“No wait a minute Ser Cleven,” I said putting a stern grip on his arm.
“My Lord?”
“Come with me,” I stepped ahead of him to enter the hall leading to the cells. “Stop! Bring Michael back.”
I stepped back into the Executioner’s Chambers and pulled my sword. The steel sung out. I let the sound pierce the air with no other word. The boots clattered on the broken stones of the Beastmaster’s dungeon, and the clanking of chains and manacles echoed against the ancient stones as the guards returned with the condemned man.
The light in the chamber was ghostly with graying shadows walking across the circular walls. Sinclair, my wise counselor, materialized out of the damp gloom and knelt before me.
“I am glad you have decided to execute justice for the sake of your people my Lord,” Sinclair said, his words falling out on my boots. It was such a soft communication; no one else seemed to hear. “If I may rise King Tyrl, I have something more suitable for this moment.”
“Aye – rise old man – what is this you say?”
The wizard rose and met my gaze with eyes that smoldered, stoked by an inner vow to serve the demons that tormented his soul. His gray beard hung like tangled moss off an old oak. He pressed his crooked body to its full height to stare into my eyes. He huffed as he seemed to find what he was looking for.
“Yes. What I have will be more suitable for swift justice.”
He stepped into the shadows and drug out a sword whose length came to the wizard’s cheek. Its honed steel edges appeared to be on fire as they reflected the dance of flames coming off the torches. Its quillon and pummel sparkled with onyx, emerald and rubies, disclosing the weapon’s royal heritage. Rather than hand the sword to me Sinclair lay it at my feet. Only one other pair of hands had known its killing power. It was more than a gift the old wizard had lowered to the stones in front of me it was a challenge to take the kingdom of the legitimate heirs now dead – all lost except for Lord Kriesmeer’s sword – the dead king’s sword.
Sinclair nodded towards me as though I should know what to do. I stared at the great sword daring my inner strength to come forward to meet this challenge. I knelt down and clasped the handle and tested the weapon’s weight. It felt right. I rose to my feet, my hand directing the sword’s point towards the ceiling as the guard pushed Michael forward. The executioner stepped forward his gaze barely meeting mine. I waited for his eyes to lock on mine.
“You are excused from your duty today, Strok,” I said, bringing the sword to rest by my side. He bowed slightly and stepped to the wall. Sinclair too stepped to the wall as the guards pushed Michael down to rest his head on the oak stump.
I saw Michael’s eyes dart about the room, but he did well at cornering his fear, a warrior accustomed to facing death daily, he became still as I raised the sword above my head. I felt my center giving way at first, and then I was aware I could not focus straight ahead. I took a step back to recover and change my assessment of the sword’s weight. An arrow, from an unseen archer, ripped past where my shoulder had been just a blink of an eye before. As I moved away from the arrow’s path, Michael lashed out at my legs with his chained hands. They caught my boots and footing gave way. I fell into the wall keeping the sword firm in hand and anchored to my front. The next arrow hit the steel blade. It glanced from my sword upward and nicked my right ear. I wanted to clasp my ear with my hand but resisted with all my might every urge to yield to the wound’s demands. I bit back my urge to scream as well. I felt my blood trickle down my neck. At last I saw the archer as his shadow betrayed the swift motion of his setting another arrow. I saw his fingers release the string.
Michael at last found his feet and lunged for my throat. His thick form momentarily blocked my view of the assassin. The arrow struck his heart as it pierced his back. He fell dead at my feet. The guards once too slow to react finally cornered the archer and sliced his throat.
“Here my Lord,” Sinclair said ripping a piece of fabric from one of his inner robes, “let me put this on your ear.” Sir Cleven and Strok helped me to stand.
“Not exactly the moment of justice I had hoped for,” I said grimacing. Pain seared the exposed areas of my wound as the wizard bandaged my ear.
“An archer does not kill a king of his own accord my Lord,” Sinclair said, his eyes so close to mine I could feel the heat in them. “and I doubt that Michael was the leader of this ill-conceived plot to take your life. By that I mean you will have plenty of days to execute justice, my Lord Tyrl, and not just from outside your castle walls.” The wizard pulled away the bloody cloth and pressed it into my hand. “This is the first blood. Your blood. And it is only a trickle because of the sword you now own. And should you wonder to long and too hard, it was the sword that saved your life. It will want for blood soon. Be ye ready?”
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