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Authors: Karen Azinger
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well,
having trained all three to the sword. Ulrich fought like a bull, rushing in at
the slightest hint of an opening, while Griffin
showed a cautious shrewdness, preferring a slow dance of parries and feints.
Godfrey, the third-born prince, was a follower, always mimicking his oldest
brother. “The council is called for treachery…and for war.”
Ulrich flashed a wolfish grin. “So
there’ll be war then.”
“As sure as winter.”
“And the traitors?” The question
came from Sir Gravis. Bald as an egg, his face as tough as boot leather, Gravis
was a stern captain and a staunch friend to the king.
“All dead.”
More than a few made the hand sign
against evil.
“Does the treachery stop at Cragnoth?”
The marshal met Godfrey’s stare.
“That’s the question, isn’t it? How far has the Darkness spread?” A murmur of
unease ran the length of the table. “It’s hard to hold a castle when a traitor
mans the drawbridge.” The marshal reached for a tankard of ale. Talk of treason
left a bitter taste in his mouth.
“They say there was a note,” Prince
Griffin’s voice cut like a well-polished sword, “a note pinned to the tower
door, sealed with a red hawk.”
Rumors were hard to contain. The
marshal nodded, reluctant to speak of the king’s daughter; a mere girl had no
part in war. “The note told of Trask’s corruption to the Dark.”
Sir Gravis nodded, “A message from
Lionel, no doubt, before they murdered him.”
Ulrich’s stare smoldered. “Yes, the
king’s chosen successor, struck down by his own men.” Scorn filled Ulrich’s
face, an ugly mix of ambition and jealousy. “Death by treason. That must have
been a mighty blow to the king.”
The marshal speared the prince with
his gaze. “The king mourns his son.”
“But would he mourn half so much
for the rest of us?” Ulrich’s face hardened like tempered steel. “Or aren’t we
shiny enough for his liking?”
Ulrich talked like he fought, with
broad smashing strokes, but for once his words struck true. The marshal looked
away, unable to deny it. The king’s younger sons had been made of finer stuff, something
shiny and noble. Tristan and Lionel both carried heroic glows that made other
men rise above themselves, willing to dare the fiercest odds. Somehow that shining
characteristic had passed over the older sons, as if the mold had been set but
the metal wasn’t quite right, leaving men of blunt iron instead of bright
steel. The marshal shook his head, mourning the loss. The promise of the
younger sons was gone, snuffed out like a bright-burning flame. Sometimes the
gods were cruel. He reached for his tankard. “The king needs all his sons.”
“Some more than others.” Ulrich
scowled. “They tell me Lionel has his own shield grove, set on the south side
of the mountains so that all travelers from Castlegard to the Crag can pay
homage as they pass. Seems like a lofty honor for a murdered prince.”
The marshal’s voice held a cutting
edge. “The king loved Lionel well.”
“I’ll not begrudge the dead their
due…but he is dead.” Ulrich’s gaze
narrowed. “The king must name a new successor.” He leaned back in his chair, a
warrior in his prime. “I’ve always been the strongest, the best sword among my
brothers. In times of war, it’s strength that matters most. It’s past time the
king chose his first-born to rule.”
“Ayes” circled the table…but not
from everyone. Gravis kept silent and so did Sir Mellott and Sir Lothar, while
Prince Griffin merely watched through hooded eyes.
The marshal crossed stares with the
first-born prince. “The royal house of Anvril has ever ruled the maroon, but it
has not always been the oldest who gains the throne.” He lowered his voice, a
warning and a threat. “The king alone decides his heir.”
A low murmur rippled through the
great hall.
The marshal turned to find the king
standing on the stairwell. New lines of grief were graven on his face but his
eyes
having trained all three to the sword. Ulrich fought like a bull, rushing in at
the slightest hint of an opening, while Griffin
showed a cautious shrewdness, preferring a slow dance of parries and feints.
Godfrey, the third-born prince, was a follower, always mimicking his oldest
brother. “The council is called for treachery…and for war.”
Ulrich flashed a wolfish grin. “So
there’ll be war then.”
“As sure as winter.”
“And the traitors?” The question
came from Sir Gravis. Bald as an egg, his face as tough as boot leather, Gravis
was a stern captain and a staunch friend to the king.
“All dead.”
More than a few made the hand sign
against evil.
“Does the treachery stop at Cragnoth?”
The marshal met Godfrey’s stare.
“That’s the question, isn’t it? How far has the Darkness spread?” A murmur of
unease ran the length of the table. “It’s hard to hold a castle when a traitor
mans the drawbridge.” The marshal reached for a tankard of ale. Talk of treason
left a bitter taste in his mouth.
“They say there was a note,” Prince
Griffin’s voice cut like a well-polished sword, “a note pinned to the tower
door, sealed with a red hawk.”
Rumors were hard to contain. The
marshal nodded, reluctant to speak of the king’s daughter; a mere girl had no
part in war. “The note told of Trask’s corruption to the Dark.”
Sir Gravis nodded, “A message from
Lionel, no doubt, before they murdered him.”
Ulrich’s stare smoldered. “Yes, the
king’s chosen successor, struck down by his own men.” Scorn filled Ulrich’s
face, an ugly mix of ambition and jealousy. “Death by treason. That must have
been a mighty blow to the king.”
The marshal speared the prince with
his gaze. “The king mourns his son.”
“But would he mourn half so much
for the rest of us?” Ulrich’s face hardened like tempered steel. “Or aren’t we
shiny enough for his liking?”
Ulrich talked like he fought, with
broad smashing strokes, but for once his words struck true. The marshal looked
away, unable to deny it. The king’s younger sons had been made of finer stuff, something
shiny and noble. Tristan and Lionel both carried heroic glows that made other
men rise above themselves, willing to dare the fiercest odds. Somehow that shining
characteristic had passed over the older sons, as if the mold had been set but
the metal wasn’t quite right, leaving men of blunt iron instead of bright
steel. The marshal shook his head, mourning the loss. The promise of the
younger sons was gone, snuffed out like a bright-burning flame. Sometimes the
gods were cruel. He reached for his tankard. “The king needs all his sons.”
“Some more than others.” Ulrich
scowled. “They tell me Lionel has his own shield grove, set on the south side
of the mountains so that all travelers from Castlegard to the Crag can pay
homage as they pass. Seems like a lofty honor for a murdered prince.”
The marshal’s voice held a cutting
edge. “The king loved Lionel well.”
“I’ll not begrudge the dead their
due…but he is dead.” Ulrich’s gaze
narrowed. “The king must name a new successor.” He leaned back in his chair, a
warrior in his prime. “I’ve always been the strongest, the best sword among my
brothers. In times of war, it’s strength that matters most. It’s past time the
king chose his first-born to rule.”
“Ayes” circled the table…but not
from everyone. Gravis kept silent and so did Sir Mellott and Sir Lothar, while
Prince Griffin merely watched through hooded eyes.
The marshal crossed stares with the
first-born prince. “The royal house of Anvril has ever ruled the maroon, but it
has not always been the oldest who gains the throne.” He lowered his voice, a
warning and a threat. “The king alone decides his heir.”
A low murmur rippled through the
great hall.
The marshal turned to find the king
standing on the stairwell. New lines of grief were graven on his face but his
eyes
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