Part 14 (1/2)

”Strong!” The thing that was Griffin snarled. Evil leached onto the prince's face, a twisted look of pure hatred. ”Your son is weak, a slave crushed beneath my will. For twelve years I've worn this face and you never knew! I ate at your table, diced with you, , sparred with you, listened to your petty plans, but none of you knew! None of you knew!” It laughed, a cruel sound full of spite. ”Shall I let you speak to your precious son? To prove he's held captive to my will?” For half a heartbeat, the face went slack, and then it filled with life, a deep intelligence blazing from the eyes. ”Father, I'm sorry!” Pleading eyes stared at the king. ”Don't let it keep me. Let me die a knight.” The words came in a rush. ”Kill me to kill it!”

”No!” The monk screamed a warning. ”You dare not kill it!”

Griffin gasped as if strangled. The gasp turned to a snarl of rage. The demon was back. ”Listen to the monk! You cannot kill me.” It dragged G.o.dfrey toward the door, a hostage held at knifepoint.

The marshal stood across from the beast, his back pressed to the edge of the table, desperate for a weapon. And then it came to him. Slow and stealthy, he groped behind his back, seeking the hilt of the king's blue sword.

The demon reached the door, a look of triumph on its face. ”You want a prophecy? I'll give you one.” Its eyes blazed with hatred. ”The Dark Lord will crush the Octagon! He'll take your pride, then he'll take your precious honor, and then he'll crush you with defeat. The Octagon will be forgotten, while I live on!” It pulled G.o.dfrey close, the dagger nicking the prince's neck. ”My name is Shmailgren! And I am the bane of the Octagon!” Its voice rose to a shout. ”Behold, for I bring you despair!” The dagger bit deep, slicing halfway through G.o.dfrey's throat.

”No!” The king's roar echoed through the chamber.

The younger son gasped, a b.l.o.o.d.y froth at his throat.

The blue sword came to the marshal's hand. Without thought, he lunged, putting his full might behind the thrust. The sapphire blade struck true. Cleaving chainmail and leather, it struck straight through G.o.dfrey's heart and into Griffin, driving all the way to the wooden door.

Impaled upright, the demon gasped, a look of surprise on its face. It stared at the sword hilt. ”I have not failed.” The demon's face twisted into a triumphant leer. ”I will live...again!” Its eyes burned red, like twin lanterns lit from h.e.l.l. And then the demon was gone, the malevolent spirit snuffed out like a candle. But the spark of life was not entirely extinguished. For half a heartbeat, the true prince stared from his eyes, his gaze seeking the king. ”Honor...always.” And then the face fell slack, the spark of life gone.

Two princes impaled on one sword.

Both dead.

Horror filled the room. Darkness had struck at the Octagon's heart.

A single tear bled down the king's face.

The marshal gaped, like watching a hairline crack ruin a fine steel sword, a death knell in the midst of battle.

”My sons!” Grief-struck, the king staggered to the door. He gripped the sword hilt and yanked it free, hurling the blade across the room. Blue steel clattered against stone.

Released, the bodies slumped forward. The king caught his sons and cradled them to his chest. He wept and the sound shattered the chamber.

The marshal fought despair, knowing the demon had struck a perilous blow.

One by one, the captains turned away, shaken by horror, disarmed by the king's grief, a seed of doubt in their eyes. Even the stalwart Sir Abrax turned away.

Doubt in their eyes. The captains doubt their king. The realization struck the marshal like a dagger in the back. Desperate to stem the rot, his gaze circled the chamber. A gleam of sapphire caught his gaze. The king's blue blade lay abandoned on the floor. As if the blade called to him, the marshal strode toward the sword. Lifting the great sword, he turned to face the captains, a flash of sapphire blue in the candlelight. ”Darkness shall not defeat us.” He lifted the sword like a holy talisman, his words full of conviction. ”The king's sword will never fail. Like blue steel, the Octagon will never bend, never break, never grow dull. We are the sword and s.h.i.+eld of the southern kingdoms.” His gaze roamed the captains, willing the doubt away, seeking the strength within.

Pride returned with a rush of defiance. The captains reached for their weapons, a gleam of steel raised in salute. ”For Honor and the Octagon!”

The shout broke through the king's grief. He raised his head, a smear of tears on his face, a smear of blood on his leathers. For a moment, he looked old and confused, but then his gaze settled on the monk. ”You!” His finger stabbed like an accusing sword. ”You knew all along! You knew and you did nothing!”

”No.” The monk retreated, his face pale. ”The prophecy spoke of a demon in the Octagon, nothing more. I came to warn you, to save you from a plot by the Dark Lord.”

”Save us!” The king roared, his gaze fever bright. ”Your words bring nothing but doom. I name you a minion of Darkness!”

”Grief blinds you. You know the Order walks in the Light.” The monk's retreat came to a halt, his back to the open window. ”We are allies against the Dark.”

”More words. I'm weary of your warnings. You can spew your dark tidings in the dungeons!”

”No.” The monk's stare flashed from the king to the marshal. ”Detain me and you aid the Dark.”

Gripped by a s.h.i.+ver of foreboding, the marshal sought to stop the madness. ”Sire, he's only a messenger.”

”No!” The king's anger was beyond reason. ”I'll see the darkling in irons. Capture him!”

The captains obeyed, closing ranks on the monk, a ring of steel slowly tightening.

Sworn to the king, the marshal could only watch.

But the monk refused to be taken. ”The Kiralynn Order serves the Light.” He leaped to the windowsill, a flutter of dark blue robes. And then he jumped.

The marshal lunged, grabbing for a fistful of robes, but he caught only air. Leaning out the window, he expected to see blood and robes spattered at the tower's base...but there was nothing below. He searched for some sign of the monk but found no trace of the man. And then he saw it, a winged shadow racing across the muddy yard. A giant frost owl soared across the wall, rising toward the mountaintops. ”Magic!” The marshal made the word a curse. He watched the frost owl disappear into the clouds, a sense of dread choking him like a hangman's noose. Feeling unsteady, he gripped the windowsill, rough stone beneath his calloused hands. He was just a swordsman, a leader of knights, but the world had changed. Against demons and magic, how could swords prevail?

16.

Duncan Rain pelted against his face, cold as ice. Lightning flashed overhead, slas.h.i.+ng an ominous sky. Duncan ran into the teeth of the storm, cursing the wet weather, as if the clouds fought for the Mordant. Soaked to the skin, he ripped his cloak from his shoulders, letting the sodden wool drop to the ground, choosing speed over warmth. Released from the wet weight, he lengthened his stride, desperate to slay the seventh man.

Sword in hand, Duncan followed the trail of trampled gra.s.s. Encased in leather, his longbow beat a rhythm against his back, useless in the rain.

Lightning cracked the sky, revealing a break in the long wall. A gate of some sort lay head, and in front of that gate stood the silhouette of a man, the seventh soldier. His prey stood within easy reach of his longbow...saved by the dark-d.a.m.ned rain. Duncan cursed his ill luck. Tightening his grip on his sword, he ran harder, fighting to close the distance.

A soul-wrenching scream split the air.

Skidding to a stop, Duncan cowered to the ground. Hands over ears, he stared into the twilight sky, half-expecting demons to attack.

Howls and shrieks raged from the north, as if the very gates of h.e.l.l had ripped open, disgorging the d.a.m.ned.

Slinking low, Duncan waited, straining his senses, but nothing attacked. The hideous screams came from the break in the long wall. Perhaps some devil guarded the way north. He gripped his sword, wondering if steel could harm a demon. Determined to finish the hunt, he advanced on the gate.

The screams of the d.a.m.ned beat against his ears, a torture of howls.

Lightning flared, silvering the gateway. Duncan gasped, certain his eyes played tricks. Twelve stone gargoyles reared into the sky. Thrice the height of a tall man, the gargoyles seemed cast in stone, yet...they moved! Like nightmares sprung to life, they writhed against the sky. Wings unfurled and fangs bared, they clawed at the heavens, howling soul-numbing screams.

Duncan shuddered, making the hand sign against evil, wondering if he faced the very gates of h.e.l.l. Every instinct screamed for him to run, to disappear into the south, but for Kath's sake he had to finish the hunt.

Step by step he drew near the gateway.

The great stone beasts writhed overhead.

Gripping his sword, Duncan kept watch, expecting an attack...but gargoyles seemed fixed to their pillars, shrieking a warning into the sky.