‘My lord?’ he queried. ‘It’s Uralak. Forgive the disturbance, please, but I thought I should check on you.’
There was no reply. Hoping the king was sleeping, he pushed open the door and peered inside.
‘My lord?’
Except for the moonlight from the unshuttered windows, the vast chamber was dark. Uralak opened the door wider to let in the hallway’s torchlight. It took a moment for his old eyes to adjust as he cautiously shuffled into the room. Not sure why, he closed the door behind him. Whatever he was to discover, he wanted to find it alone. The light of the moon was feeble but enough for him to get his bearings, and as he moved deeper into the chamber he saw the dark outline of Poppy’s crib against a far wall, safely distant from the window. Then he saw the table overturned and shards of shattered crystal twinkling on the floor. What looked like blood or wine or both stained the wood, spreading out in a dull pool of scarlet. A sweet stench assailed Uralak’s nostrils. He paused, trying to unravel what had happened. Oddly, he was not afraid. Since the news of Duke Rihards’ betrayal, he had expected this night, or one like it.
‘My lord?’ he asked softly, sure that his master wouldn’t answer. Walking in tiny steps, he made his way across the chamber, carefully avoiding the glass and blood as he made his way to the king’s dressing chamber, led there by a slick of crimson. This chamber was windowless, and without a lamp Uralak felt blind. He did his best to decipher the darkness, but once he reached the threshold he stopped.
There on the floor, naked and bloody, was a body. Headless.
Uralak stared at the corpse. Horrified, he wondered if it was the master’s. The mutilated cadaver lay on its back, seemingly all its blood spilled from its severed stump of a neck onto the carpeted floor. Ridiculously, Uralak thought about the expensive rug and how it would never be the same. Reality blurred, and the old man did not know what to do. It was a large corpse, large enough to be the king.
But Uralak did not stay to investigate further, or to search for the missing head or even to bother wondering why the corpse was naked. He simply backed out of the dressing chamber, paused in the main room where the broken table and goblets littered the floor, and composed himself. He could not begin to conceive the plans of his lord and master, and had never tried. King Lorn the Wicked had earned his epithet rightfully. Uralak had never faulted him for that. His only concern was how he would explain things to the other soldiers now that their garrison commander was missing. Without Lorn and Captain Jarrin, their defeat was assured. By tomorrow, certainly, they would be dead.
Ever the loyal servant, it took only a moment for Uralak to resign himself to this. When he was ready, he left the dark and bloody chamber and went in search of Lieutenant Vadrick, who he supposed was in command now.
They travelled by moonlight, the three knights of Rolga leading the way north through a canyon shadowed with high peaks, guiding the man from Carlion toward Harn and Jazana Carr. The infant in the man’s arms cried constantly, obviously distressed and hungry, but the group did not rest. At the insistence of the man from Carlion they rode as quickly as they could, ignoring the danger of darkness, picking their way along the rutted road. Despite his wound Captain Jarrin kept an admirable pace. More than once he refused Glane’s offer to take the child from him. Glane did not care for children himself but saw the value in this particular whelp and wanted no harm to come to her. He worried that Jarrin might collapse from his saddle or otherwise drop the infant. But the captain continued, riding without a word because he could not speak, occasionally putting a hand to his bloodied mouth and fixing the bandages while he rode.
Finally, when Glane could take no more without a rest, he called his company to a halt. Looking up at the craggy peaks, he decided it was as good a place as any to stop, at least for a short while. He was cold and knew that the child was, too, and so ordered a fire to be made and food to be distributed.
Captain Jarrin did not protest.
King Lorn watched through the eye slit of his helm as the Rolgan knights dismounted. In one arm was cradled his daughter, Poppy, whom he warmed the best he could by holding her close. His other arm — his sword arm — kept hold of his stallion’s reins. He watched the Rolgans carefully as they began unpacking food and flint. Lorn could do with a fire, but that would have to wait. He had gotten this far without being suspected, but the moment he took off his helmet would be his discovery, and he couldn’t risk losing that advantage. He couldn’t fight from horseback, either, and that troubled him. With Poppy in his arms, he couldn’t wield a sword while riding. But he had done a good job of keeping up his ruse of being wounded, and had earned Glane’s sympathy. It did not surprise him when the knight came and offered aid.
‘Here, let me take the child so you can dismount,’ said Glane. He held his hands up and his earnest face showed no malice. Lorn quickly decided it was safe and handed Poppy to the man, who took the infant and turned his back. Lorn slipped down from his horse and followed Glane to where the two other knights were arranging their things in a ring. One of the pair scanned the area for kindling, sighting a patch of shrubs sprouting from the rocks. By the moon’s dappled light he moved carefully across the road toward the distant sticks. His comrade began unpacking his saddlebag, rummaging through it for the little food he had and some flint. Glane watched him absently, holding Poppy. Lorn tapped his shoulder, insisting he return the child. The knight made a sour face.
‘We’re not going to rob you,’ he muttered, handing Lorn the child. ‘Sit and rest, and take that damn helmet off.’
Glane turned back toward his man as the other knight knelt in the dirt, clearing away rocks for their fire. Lorn took a few paces out of the road, set Poppy down in her swaddling clothes, then drew his sword without a sound. Before him stood the oblivious Glane, his back turned as he watched his comrade shuffle rocks and brush away dust. As soon as he was in range, Lorn made his move. He did not hesitate for a second as he whistled his sword through the air, decapitating Glane instantly. Glane’s head flew from his body, as the body wavered and dropped. Blood fountained up from its neck, spraying the kneeling knight, who looked up in confusion to see Lorn’s sword coming down. The blade crashed into his forehead, splitting it easily, opening the throat in mid-scream. On the side of the road Poppy began to cry. Lorn hurriedly removed his helmet, tossing it aside. As he waited for the third knight to return, he pulled the fabric from his mouth, cloth he had soaked with Jarrin’s blood. In a few moments the remaining Rolgan appeared, cradling the dry sticks he had gathered. He was well upon the camp before he noticed what had happened, the two dead bodies slumped in the darkness, the imperious figure standing over them. Incredulous, the man dropped his bundle and stared at Lorn.
‘Great Fate …’
‘I am King Lorn of Norvor,’ said Lorn. He stalked a step closer to the knight, sword in hand. ‘And you are the servant of a traitor.’
His stupor broken, the knight raised his defence at once, going for his sword and springing forward. Lorn hadn’t expected his speed but dodged the attack easily, sprinting aside and bringing his own blade around. The weapon caught the knight in the back, sending him sprawling. Lorn was on him in an instant, slamming his booted foot into the knight’s back before he could rise. The man let out a cry. Again he tried to regain his footing, and again Lorn kicked him mercilessly, driving his boot into his midsection with a howl. The sword sprawled from the knight’s grip. Desperately he clawed the ground to escape. Lorn prowled after him.