constantine’s stomach told him that the oath might never be fulfilled.
Chapter 17
Corbus
As Corbus made the long ride back to Midgard, he basked in the glow of his accomplishment at the Roman camp. One royal down, another to go. Sure, the primus imperio was merely captured, but after meeting with his so-called allies in the legion, Corbus was fairly certain that the sole remaining heir to the throne would become a glorious martyr of this brief, but intense, war.
Leaving my Roman allies open to pick up the pieces and myself to collect on both a massive payday and find a magnificently large territory to govern here, Corbus thought, savoring that for a moment or two. First I’ll have to make sure they don’t try to double cross me.
He gave the password to the nervous gate guard, the gatekeeper not used to strange, solitary figures showing up in the middle of the night. Lighting his torch, he rode down the long, cavernous entryway. The torchlight threw dancing shadows on the walls, and the clip-clop of the horse’s hooves echoed along the empty passageway. In the darkness, Corbus could just make out the gaps of murder holes in the ceiling, placed every few feet, and the occasional arrow slit in the wall. This place was about as solid a fortress as you could make it. I don’t think even a Roman siege caterpillar could take this place. No wonder a common Norse saying for a tough man is as solid as Midgard.
Several more minutes of silent riding and he arrived at the last portcullis. The barrier was winched upwards, and he finally arrived in the massive central cavern of Midgard. As busy as any city center, the plaza bustled even at this late hour, with taverns, restaurants, and shops still open. Drinking songs and cheery lights beckoned from many an alehouse, but Corbus turned away from them. He dismounted and led his horse to a stable hand, who gave him a small token in return. Pocketing the token, he strode off in search of the prince. The longer I’m here, the more concerned I get about what he is up to when I’m not around.
Queries after the whereabouts of the prince and king told him that the king was hosting a small feast for the Roman senator. This concerned Corbus. What in Jupiter’s name are they doing?
He climbed another set of stairs, his legs burning when he finally reached the long hallway that led to the throne room. Other hallways branched off from this main passage, down which the royal red carpet had been rolled, indicating the king was on his throne. He walked down the carpet, passing walls hung with tapestries depicting scenes of battle, with brave and impossibly huge Nortlanders killing, crushing, and generally conquering all manner of puny looking “civilized” people. Those few tapestries that did not show the glorious victories of the Nortland people instead showed the drama of the hunt, men killing wolves with their bare hands, hunting whales from small boats, and even one showing a man taking on a snarling feline the size of a horse. Could it be one of those tigers or leopards I’ve heard about? Corbus wondered as he passed.
He was coming up to the throne room from the rear when the door before him was thrown open. Prince Lokus stormed out, slamming the door behind him.
“I’m going to kill that man,” he proclaimed loudly, his face red with anger. He glowered as Corbus approached. “We’re doing it today. Right now.”
“Right now, Your Lordship?” Corbus asked. I don’t think we’re ready for it yet. “It would be better to wait a few days, when he will be unsuspecting. We have not yet figured out how to eliminate Laufas and Therodi, both of whom could challenge us. Patience, my liege,” Corbus advised, trying his best to calm the angry man who now paced back and forth.
But the prince would have none of it. “We move today, or I throw you out of this fortress. I am tired of having your sniveling southern ways lead me to weakness. We will strike, and I will kill my father and become king. That is what will happen. And it will happen today!”
Corbus gestured at the prince to keep his voice down. “Very well, Lokus, if that is what you wish. But please don’t alert the entire citadel to it before we strike. Let us gather our men. We can take the king in his throne room while he eats.”
The prince nodded, rubbing his hands together in glee.
“You go get your men,” Corbus said. “I shall go get your equipment and gather up other supporters on the way back.”
Lokus nodded in quick assent, turned, and ran down the hallway.
In a flat-out sprint, Corbus raced to the nearest fløte station. The bell rang discordantly as he yanked on the call cord. When the car arrived, he tipped the operator extra to move at his fastest speed. The operator complied, the wind of their passage flowing over Corbus as the vessel swept gracefully through the inky darkness.
“Wait here,” he told the operator when they stopped. He ran to his quarters, pulling a key from under his shirt as he crossed to a chest at the back of the room. Unlocking it, he threw the lid back and pulled out a handful of vials and several blades, delicately storing each item in its proper place on his utility belt. Finally he gave his sword a once-over with his whetstone. Just right, he decided, testing the edge with his thumb.
Gods, he hated it when things were rushed. There was something not right about speeding through such a momentous event. It is supposed to be months in the planning, not a week and a half! he thought, hefting a knapsack before closing the trunk lid. He made sure he had everything.
Weapons? Check.
Armor? Check.
Nasty surprises no one sees coming?
Check.
He turned and bolted from the room and back down the passageway to the waiting fløte, the large knapsack banging against his back. The operator looked surprised at the speed of his return. He had obviously been about to cast off.