All the final battles.
Now, the climax finally arrives!
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Chapter 26
Alfred stood upon the hill, watching the massive city of his birth sink into shadow with alert, searching eyes. The sun dipped behind the towers, casting all into uncertainty. Banners of unfamiliar color flapped limply on a few poles as if the gods refused to grant favor to the ill intent of Edward, the would-be king. Alfred smiled and watched the deltas to the south, where the black shapes of carrion birds gathered over the reeking fens of the swamps and estuaries.
He checked the straps of his gauntlets and smiled as he drew his father’s sword out a hand width, seeing in that small space of steel a reflection of a purple sky that filled his heart with warm memories he could almost smell. He turned as Victoria approached him from the east. She wore her traveling clothes, her long hair braided down her back, and her dagger glinted in her belt. Her eyes flashed between a sapphire blue and iron grey as they searched the city.
“My father says that Lord Mucel will arrive within a few hours. Perhaps two.”
“We are upon the edge of the knife,” said Alfred. “And the omens are uncertain.”
“Then why do you smile?”
“Because I trust. My mother will not fail, and my father still holds great loyalty, and, somehow, I do not think that the gods would put me through so much only to see me fail.”
“That is because you do not read enough.” Victoria wrapped her arms around Alfred’s right arm, and he released his sword. She pushed her face onto his mailed shoulder. “There are so many tragedies.”
“Ah, my hubris,” said Alfred. “To think that the gods would favor me, that I have a right to anything beyond fate. Perhaps that is what it is. My grandmother is but one of many. Maybe some other being would punish her.”
“The dragon would. It seeks to do so, even now. Why, I cannot say, but the elves are as sure of it as I am, as Cretolo is.”
“I cannot see the eerie light I once saw, but I don’t doubt it. Who will be the stronger, eh? Come, I must order things.”
“Have you seen any sign that Jory will do as you intend?”
“Yes.” Alfred nodded to the south—at the circling black shapes in the warm light of sunset. Victoria chuckled, but it sounded more like exasperation than real humor.
*
The purple deepened. Just out of bowshot, Alfred sat upon his borrowed steed. Near to him were Manfred and Rodrick, both looking tired but resolute, along with the wizard, whose face was hidden in the shadow of his hood. Victoria and Athelredy were together near another knight, talking quietly while their horses nervously twitched.
“I will have to lead a division away to deal with Mucel,” said Manfred.
“Have some faith in our kings,” said Darolex. “Both of them. Jory is at work.”
“How do you know?”
“A little bird told me,” Darolex said lightly.
“A spell, then. But should I trust you?”
“Peppin did,” said Rodrick. “I will ready the heavy horse. If the bridge drops and the gate rises, we may still have a fight ahead of us.”
“The way is narrow.”
“I have the best men at might disposal. They could ride through a rat tunnel without touching the sides.”
“There,” said Manfred. “A smoke plume. That is the signal. The army is upon us. We must turn our ranks to the North and prepare some counterattack.”
“Nay,” said Alfred.
“Here,” said Darolex. He nodded and raised his hand, though who or what he was waving to, none of them could see.
There was a tremendous sound, like a crash or the grating of many grinding wheels at once. The drawbridge, made of immense planks and trunks of pine and bound with steel, came falling forward, its chains flinging dust and oil out in every direction as it fell. It crashed to the stone pavement on the other side of the muddy river finger, crushing and cracking rock and mortar. The men flinched, and the horses reared.
“Now is our chance,” said Alfred. “But not cavalry first. See? The portcullis is still down. Send the heavy infantry and tell them to shield their heads. Have they ever drilled a phalanx?”
“Aye. We will help Jory!” Rodrick clicked his reins and sped off down the slope to where the men were already milling, desperate to move.
“There are still guards in those towers,” said Manfred. “Shall I order a volley?”
“No, we risk hitting our own men. We will trust our shields for now. Besides, we may need many volleys to repel Mucel. Let’s save our arrows.”
Soon, the whole great company was in a chaotic motion, little tamed by the knights and commanders, yet the energy of the moment drove them more quickly than perhaps an ordered march might. The infantry rushed over the splintered bridge and to the portcullis, which was unlocked above. They were able to raise it up to the height of a man, and a few of the more spirited men rushed through to the second gate, heedless of what might come down on them from above.
But nothing came falling down from the murder hole. The men’s spirits grew, for they heard cheering and calling above them. Soon, a horde of them were rolling under the partially raised portcullis and storming up the stairs to the battlements above. Edward’s yellow banners were thrown down, and the gate began to be raised to a full height.
“Mucil is upon us,” said Athelredy, riding to Alfred’s side. “I will gather a sortie together and harass them a bit while you order the men inside the gate. Don’t worry, I won’t risk anyone. We have a cadre of dragoons that will make them at least halt their march and form ranks.”
“Make it so,” said Alfred. “Victoria! If you are in this business, you had best stay close to me. Come.”
While Athelredy sped off to the north, Alfred rode gingerly toward the bridge. A few arrows dropped beside them, but otherwise the rout of the gatehouse was in full. They rode through the arches and into the street there. Inside the walls was a scene of chaos. Armed men with bows ran at full speed along the top of the walls, hunched as they were pelted with stones and even broadheads from below. A contingent of mailed infantry were running up the hill toward the keep.
“Quickly,” said Alfred as he approached Rodrick, now dismounted. “We must be ready to raise the bridge and lock Mucel out. Do it as soon as Athelredy brings his dragoons across.”
“That will be a problem, your highness. Jory’s men lost control of the wench, and I’m afraid it’s quite damaged.”
“Damn it. Well, have Darolex think of something. At the least, he can light the thing on fire, eh?”
“And we can help it along. There is some tar and oil that the guards didn’t get to use.”
“Make it so. Send Athel along to the keep when he gets through. I will try to make some sense of what the folk here are doing.”
“Isn’t it obvious? They’re rebelling.”
“Yes, but they are likely to kill themselves in their zeal. And remember that this is not a sacking.”
“Aye. Go ahead. I will handle our rear. I see Athel now.”
Alfred Spurred his horse up the lane. A few mounted knights joined in beside him, their lances discarded for long, curved swords which they bore one-handed.
“We are with you, king!” said one.
“Then guard the people. These are cowardly soldiers that Edward has hired, but they still have swords and crossbows. It would not suit my ghost to have gentle women die because of it.
“Aye,” came the reply, and the destriers bolted ahead, the knights shouting at the people milling toward the walls and up the lane to the keep. It didn’t have much effect, but the presence of the knights themselves sent a few of the soldiers running out of hiding toward the high keep at full speed. They met their fellows, forming a narrow shield wall in front of the castle, but had little time to fall into line.
A handful of armored dragoons were already there, dismounted and firing arrows from their longbows. The heavy knights reached them and galloped past. In one crashing charge they broke the line, hacking downward with their massive swords, laughing in the joy of battle.
Alfred slowed as he reached the keep with its high gatehouse. The bridge was down, and the double portcullis raised. Around the parapets, no men stood. A breeze off the sea picked up, raising the limp banners and bringing with it a sharp scent of salt. One of the flags snapped off its pole and drifted down into the muddy sink that served as a moat.
“Wait,” said Alfred. “We must not charge in. What is Edward thinking?”
“He must be confident indeed to invite you in. Unless Jory was more effective than we thought.”
“He has exceeded my expectations, but even so. It is quiet.”
At that moment, Athelredy came roaring up. His helmet was lost, but he was smiling, even laughing.
“Alfred! We gave them such a bite, but in the end, we are but flies. Where he got his legion, I cannot guess.”
“What of the gate?”
“We have good archers – and we have the wizard. We will hold them at the great gate for a long time. But what is this? You have already taken the castle.”
“It stands open.”
“There!” said Victoria. She pointed to the top of the gatehouse. Peeking over the edge of the parapet was a woman in a dress of bright bronze, her golden hair flowing with the sea breeze. Even at that distance, her eyes glowed with an inner fire, and she raised her hand up.
“That is who Darolex saluted,” said Victoria, raising her own hand in response.
“Mother?” said Alfred.
It was Gwyndolyn, but she was unlike the woman who had sat as queen of Latheria. Though the wife of Peppin had been beautiful, the figure atop the walls was beauty mated with power, unveiled, like seeing a real person after only knowing them as a painted portrait for years.
Her voice echoed on the street. The peasants and shopkeepers, their sons and wives, and the soldiers of both sides halted.
“Come into your throne, King Alfred! There is but one obstacle left. My power is given to you, and now—” The luminous woman, like the sunset, began to falter. Her voice lost its edge and potency. “Now I wane.”
“Mother!” cried Alfred as Gwyndolyn collapsed behind the parapet.
“Let us waste no more time,” said Athelredy and spurred his horse forward. Alfred was already moving, and Victoria, shocked, had to wait a moment before urging her own horse into motion.
The shocked soldiers who had thought to put up a fight fell before them as they passed, throwing down their arms and crying for mercy as the townspeople, now even bolder, pressed around them, beating them down.
“You go forward, Alfred,” Victoria shouted. “I will care for the queen. You can trust me.”
“I know. Go, but be careful.”
Athelredy rode just ahead of Alfred as they entered the courtyard of the great keep. The towers loomed above them in the shadows of dusk in the inner ward. There, they halted, and Athelredy had to slide off his horse, which kicked and bucked out of wild fear.
“Grimm’s bones,” said Alfred, drawing his sword.
Athelredy laughed as he drew his own. Standing before them in the courtyard, wreathed in smoke and purple fire that sparked along its iridescent hide, was a dragon—none other than the beast they had banished from the Twilight Realm.
“We meet again,” said Athelredy.
“Alas, it must be fate,” said the dragon in a deep, wilting voice. “But I pray only that my pain is at an end. Devour or die, she will free me.”
“So be it,” said Athelredy. “Alfred, this one is mine. Slip past him while I do my work.”
“I cannot let you face a dragon alone.”
“You are no dragonslayer. My heart swells. I remember many worms near to him. I was made for this! A pity there is no horde to carry off at the end.”
“Do not laugh at live dragons,” said Alfred.
“Sounds like something Victoria would quote out of a book.”
“Maybe so, but do not be so confident.”
The dragon laughed. Such a sound none of them had heard in life or in the ocean of dreams, and it chilled them to their marrow, a cry that was frigid and biting as ice, yet deep like the roar of a waterfall. The wyrm slithered from where it had sat, bending its girth toward Athelredy and Alfred, its shape uncertain in the deepening shadows.
“Go!” said Athelredy as he rushed toward the gaping jaws of the dragon. His sword flashed red, gathering to it some hint of memory of the twilight realm. Athelredy turned aside at the last moment and the dragon’s mouth shut on air, sending sparks flying up to the sky. With his own bitter laugh, Athelredy stuck out his blade and it slid along the side of the wyrm, biting through its serpentine hide as its momentum carried it toward the gate.
Alfred watched the display in disbelief ,then suddenly became aware of the desperation of the moment. He ran for the door to the halls of the keep, which stood slightly ajar. The dragon realized his folly, even through his pain, and turned toward Alfred, bending its sinuous body in loops, his feet crushing and turning up paving stones. It was too late, however, and Alfred slipped inside just as the beast’s head came crashing into the iron-bound doors. Alfred rolled away as the ancient wood splintered and cracked. Into the antechamber poured a deluge of liquid shadow mixed with glittering gold of poisonous heat and reek.
Alfred watched for a moment as the guttering breath of magic and vomit fell upon the floor, burning the stone and sending up a smoke of purplish hue to the high ceiling. He held his breath and dashed on, away from death, the taunts of Athelredy ringing faintly from the inner ward.
*
Victoria took the steps two at a time up to the top of the gatehouse, where she found a violent scene. Men in mail and surcoats lay strewn about the top of the battlement and the room inside where the portcullis and gate were managed. All of them were still, though most bore no visible sign of injury. Their glassy eyes, set into dirty and rough faces, looked out to nothing while their skin had the pale look of drowned corpses. Victoria steeled herself and stepped into the dark of the gatehouse, stepping over other figures that had the reek of burning flesh. She climed another stair and came out upon the pinnacle, enclosed by a high parapet.
There, in the early evening,g she saw the figure of Gwyndolyn laying against the stone, looking small and fragile in her silvery gown. Victoria hurried to her and picked her head up in her arm. Looking into the face of the queen, she saw her in two forms. One was the elven maiden of the Twilight Realm, stark in her beauty, her face a perfect and radiant symmetry. The other was touchable and present, the face of a kindly mother. Victoria leaned in and listened for her breath. It was there but very faint.
“Aha!” Victoria turned at the sound of a gruff voice and saw two men climbing the stairs, one armed with a sword and the other a vicious-looking mace.
“I recognize you,” Victoria said, not releasing the queen. “Bartholomew. And Nigel. You threatened my father.”
“Two of them and two of us,” said Bart with a wicked grin, flourishing his sword. “Something I’ve wanted for too long.”
Nigel laughed, revealing a row of yellowed teeth.
“You would try such a thing, even as the castle is sacked, as your house falls down around your ears?”
“There are more ways than one out of this hovel,” said Bart. “And anyway, why would that matter? If I’m to die, might as well—”
Victoria did not let him finish the thought. She dropped Gwyndolyn to the stone floor and drew her long dagger. She rushed at Bart slashing at him with a fury and swiftness he did not expect. He stepped backward and nearly fell down the stairs but caught himself at the same moment that Nigel rebuffed Victoria with a clumsy backhand swing from his mace. Bart’s sword went clanging down into the dark as he steadied himself. He lunged at Victoria and managed to grab her around the chest, pinning her arms to her sides.
Victoria struggled against the iron grip as Bart began to laugh. She twisted her hand, trying to cut Bart with it, but he was too strong, and his mail coat resisted the edge of her dagger.
“Grab her, Nigel!” Bart said.
Nigel, however, did not move. He was frozen, transfixed. His eyes were locked, staring ahead, catatonic. Bart turned his head and saw on the edge of the battlement the queen, now standing. Around her was a glow of strange light, and her eyes, once again open, radiated a piercing blue light. Within it were irises of ice white that shifted and moved like water.
She did not need to speak for the magic to work, and Bart began to stammer. His grip loosened, and Victoria wriggled out. Nigel had dropped his weapon, and his fingers were on his face as if he would push them into his fearful eyes to rob himself of the horrible wonder of the sight, the queen of Latheria and the daughter of the hearth, uncloaked in immortal, dream-like form.
Victoria was tempted to look longer upon Gwyndolyn, but a command, voiceless but clear to intent, told her to act, that the power could not last. Her dagger was still in her hand. She must use it.
Bart, in one last surprising effort, broke his gaze and turned to attack Victoria with his great, meaty hands, but he was too late. The woman, though small, was driving into his gut with all her weight and a force multiplied by the falling weight of her opponent. The dagger buried itself to the hilt, splitting the mail and tearing through the jack just beneath the breastbone. Red blood welled up around the crossguard for an instant, then Bart’s eyes met those of the queen, and he recoiled, unable to scream, and tore his flesh from the blade in madness.
He did not long have to endure the insanity, for as he fell, his bones crunched and his neck broke beneath his great mass, and Victoria watched him tumble and then lie still, a bloody shadow at the bottom of the stairs.
Nigel was screaming, but he suddenly stopped as all the light atop the battlement went out. Gwyndolyn collapsed again. The remaining man looked down at his dead companion, saw the fierce woman with the gore-drenched dagger, and went leaping down the stairs into the darkness.
The blood rushing in Victoria’s ears began to recede, and Victoria became suddenly aware of the sound of fierce battle. She ran to the inner edge and saw down in the ward Athelredy fighting a fierce battle with the shadowy dragon. He dodged and rolled, jumped and sliced with his silver sword, and was, as she heard now, laughing as he did it. It was heroic, but no matter what he did to the wrym, it persisted. Athelredy would rend its hide, and the flesh would close around the wound.
“Athel! You must hit its underbelly!”
The knight was too busy to retort, but he cast a glance her way before dodging a spout of liquid gold shadow that the dragon sent rolling into the outer wall, shaking it.
Victoria looked back and Gwendolyn, sitting against a parapet, her eyes open, her mouth smiling slightly.
“If only you had waited to help Athel,” she said, rushing back to the queen and taking her up into her arms again. “I would have been fine. Gods… You’re so light.”
Indeed, Victoria felt she could nearly pick the delicate form up in her arms.
“I am fading, Victoria,” she said. “Fading. Take me once more to Alfred, will you?”
“If I can.”
*
Athelredy turned and dodged, slashed, and weaved, working his way inside the guard of the many claws of the horror before him. It all felt easy, and yet he could not reach the dragon’s heart to end the struggle. At the same time, there was a piece of him—his waking self, as he thought—that begged him to run away, that feared the flurry of poisonous black claws and the spouts of terrible golden flame that came spewing like retched sickness from the dragon’s maw. The more he laughed, the angrier that part of him got, but the weaker it got as well.
“I will have you,” Athelredy shouted at a pause in the interchange.
“You are mortal,” came back the strangely present voice of the dragon. “You will tire, but I am ever-burning. I will consume you.”
“Wrong on all accounts,” said Athelredy. Truly, he did not feel like his “mortal” self at all, but that inner voice quailed. There was truth to it, no matter how energized he felt, how natural his movements. He was in the World-That-Is, not the infinite dream space where he could spend years fighting dragons and lose but a single night.
He laughed at the inner fear and flourished his flashing sword, then jumped in a single bound onto the dragon’s back. It writhed and twisted, and Athelredy was nearly flung free and over the walls, but he found a handhold in the crook of one of the dragon’s many arms. He plunged the sword in, and it parted the slick scales, bringing up smoking blood.
“It’s belly!” came the voice of Victoria from on high.
He wanted to say, “I know that!” but found that the exertion was too great to speak.
“Karso!” came a deep voice, and the whip-like movement of the dragon slowed. “Karso!”
Athelredy saw the figure of Cretolo under the gate, striding into the ward with an open book in one hand.
“It is you, is it not?” he said.
The dragon trembled beneath Athelredy. Athel paused his assault, too, and met the gaze of Cretolo, who nodded subtly to him.
“You cannot command me,” said the dragon. “I am bound by the Lady, and that is not the book which holds my name.”
Cretolo smiled, closed the book, and tossed it away. “But it is your name. Has it been so long? Have you forgotten so much of who you are?”
“I am immortal!”
“Surely what she told you, and she tells no lies. Is it all you wanted?”
“I…I…” The dragon faltered. Its hide grew limp, then it sprang. “I will devour you, heretic!”
Its jaws went wide just as Creto held forth a blade. The maw, larger now than ever, wrapped around the man, and then it rumbled in pain as they closed, driving the blade into the dragon’s gullet.
“Now!” came the familiar shrill voice of Victoria, though Athelredy could not see from where.
He took a breath and slipped off the dragon, landing on the ground. The dragon was grumbling, choking on its meal, and from its throat and nostrils, there was a certain word that, though mumbled, sounded like Karso. Athelredy knocked one arm away, leapt over another, and met the eye of the dragon for an instant and saw there a defeated agony deep beneath the reptilian gold of the beastly iris.
With a laugh greater than all the others, Athelredy plunged the sword into the belly of the beast, parting massive snake-like ribs. He buried it to the hilt and then pushed harder. The crossguard was enveloped, then all of the hilt, and lastly, his forearm. The dragon could not scream. Athelredy withdrew his arm, and a smoking torrent of purple-black blood came spilling out upon the ground, hissing as it bit the stone.
Athelredy screamed in pain for the first time, for the blood burned him, too, and yet even as it fell to earth in massive gobs, the dragon moved away, or rather, shrank. It withered, and the flesh withdrew. Golden smoke flushed out of every wound, and there was a hissing like a voice speaking in an alien, reptilian tongue.
Athelredy had little time to contemplate his pain or scream his triumph, for the wyrm was gone. In his place lay a battered, bloody old man, his eyes staring out into nothing. His chest rose in one last heave, and a tortured word escaped:
Karso.
Near to him was Cretolo, his body broken, the bloody sword bent nearly in half, still clutched in one hand. He was alive, still, and his eyes looked at Athelredy, and the lips parted.
“I remembered him. Diorgesh always gets her due. We will meet again, unfortunately.”
Athelredy knelt beside the man.
“Do not worry for me. I have my revenge, and my knowledge will pass as it should. Go and help your king.” Then Cretolo closed his eyes.
Athelredy sighed and clenched his burning hand. He limped over to the place where his sword lay, smoking and useless, etched with acid no longer shining silver. It had become mundane.
A crash and the sound of thunder brought him back to his senses. He saw a flash from somewhere high above in the towering keep.
“Where did he go?”
It was Victoria, and in her arms, she somehow carried the limp form of the queen.
“Up. Come.”
“You’re hurt!”
“Even so, a warrior does not give up the battle after a single scratch. He fights to the end.”
“A warrior does, but a hero does not. I am sorry I ever spoke ill of you.”
Athelredy smiled at her as he stepped toward the ruined archway of the keep entrance. “It is forgiven. Now, we must do what we can for Alfred.”
“Where can I put the queen? Where will she be safe?”
“With us, or nowhere. Here, give her to me. I do not understand how you are holding her.”
“She is as light as a child,” said Victoria, but she held for the limp queen, and with some surprise, Athelredy took her in his arms, frowned, then handed her back. “I cannot understand it. You hold her. I will keep my sword hand free. But—” He searched around and found the hilt of his sword. The blade had rotted away and was a rusty shard.
“Take my dagger,” said Victoria, nodding. “It is better than nothing.”
Athelredy drew it from her hip and marveled. “It is wet with blood.”
“Are you so surprised I could use it?”
Together, they ran through the open door and into the deserted keep. The hallways were dim but not dark, lit sparsely by the moon leaking in through the barred windows and several forgotten lamps and low-burning candles. The grand stairs that led to the upper story and its apartments had the bodies of two armed men upon them.
“Alfred must have slain these,” said Victoria.
“Then where is the blood?” returned Athelredy. “Ah, but this will do.” He shoved Victoria’s dagger into the scabbard for his sword and drew an arming sword from the body of one of the fallen soldiers. “Come on.”
At the top of the stairs, a different sort of light prevailed. It was like to the fire and vomit of the dragon, a mixture of gold and a light of purple hue that was somehow dark. It made the tapestries on the hall stand out in ugly pale relief.
“A mockery of sun and moon,” said Victoria. “It is magic.”
“I wish that Darolex were here.”
“And so he is.”
They turned and saw the wizard struggling at the top of the stair, his shoulders bent and his eyes hard. His cheeks were drawn, and yet he smiled.
“I have only a little left, but I will use it. Already I ride the edge between waking and dreams—and I fear, death, too.”
“Then stay here with the queen,” said Victoria.
“No, I must fulfill one final oath. Lead on, Athelredy. And be careful with your blade. Illusions haunt this place that I no longer have the power to see through.”
There was not far to go. The next stair was short and led directly to the great hall of meeting, where sat the thrones of the realm.
“Of course, it would be here,” said Darolex, looking up at a trail of smoke that flowed down from the stairs, defying the movement of air and coating the high ceiling with an opalescent mist. The landing was dark and bright, lit by some golden-hued liquid magic pouring from a pair of double doors and yet muted by swirling smoke that glittered with sparks of fire. Alfred was standing there before the door, his sword drawn and his face carved into a frown like a statue.
“Alfred,” said Victoria. She stopped and laid the queen down on the carpet. Her golden hair swirled around her as if she was underwater, obscuring her pale face for a moment.
“I heard you coming,” said Alfred. He held up his sword, which was black with some viscous liquid running down the fuller to the hilt. “My sanity remains, though madness has assailed me. Men, or the mockery thereof, rise, and I strike them down, but they disappear like these infernal mists.”
“Ah,” said Darolex. “Edward grows desperate to ask for such aid. It will cost him dearly.”
“Worth it if he keeps the kingdom, I suppose,” said Athelredy.
“There is more to pay in the many realms than gold, and more to give, too. I would not envy Edward even if we all lie dead at the end of this. But we need not put it off. We are enough for the would-be king.”
“And my mother?”
Darolex knelt and looked at the serene face of Gwendolyn. “She is as safe as she can be. Let her rest just a moment more.”
Rising, he stepped toward the open doors. Alfred and Athelredy flanked him, and Victoria came, too, behind them, taking her dagger back from Athelredy. The interior of the great hall was smoky and chaotic, with chairs and tables moved haphazardly around. A few candles on stands burned low, but the greater part of the light came from a mist surrounding the dais where the thrones still stood as if expecting an audience. There stood Edward, unmistakably so, though his appearance was inhuman. His eyes, they saw, had a golden hue, like the dragon’s, and they glowed of their own light. A smile split his face, and he looked down at a book that was open on a wooden lectern near the dais.
“At last, the missing wizard returns. I see you have brought me the gift I requested.”
Alfred looked at Darolex. The wizard smiled deviously and took a step forward, where he kneeled before Edward.
“Yes, I have done as I swore and brought you the last drop of your brother’s blood.”
Edward drew a golden dagger from his belt and twirled it, laughing softly. “I thought for a long time you had betrayed me, that you had somehow found some way in that old mind of yours of unbinding the oath, but of course, I alone possess that power now.”
“As you say, my liege.”
“You will be rewarded even as the dragon lord rewards me. How clever you are.”
“Bastard of a wizard,” said Athelredy. “I knew we should have never trusted you.”
“Silence,” said Darolex. “Do not attempt to use your blade, fool. Kneel!”
“After all this?” said Victoria, moving toward the wizard with her dagger drawn. She was held back by the hand of Alfred.
“He does not lie,” said Alfred. “Look at how the air shimmers around him.”
“You see now,” said Edward.
Darolex glanced back at Alfred, a slight smile on his face, and Alfred acknowledged it with a very subtle nod.
“Then let us finish it, you and I,” said Alfred. “Draw your blade and show me that you are king, and I am but an impudent boy.”
Edward laughed. “Perhaps a year or two ago, it would be so simple, but I am not an idiot. I see what stands before me. I do not take unnecessary risks. Ha!” With a cry, he shot forward his left hand. A stream of magic escaped in a flurry of golden sparks, landing on Alfred and then scattering. The spell would have struck Victoria, but Athelredy had moved, and it hit him full-on instead. They both fell down in a heap. “And now you are mine!”
The pretender leapt forward, drawing his sword in a wide arc meant to split the frozen Alfred, but at the last second, Alfred raised his sword and parried the strike.
“How?” was all that Edward could say before Alfred’s own sword swung, slashing him across the belly, parting the mail there like it was a sheet of cloth. Edward fell to the ground, his sword falling away. He pulled his arms into his belly, writhing. “How?” he groaned.
“He is divine,” said Darolex, rising. “You never understood. Even the Unbinder’s knowledge has its limits. Spells of such darkness will have little effect on one with truly divine blood, even if a bit diluted. And I have fulfilled my oath, but not to the purposes you intended. Indeed, I think Diorgesh might find your plight amusing. She has ever been a lover of irony.”
“She is indeed laughing,” said Alfred. “I can hear her. Though I do not know if it is in anguish or delight.”
“Both. I will send her away.”
“Impossible. I am protected,” said Edward, rising from the ground through leaking a torrent of dark blood. “I am invincible.”
“The sword of the king was a godly gift,” said Alfred.
“No magic would halt such steel. Even in the Twilight Realm, it was effective,” said Darolex. He raised his arms, and with a loud rush of air, the golden light dissipated. With a snap, the mage lit a row of candles on stands. Groaning, Edward collapsed onto the marble floor, twitched, and then lay still.