In his peripheral vision, Lancelin could see Cedric’s boots beside him. “Any final words you would like to share, prince? It’s not everyday that we execute royalty. I suppose we could at least honor you with a parting speech.”
The others laughed at the mockery. Lancelin lifted his gaze from the ground to breathe in his final living moments when something among the trees caught his eye. A figure dressed in white armor walked in a confident stride before him. His jaw dropped and his eyes rested on the face of Eloy. Cedric took note of his shocked expression.
“What do you think you see? Some of your friends coming to rescue you? Did you sneak out a message, you wretch?” Cedric turned his gaze but saw nothing.
Eloy gave a confident nod, and in that moment Lancelin felt his restraints loosen. He knew what to do. As his captors still gazed around them in confusion, Lancelin leapt to his feet and threw himself again the unsuspecting Cedric. The two of them crashed to the ground, throwing up a cloud of dust and dirt. Lancelin felt his restraints fall and he broke his arms free to reach for Dawn’s Deliverer in its sheath on Cedric’s waist. The captain of the outsiders was afforded no more than a shocked gasp before the blade was plunged into his chest.
Not waiting for the others to react, Lancelin rose to his feet with blade in hand. Wielding two precise strikes, Lancelin watched the other guards fall, headless. Izel looked in shock as her captors were slain. Lancelin moved swiftly to cut her free. With an extended hand he helped her to her feet.
“How…?” was all she muttered.
A grin crossed his face and he looked to the empty space once occupied by Eloy. “The true High King has returned.”
Not waiting for a response, he spoke again, “Izel, gather two horses. We must journey to regroup with the others.”
“What about you? What are you going to do?” she asked.
“Finish this,” he said as he turned to the mouth of the cave.
She gave a nod of approval and scurried to the horses tied nearby. He found renewed strength as he rushed through the damp tunnel. Dawn’s Deliverer lit his way until he reached the chamber opening. He stopped in his tracks and sheathed the blade as he crept into the massive cavern. Ulric and the others now stood around the strange symbol he had drawn earlier. Placed in the middle of the circle was a flickering blue flame. All gathered swayed to a rhythmic hum that reverberated out into the vast space.
Ulric stepped forward, his face illuminated by the faint blue light. “Great Maluuk, born from this cavern eons ago, we beckon thee.”
“Come, master,” echoed the others.
“We offer you this amulet carried by your servant Balzara. With it we beckon your hallowed presence to come forth to reclaim the gift that has been stolen,” Ulric chanted as he threw the amulet in the fire. A puff of smoke arose that grew into a thick mist around them.
“May your presence lead us back to restoration,” the others chanted.
Ulric unsheathed Dawn Bringer and held the sword high so all could see. “With this blade we hold the authority of this kingdom.”
“May Maluuk reign in all lands,” cried the others.
The dark mist began to swirl around the blade, gathering steam until it encompassed the sword in a torrent of black mist.
“With this authority we invite you, our lord, to reign in these lands. We invite you to seek your revenge upon those who cast you out. With this blade we now usher you forth here and now!”
Ulric slammed the sword into the growing blue flame, sending its embers flashing across the symbol. The others wailed in a breathless gasp. The room grew dark as all but the faint glow of the blue symbols lit the chamber. In the deafening silence a thick smoke began to roll out from the primordial lakes. Soon it claimed the entire cavern, shifting among all those in the circle until it culminated where the fire once burned. The faint blue of the room turned to a sickly green as a figure slowly emerged from the smoke.
Lancelin blinked to see more clearly. In the midst of the circle stood a man of regal features. His pale skin was wrapped in the hard casing of ebony armor stamped with a blood red crescent moon. On his shoulders draped a royal garment of silver and black. His chestnut hair was adorned with a majestic crown encrusted with all manner of gems. All this was a sign of a king to be honored, even worshiped, but Lancelin could see in the cold silver eyes the malice laced within them. This was Maluuk, The Lord of the Felled Ones.
Maluuk gripped Dawn Bringer and with one strong thrust raised it above his head. To Lancelin’s dismay, it had been transformed into an agent of darkness. Where there was once golden light shining from its edges, now in its place glowed a sickly haze. A thick cloud of darkness swirled around the midnight colored blade.
“Welcome, High King Maluuk,” all cried in unison.
A devilish grin crept onto Maluuk’s face. In that moment countless eyes filled the surrounding darkness. Silver slits shone like dying stars in the night sky. The army of the Felled Ones had returned and Lancelin knew he had no choice but to flee. Turning without a second thought, he rushed down the winding tunnel.
The return of dread and confusion filled his mind. How could this be? Had he not seen Eloy return? Had Eloy not rescued him? Why then would he let Maluuk return? Was his sacrifice for nothing? All this and more raced through his mind, but he knew he must warn the others if they stood a chance of survival. Maybe there was no chance at all. But he clung to the hope that if Maluuk had returned, so could Eloy.
11
Geralt
Even as the throne room door slammed behind them, Geralt couldn’t help but feel guilty for leaving Lancelin behind. But, he had a job to do and he would fulfill his duty at all costs. He looked down at Lydia, the young woman who had become like a daughter to him. It took all his strength to pull her the few steps forward down the hall. Even with all his strength, she managed to break free, collapsing to the floor.
With overwhelming grief, she drenched the stone beneath her with her tears. He reached a hand to pull her up, but she turned away, vomiting. He swallowed, unsure of what to do. Lydia wiped her mouth and stared up at him.
“I know that we need to go.” She stood to her feet, shaking.
He gave her an approving nod. What strength she had to muster for this moment he could not comprehend, but they had to keep moving. They rushed through the halls in a breathless gasp. Outside the sound of thunder cracked in the air. Geralt stopped to look out a nearby window. The sky was crystal blue. What was that sound? Another crashing noise rang in his ears.
“Come lass, I don’t like the sound of that.”
“Where are we going, Geralt? Are we not safe in our own palace?” she asked.
He paused for a moment. In all his rushing, he had not thought through where they should go, only away from here. His mind trained and honed by years of war came swelling to one conclusion.
“We need to get to the army and inform your brother of what has transpired. With their backing, we can march against these fiends.”
Her red and puffy eyes gave him a tired stare.
“What is it, lass?” he asked.
“I’m tired of war, Geralt. I am tired of violence and evil. When will it end?”
He fought back the lump in his throat at her words. With an outstretched arm he pulled her against his chest. “I don’t know, lass, but we have to keep fighting. You hear me?”
He felt the gentle bobbing of her head brush against him. With care he pulled away looking her in the eyes. “We will mourn soon, I promise.”
A sudden sound of footsteps resounded down the hall, coming in their direction.
“Get ready,” he growled as he withdrew his sword. Lydia followed his example but they were greeted with a pleasant surprise. A squadron of archers came rushing toward them and at their head was Zuma and Izel.
“We heard sounds of violence. What has happened?” they asked.
Where to begin? Geralt thought.
Before he
could say a word Lydia stepped forward to speak, “Treachery has been done to Kingshelm. The High King is dead, and soon Lancelin will join him if you don’t hurry to the throne room.”
A mix of shock and grief filled them.
“We will go at once,” said Zuma.
Izel nodded and the entire squadron hurried to the throne room. Lydia caught Zuma by the arm before he could follow. “Thank you for serving us so well.”
“Of course. Kingshelm is our home now, and we will not allow our friends to be harmed.”
With that Lydia released his arm, and he was off to what fate Geralt was unsure. She stood staring at the troops as they disappeared around the corner.
“I should be with them, Geralt. I should be defending Titus’ body from those monsters.”
“No, what you need to do is survive because, if we have a kingdom left after this, it's going to need a ruler.”
She turned to him, grief starting to fill her eyes again, “Me? This kingdom doesn’t need me. It needs…”
“I need you,” Geralt snapped. “Like you, I have lost everyone I ever cared about, everyone except you.”
A timid smile crossed her face. “You going soft on me?” she asked with a pathetic sniffle.
“If that’s what it takes to get you to survive, fine,” he said choking back his own pitiful reply.
Her eyes sharpened as she regained her composure. “Let’s go.”
Once again, they set off through the disheveled halls. Servants and members of the royal court floundered around seeking answers for the ensuing chaos. The sounds of impact had picked up tempo outside the palace walls. In the midst of the chaos Henry spotted them and came racing to their side.
“My Queen, are you well?” he asked.
Geralt could see her bite her lip in restraint. “No, I am not, but we can explain more in detail when we join the army.”
“Join the army? What has happened?” he asked, searching both of their eyes.
Geralt extended a hand to the man's shoulder. “Titus is gone. These outsiders have betrayed us and we must get to the army as quickly as possible. Do you know the route to the hidden tunnels beneath the palace?”
“Of course. It is the job of the royal guards to know.”
“Good, then lead the way.”
Without another word, Henry motioned for them to follow. Even with all his training in the art of subterfuge Geralt could see the faint touch of disbelief cross Henry’s face. They rounded a corner that took them to a small room bare of any decor except for a single rug on the floor. Beneath it rested a covering that, once removed, revealed a staircase that spiraled downward. It led them deep beneath the earth. Geralt imagined more than one life had been paid for such a structural endeavor. The cool air of deep earth settled over him, bringing a chill across his sweat soaked back. Henry led them, torch in hand, until they reached the bottom. In the underground tunnel a faint light in the distance greeted them like a pinhole amidst a sheet of darkness.
“That way,” Henry said, directing with his head.
With the faint flickering of the torch the three of them hastily made their way to the secret exit. As the small shimmer of light grew, Geralt could see it would lead them just outside the city wall on the southwestern end of Kingshelm. The blinding light of the sun welcomed them from the tunnel exit. Tucked away under the shadow of the large stone wall of the city floated a small paddle boat.
Henry quickly loosed it from its bindings and ushered them in. Just within the edges of Geralt’s vision he could see the source of the thunderous noise from earlier. A great host of men had begun to surround the city from its eastern side. Large catapults flung heaps of stone against the whitewashed walls. The banks of the Terras River were all that kept the invaders at bay, and soon even that would not stop them.
“A siege?” murmured Henry in confusion. “How could they muster one so quickly?”
“They couldn’t,” Geralt said, “unless they had planned one all along.”
“You mean to say these outsiders had planned to attack us this whole time?”
“Why not? Get your men inside the city in a gesture of peace. Then have your army trail you a few days behind. Coordinate the timing of the attack and you have yourself the perfect element of surprise.”
“With no army in the city to defend it.” Henry said, his voice fading.
“Stop the boat!” came the voice of Lydia as she pointed at something in the water. Her sudden outburst had shaken both Geralt and Henry from their sullen stupor. He followed the line drawn from Lydia’s pointing finger to an object floating in the distance. It was a corpse.
“Steer the boat to him now!” Lydia ordered.
Without question, Henry turned to bring them near the floating body. With a gasp of sorrow they realized it was Titus. Lydia scrambled to bring him into the boat and nearly capsized them. Geralt placed a steadying hand on her shoulder, but she would not be stopped. With the frenzy of a devastated lover she pulled the corpse of Titus onboard, gently laying his drenched head in her lap. Tears poured from her eyes as she stroked his wet hair. Geralt could feel the sting of tears begin to fill his own eyes at the sight of the dead king.
His skin had grown pale and his muscles grew tense with rigor mortis beginning to settle in. The High King’s face had settled into a look of contentment. The white tunic he wore was tarnished by the stain of blood that had flowed from his wound. It stretched up his torso until it reached the lion embroidered on his chest. This was no way to see the king. Geralt turned his eyes to Lydia who sat silently holding her love. But he could see the look of sorrow had vanished from her eyes as she drank in the sight. In its place was one of scorn and rage.
Road weary and drained from grief, the encampment brought some semblance of joy to all of them. They had paddled along the Terras River a few miles until they thought it was safe to disembark. From there they had walked the tiring journey north until they had encountered a merchant willing to spare a cart for the dead king. They reached the encampment that evening. Several scouts rode out to greet them and were taken aback once they discovered who they were.
Their eyes revealed the horror of what they saw. Geralt could see they tried their best at showing royal reverence, but every now and then he caught them stealing a glance at Titus’ corpse. It wasn’t long before the trio was ushered into the camp. A host of commanders and captains emerged from their tents to greet them. By now all those Geralt had known were dead. The men became a list of nameless faces that stood before him. Thankfully Lydia knew them all and played the formality of queen while internally she remained the weeping spouse.
They had decided that a plan of action would be drawn together that evening, but first… first they must bury the king. The ceremony was done in haste.As evening settled in, he found it was only Lydia and himself who remained at the humble grave. She had picked out a spot under an ancient oak tree in the open plain. Its branches had come into a full spring bloom and life once again teemed among its branches.
Beneath its splayed branches rested High King Titus. His final resting place was marked by a small mound beneath the mighty oak. Just above, Lydia had lovingly carved out of its bark a small symbol to honor the grave. The Morning Star now watched over him. The symbol of life that felt so distant from their reality. Lydia knelt beneath the tangle of branches letting the full weight of her tears flow that she wished for no others to see. In a hushed tone he could hear her sharing her parting words with Titus.
“I have walked with you to the end of our road, my love… and it was too short.” She drew in a deep breath. “Why must I walk it alone in our darkest hour?”
Slowly, she rose to her feet and brushed off her knees. With red eyes she turned to Geralt.
“Do you wish to mourn alone, my Queen?” he asked.
“I have mourned enough, Geralt. I don’t have tears left to shed. Now is the time to act.”
He gave an agreeing nod. They sto
od to return to camp and meet with the council to discuss their next move. As they entered into the camp an escort of guards led them to the tent of meeting. Inside, the faint light of flickering torches illuminated the faces of the commanders who stood ready to begin. Lydia had put on a firm face as she stood before these men. Geralt could see she would not back down to them, even in a moment of tragedy.
“Gentlemen, I have called this council in order for us to determine the fate of Islandia. This is not an exaggeration. The very kingdom is at stake because of these outsiders. Kingshelm as we speak has come under siege. No doubt word will reach Jorn shortly of what has transpired.”
“What then do you suggest, my Queen?” asked a commander Geralt didn’t know.
“I know what she should do,” came the voice of Aiden abruptly. “She should keep her promises.”
“You would demand the queen to help your cause in the midst of all this madness?” Henry asked.
“It is not my cause. It is our cause. Jorn is still a threat and I would argue an even greater one now that he has others who will align with him. I have been informed that these men answer to Maluuk. Is this not the same master that Jorn serves? Who is to say he isn’t planning to march and join forces with them as we speak. We cannot possibly stand against both armies. Not with our numbers as dwindled as they are.”
Lydia’s face was hard as stone. Geralt knew the truth in her brother’s words, but many in the room would dismiss it as self-seeking.
“My Queen, may I suggest we gather our forces with Khala? Imari has proven to be faithful to answer to the High King. Together, we would have a force large enough to take on these outsiders,” Henry suggested.
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