by Jon Kiln
“You!” Harald roared. “You are the one who’s been defying me all along. Your head-”
“Is fine where it is, usurper,” Ganry spat, cutting a blazing arc in the air with his longsword.
“You shall pay, outlander.” Harald leapt off his horse and came right at Ganry, Dragon Sword raised high, primed for a killing blow.
Windstorm parried the strike inches from his head, but he felt the jarring impact all the way to his shoulder. Ganry leapt back, slashing Windstorm about in a blur before him. He knew he was on the defensive here, and there was something about Harald, something more powerful than he had ever faced before.
The sneering regent followed him, bearing down the great Dragon Sword on him again and again. Windstorm blocked and swatted aside each blow, but only just, forcing the large former mercenary down on one knee.
“Your Grimlock sword is no match for the legendary Dragon Sword I wield, fool,” Harald’s voice filled his mind. “Forged in the pits of Hell, and that’s where it will send you.”
“Ganry!” Myriam cried out, glancing back at the kneeling warrior. “He’ll be killed…”
“He can take care of himself, princess,” Hendon said with assurance. “And look, there’s Linz.”
“Oh, Linz, thank the heavens.” Myriam exhaled deeply as the young leader of the Lake Men rode up.
“Quick, princess, Hendon,” the boy urged, “we must use the stones, to thwart this menace.”
“How can we…” Hendon began.
“Oh, he knows, he knows. Just like he did with the Rooggaru.” Myriam’s eyes shone with some hope.
“Yes, princess.” Linz nodded. “Now, quickly. As my men force a circle to protect us, we must use the stones together, and locate the fourth stone.”
“The fourth,” Myriam and Hendon chorused.
“Yes, hurry.” Linz whipped out the dagger he had found in the Rooggaru’s treasure horde. Its milky white blade was aglow.
Myriam and Hendon held their daggers high, beside Linz. The rings on their fingers, encrusted with the same stones, were glowing too. A loud shriek from the dragon soaring overhead sent a chill down Myriam’s spine, but she held fast.
The tips of the glowing blades touched and the three closed their eyes. Images flashed before their minds. Horrific images of death and destruction, making them shiver, but they held on. The dragon screeched, flying around in circles above them. It had ceased its assault on the Lake Men, the glowing stones were affecting it somehow. Suddenly Harald’s infuriated face flashed before them. The three youngsters opened their eyes with a jolt. Linz sighed in relief. It was a flash of an image they saw. But how, and why Harald?
They resumed their position, holding aloft the blades and closing their eyes. This time Harald was standing before them, his Dragon Sword blazing in his hands. Another sword rose before their eyes to clash with Harald’s downward stroke.
“It’s Windstorm!” Myriam gasped. “Ganry!”
“Yes, we see what he sees.” Linz sounded confused.
“It’s him. I mean, his sword,” Hendon cried excitedly. “Windstorm holds the fourth stone.”
“This is unbelievable,” Myriam gasped.
“We have the dragon under our control,” Linz announced, holding his dagger up at the screaming dragon above him. “It’s time to turn the tide of this battle.”
Myriam looked at the lad briefly, amazed at the confident and brave young man she now saw. No more was he the shy little heir to the throne of the Lake Men. He began to sound and behave more like his uncle Clay now, but only just.
Linz turned the dragon on the Palaran army. It soared over them, burning and killing, breaking their ranks and making them retreat.
Ganry looked around him in surprise as the battle was turned. He leapt to his feet, but Harald was undeterred. He came at him, Dragon Sword thirsty for blood.
Ganry had never seen his longsword like this before. Windstorm had a strange white glow about itself, and the round stone at the base of the grip was just as milky white as the stones he had seen in the daggers the children had. There’s no such thing as magic, he heard himself say. There is an explanation for everything. But that would have to wait. He had a more pressing matter at hand.
The Dragon Sword came at him with force again, driven hard by Harald’s newly developed sinews. Ancient metal clashed on ancient metal, covering the two duelists in showers of blue and red sparks. Ganry felt the effect of Harald’s blows lessen by a great degree, and for the first time in their battle he didn’t feel pushed back. Instead, he began to move up, forcing Harald on the back foot. Windstorm seemed alive in his hands. It surged ahead to strike the Dragon Sword all by itself.
“He’s winning!” Myriam clapped. “Windstorm is the fourth stone. Who would have thought.”
“Harald is all but finished,” Hendon whispered as the regent fell heavily.
“Yield, murderer.” Ganry offered the regent mercy as the man huffed, down on one knee. “And you shall be judged for your crimes.”
“Never!” Harald leapt to his feet, bringing the mighty sword down in an overhead strike.
Ganry stood his ground. Windstorm rose to meet the descending blade. Bright light, like a lighting blot flashed between the two men, followed by a clap of thunder. The Dragon Sword fell off Harald’s grip, cut neatly in half. Ganry stood as still as a statue, Windstorm still in his hands, thrumming with an eerie energy.
“You have lost, Harald,” Ganry said. “Your army has surrendered, your navy lies decimated, and your elite guard are all dead. You have no other choices but surrender, and death.”
“Die!” Harald screamed, diving past Ganry. Rising up swiftly, a thin bladed dagger in hand, he rushed at Myriam.
The princess screamed as the dull thud of Harald’s head hitting the ground and then rolling to rest near her feet echoed around the still battlefield. Ganry looked at the blood on his blade with disgust, and then wiped it on the still quivering body of the regent.
The dragon shrieked as if in agony, soaring above them. Its scaly skin began to glow, and then it suddenly evaporated in a puff of smoke. Ash and dust blew in the wind where it had soared a moment ago.
“It is done,” Linz said, closing his eyes again, as the dagger in his hand glowed brightly.
“Aye,” Hagar rode up. “The usurper is dead. Long live the Queen!”
The chant rose through the battlefield. “Long Live the Queen!”
45
“How could this be?” Myriam wiped the tears away, but couldn’t stem the flow.
“She still lives,” Hendon said soothingly. “We would have sensed it otherwise.”
“I know, Hendon.” The princess forced a smile. “But to think she was held in those horrible dungeons and tortured, and she endured it all. For me.”
“She was a brave woman, princess.” Ganry nodded. “The bravest I have met, next to you.”
“We have to find her, Ganry,” Myriam sniffed. “What ever hell she’s been taken to, we have to find her.”
“Yes, we do,” Ganry agreed. “Yet there is much to do for you as the Queen of Palara. Your people expect much from you. They may be happy now that the oppressive rule of Harald is over, but in time they will want to recoup their losses, and then the grumbles against the kingdom will resume.”
“You are wiser than you’ve ever been given credit for,” Myriam laughed.
She knew he was right. She had a lot to do, and the work of her father, the late King Ludwig, had to be carried on, regardless of the damage Harald had brought upon the kingdom. She looked around the throne room, shuddering at the though of having to sit on the ugly throne before a host of nobles and courtiers.
Linz had returned to the Lake with his army. She knew that she could count on him as an ally, without question. And Artas, the young noble who had given so much to her, had to come home, almost crippled, and find his parents, the Lord and Lady Holstein, murdered. And so it was with people all over Palara. Almost everyone had lost som
eone dear to them over the last few months. So much loss and much more to be done, she sighed.
“My Queen, Lord Parsival of Ival Hold, rescued from the dungeons, wishes an audience,” a guardsman announced.
“Yes, I sent for him. Please let him enter,” Myriam said, apprehensive of her first official meeting with a noble as the Queen.
The young man stepped into the room. His wounds had been cleaned and bathed, and he bowed with a slight grimace.
“How are you faring, kind sir?” she asked him.
“I am well, your highness,” he said, eyeing her warily. “You had sent for me?”
“Yes, I must apologize for your harrowing experience in the dungeons.” She smiled at him.
“But it was Harald who…” Parsival looked confused.
“Yes, I know…” She closed her eyes, wiping way a tear. “I apologize for asking you to relive those moments. You did say to the guards who let you out that you saw the Duchess leaving the dungeon while you were there.”
“Yes, I did.” He nodded once, glancing at Ganry.
“Was anyone with her?”
“Yes, I recall now… a small man in grey robes of a monk.”
“Did you hear anything about where he might be taking her?” Ganry asked him.
Parsival looked up nervously. “No, but I did hear him say to her who he was.”
“What did he say?” Myriam leaned forward.
“He said he was Ghaffar of the Marawi.”
About The Author
Jon Kiln writes heroic fantasy. His major influences include David Gemmell and Conn Iggulden.
Sign up to his mailing list or contact him at JonKiln.com.
Keep an eye out for Book 3, out soon.
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