Stay with me, brothers.
The chair splintered against the charge of a baron, who collapsed away from Dawkin. Dawkin heaved another free chair into the path of an oncoming assailant – this one dressed as a bishop – who stepped to the side, narrowly averting the same fate.
Damn it! he cursed as the man charged. He flung off his clerical robes, which fell behind him as he ran, revealing a suit of white mail. The brilliant sheen nearly distracted Dawkin from the rise and fall of his hilt. Dawkin instinctively lifted his sword to block the anticipated blade.
The weight of a weapon indeed fell upon his. Only, where he expected steel, he found . . . nothing.
His assailant grimaced as he shoved the might of an unseen weapon down on Dawkin. Dawkin blinked. Had his eyes deceived him?
Marks of blood – from the assailant’s last victim – hung in the air above him, suspended, as if foreshadowing his fate.
What is this?
. . . Glass that cannot shatter . . .
No, it can’t be. ‘Tis impossible.
His adversary shoved Dawkin back. He lunged at him, with Dawkin narrowly glancing the translucent blade from piercing his shoulder. The familiar clang his sword sang awakened Dawkin from his disbelief.
This is happening, he realized, his consciousness thrust into the present once more as he blocked a cut coming down upon him. His peripheral vision confirmed his fears: the weapons their combatants bore shimmered and shone unlike any metal or material of armament known to man. Like the false bishop, other enemies wielded invisible blades. Still more swung weapons of materials seemingly both familiar and foreign: steel with an unearthly sheen, polished wood bearing ringlets of geometric patterns that appeared as written language, and leaves with the flexibility and strength of leather. From the walls and corners of the hall, the assailants pulled their arms. Where one would expect a solid barrier, enemies dug their fingers and hands into facades that gave way as easily as one dips into water.
As the imposters gathered their weapons and attacked, the rest in the hall scurried, their frantic direction having no rhyme nor reason. Too many had elbowed and crammed toward the entryway; those not trampled made for easy targets, with the assailants’ weapons spilling blood and cracking bones in quick succession. The other barons and clergy in the hall not clogging the exit fought back to the best of their abilities, using every bench, candlestick, and free item as weaponry to compensate for their lack of arms.
Pigs to the slaughter. Even as he took down another combatant, the realization waned on him. Whatever warning Cora had imparted on him had come to him too late. How had she known? He asked himself for the thousandth time as he fought off another. Why had the warning been so cryptic? So hidden? So delayed?
Two barons charged him. One with a blade broad and clear, his also stained with blood. The other wielded a double-headed ax seemingly of wood, which Dawkin knew could cut through him as cleanly as any sawyer’s tool. At once, he cleared his head as his training had taught him, bolting toward his latest foes with focus and intent.
Before their clash, the two collapsed at his feet, their faces pained in agony. Their hands fell to their back, signaling wounds to their rear. Instinctively, and without thought, Dawkin extended his sword to the threat behind them –
Only to find Symon in full helm, his visor raised.
“You see me?!” Symon yelled as he brandished a short sword. The unfamiliar blade glowed with a dull green hue, an object no doubt stolen from one of their attackers.
Recognizing his brother’s signature look – that squint he had during intense training or battle – he nodded. “Aye!”
“Fall into our circle,” he motioned to the stage where the throne had once stood. Dawkin looked to the base of the stairs where the battered chair lay, stunned he had made his way to his brothers so swiftly.
Taking to the stairs two at a time, he ascended the platform. To his left, Ely stood midway up on the steps; he swung a staff at two barons who bore long axes. Voiceless fought among him and Symon, at various sections of the staircase, where atop Gerry stood, unarmed and wide-eyed.
Dawkin fell inside beside his younger brother, who continued to look past him to the carnage before them.
“Gerry, are you hurt?”
“Eh, what?”
“Can you fight?!”
“Aye, yes, I mean.”
“Then here.” Dawkin offered his sword. Gerry took it, albeit with hesitation.
“What about you?” he squeaked.
Dawkin – his next move lost on even him – looked around, finding the answer in tragedy. To his far-right, a silent knight had fallen to one knee, a spearpoint having found the edge where his gorget and pauldron met. He gripped the spear protruding from his shoulder while his attacker – an imposter disguised as a man of the cloth – put his weight into the weapon. From behind the imposter, an enemy with a halberd closed in.
Eight steps lay between Dawkin and his comrade. Dawkin landed on just one, jumping to the step behind the knelt Voiceless. With momentum on his side, Dawkin leapt over the knight and into the two assailants.
Caught by surprise, the imposters failed to raise their weapons in defense. Dawkin fell into them, the weight of his armor knocking the breath from both men. And himself.
Dawkin rolled off the two, stunned and confused. From outside his line of sight, he heard his name.
“Dawkin!” cried Symon, perhaps, or maybe Ely.
No matter. Dawkin blinked, finding the curve of a blade above him. He spun on his side, the weapon’s edge clanging on the stone tile beside him. The blade rose again. Dawkin crossed his gauntlets as it fell upon him, the plate bracing the metal.
Whether due to its sharpness or its material, the edge managed to pierce – however slightly –the thick plate of his gauntlets. The coldness of the blade shocked Dawkin, and yet, his forearms burned with the intensity of a smith’s forge. His personage suddenly flushed, he looked up into a face he recognized: High Bishop Perceval. The whole of his visage reflected the man he had known for years, down to the creases he had developed around his eyes in recent years. All his features seemed familiar save one.
His eyes.
At any other time, the detail would have been lost on Dawkin. In the heat of battle, however, he could not avoid it. Blue eyes – of who he did not know – glared back at him, conveying the maniacal intentions of their keeper. The imposter Perceval leaned into his blade, pressing its edge further into Dawkin’s flesh. Dawkin ground his teeth, turning to his sides for some reach of salvation.
The assailants he had knocked down had regained their composure, just as the silent knight they had tried to break came down upon them. The Voiceless clapped his steel-clad hands together and swept them overhead, bringing them crashing down on the nearest of his attackers. The other produced a dirk, which he promptly delivered into the side of the knight, its point piercing through the thinnest of mail and plate.
The knight collapsed into the man, flailing about. The first stood to hold the Voiceless in place as his comrade dug the knife deeper and deeper into the doomed guard.
Hardly a moment transpired. A pause. A breath. Yet one of his own fell before Dawkin, signaling a fate he would soon endure.
He stared back at his captor. That face – yes, of Perceval – glared at him. ‘Twas familiar. Not only because it bore the look of the High Bishop: It also carried the reminiscence of another.
The imposter leaned further into his blade. Its edge dug deeper into Dawkin’s forearms while simultaneously creeping closer towards his throat.
Those eyes . . . Wait! No! It’s not . . . It couldn’t.
The imposter inched nearer. “That’s right, Your Majesty.” He grinned as if knowing every word racing through Dawkin’s mind. “I know exactly who you are.” He stared at Dawkin through the slit of his visor, boring a hole into his soul.
My namesake. Brother Dawkin. From the monastery. But how? Why?
“I know what you and your brothers are,” the monk continued. “A scourge to this kingdom. A curse to Marland. Now, your reign ends here.”
The searing pain in his arms vanished, as did the pressure. The imposter lifted his blade high, its point aimed at the base of Dawkin’s neck. Dawkin crossed his unsteady arms, bracing himself for the attack, perhaps for the last time . . .
The monk fell back under the tackle of another. The weight off of him, Dawkin shuffled onto his elbows as he struggled to find his footing. The one who rushed Brother Dawkin swept around – the imposter’s sword now in his hand – toward the assailants closest to Dawkin, the ones who had felled the silent knight. In quick succession, he thrust his newfound weapon into the weak spots of the first enemy, then the second. An impressive move, as good as any Symon or their best fighters could execute.
Dawkin saw the hand bearing the sword pause before him. A worn appendage. Wrinkled . . .
Of Lord Artus.
“Grandfather?”
“Come now, lad. Up to the platform.” Dawkin hardly had the chance to rise before the elder – with a surge of strength – yanked him to his feet. Dawkin stumbled up the stairs. The remnants of the silent knights allowed him to pass. He hurried up to fall in beside his brother, Gerry, once more. Ely and Symon, seeing their sibling saved, retreated up the steps. Their grandfather joined them from the other side.
“You well?” Symon asked.
“Aye,” Dawkin nodded.
“Don’t you do that again!” Ely roared.
“I might not have a chance.”
Dawkin looked past his brothers. The discord of the attack had peaked. Those allies closest to the assailants had fallen quickly, including many of the Reigning Council. However, Dawkin counted one or two elder barons still moving a limb, desperate to crawl to safety. The others – the few – had sunk back to the fringes of the hall, as timid as beaten dogs.
The imposters, too many to count, coalesced. They came into line with each other, their sights set on the ranks of Voiceless they had thinned. The silent knights, in turn, kept their backs to the Saliswaters. They extended whatever weapons they had: busted chairs, weapons snatched from their attackers, or just their gauntleted hands, all smeared in sweat and blood.
A creak interrupted the cautious stalemate. Dawkin looked up and over the mass to spot the assailants stacking tables and benches before the doors they had just closed.
“It’s over,” Brother Dawkin boasted as he swept his bishop’s robe over his head, revealing a suit of mail beneath. He pointed to the blade in Artus’ hand. “I’ll be having my sword back now.”
“Come and take it!” his lord bellowed, his battle-hardened voice stiffening the necks of all in the hall.
“As you wish,” the monk conceded. He ushered his men to the last row of silent knights who stood between them and the Saliswaters.
Dawkin inched closer to his siblings. Gerry, fixated on the enemy, groped for someone to hold onto before finding Symon’s forearm.
“Brothers, I’m, I’m . . .” he started.
“Us too,” Symon finished for him.
Ely swung away from the lot of them, facing the enemy. He unclasped his helm, tossing it aside.
“Ely,” Dawkin began, seeing his brother exposed, without cover or disguise to mask his identity.
“I gather you know all our secrets.” Ely descended the stairs, coming to the middle of the line of the Voiceless. “You think yourselves so damn brilliant. Perhaps you are. But I wonder: How will greater Marland react to you trying to wipe out an entire generation of nobles, let alone their king?”
Brother Dawkin, coming before Ely front and center, smirked. “You must be the snarky one?”
“The one and only.”
“Then you may have already gathered the answer. We destroy. We conceal. Then we step into our roles to replace those we’ve removed.
“Now, I must admit, there are not enough of us to act for all we have slain. Not with this round. And those who witnessed this attack will need to be . . . convinced . . . to go along with our ruse. Or risk their memory wiped out for good. Nothing we cannot handle.”
“No one will ever believe any one of you to be the king,” Ely insisted.
“A bold statement, coming from King Fool,” Brother Dawkin snickered. “And that is where you err. We will step into the seat of the Throne. We will reign. Rule. As your personage. Those who doubt us will face the noose. You know a little something of clandestine hangings, now don’t you?”
The brothers shared a glance. Even Ely’s confidence bristled as he shifted in place.
“Yes, Baron Tristan was one of ours. Like his brother, Sir Ernald. The usurping they started did not end with your abolishment of Har-Kin Boivin. It lives on, with many and more foxes in your den than you could ever know.”
“Bastards,” Artus seethed. “You bloody bastards.” The elder Saliswater tightened his grip on the hilt of his sword. The web of his veins, from his hands to his brow, bulged — the veteran within awakened. The man known only in legend by his moniker, The Gauntlet, returned.
“Nay, we have fathers,” the brother admitted. “Well, some of us, I presume.” Other imposters in his midst chuckled, inching nearer their intended targets.
“Whoever you serve,” Ely started again, “whatever they – or you – stand to gain from this attack, we can provide with an agreement, here and now. My brothers and I will concede what we must, in the name of King Jameson. Enough nobles are present to cast their votes for a treaty, which will stand as legal in the eyes of Mar and men. We can afford a truce for whatever you wish – land in Colinne, ships, gold – without any further bloodshed.”
Ely relented. With his pause, the whole of the hall quieted as if to consider his proposal.
“A fine offer,” Brother Dawkin finally answered. “But what we want, what we always desire, is not something you’re willing to give lightly.”
“Which is?” Ely inquired with apprehension.
Brother Dawkin shifted his sights to the wrecked throne chair at his side.
“Your ending.”
He raised his foot over it, snapping the armrest in half with his heel.
The Voiceless bent their knees and steadied their fists before them. Ely also fell into a defensive stance, as did Symon and Artus. Dawkin noted Gerry, even for all his distress, fitted his hands tighter around his sword grip, extending its point toward Brother Dawkin.
Brother Dawkin wavered before Ely and his line of silent knights. He bent over to pick the armchair length he had broken. Holding it before him, he swiped at them mockingly, his toy weapon feet from his targets. The Voiceless stood, unflinching, as the imposters before them gathered, closing any remaining gaps between them.
“Make peace with us!” Ely pleaded one last time.
“Nay,” Brother Dawkin replied.
“We’ll slay the half of you! I swear it!”
“Not bloody likely.”
Brother Dawkin cast his armrest aside. His hand now bare, one of his comrades tossed him another arming sword – this one a cobalt-blue metal – which he caught with ease, not even looking in the direction from whence it came. Then he paused, opening his other palm as another of his men handed him a pitcher.
“Enjoy the wine.”
The monk lobbed the pitcher over the heads of the Voiceless. It shattered on the platform, spilling its contents on the spot where the chair once sat. Almost instantly, Dawkin weakened. His knees buckled. Nearly swooning, through watery eyes he spotted wisps floating up from the puddle of wine. He pivoted, wanting to yell and wave his kin and knights away from the vapors.
Yet, he could not. For where his speech should have rung came nothing, as his arms disobeyed his intentions to remain at his sides.
Rather than act, the whole of his body relented, leaving him immobile. At a loss to do anything but stare, he turned his eyes to the second, third, and fourth pitchers that took to the air before landing amongst them. Just like the first, the clay containers smashed upon impact, releasing the poison within.
The silent knights dodged the pitchers while their eyes never left the encroaching enemy. Their training served them well; any other men-at-arms would have broken formation. Their discipline, their commitment to keeping their line intact, came at a cost, though. For from their unyielding position, they remained exposed to the tendrils, which rose to pollute their ranks. Those closest stayed in formation as they did their best to lean away. No matter, for they soon showed signs of impairment, what with lowered shoulders and heavy heads.
All the while, Brother Dawkin and his men held back, allowing the toxins to take effect.
Dawkin, for all the fight he could muster, failed in his balance. His palm met the platform. He leaned on it with the last of his strength, his legs having lost the will to carry him.
So this is it? he mused in his haze, the horizon of his fate close at hand. I fall. My brothers, my grandfather, we end. We. End.
The scope of his vision contracted. The edges darkened as all in front of him became cast in fog. A curtain fell, then lifted suddenly, as he fought the closing of his eyelids, the coming of eternal sleep.
Thump, thump, thump, thump, thump.
The thundering sounds above, like a herd of horses galloping atop the roof, swept up their collective attention. Dawkin glanced upward, expecting the roof to cave in. Nay, its structure prevailed while the encroaching threat stormed the ears of all in the hall.
Dawkin struggled to right himself. He looked about, finding his siblings attempting to do the same. Gerry collapsed away from Symon onto his left side. Dawkin knelt before him as Symon came along his other side.
Crack, crack, crack.
As his little brother leaned into his shoulder, Dawkin looked up. The section of the roof just above threatened to cave in, the bulge in the ceiling growing with each sharp turbulence.
Brother Dawkin and his cohorts – at last wide-eyed and off their guard – scrambled as the ceiling fell. Their ranks broke apart with the rain of debris, which swelled to a deluge of wood and sedge. The collapse spread out before them, the shifting materials piling high on a mound bathed in sunlight. A figure landed on the newly-risen peak, cloaked from brow to foot in a flowing slate-colored robe.
All paused before its wake. Some brushed the dirt and dust from their personage. Others simply stood in awe, Dawkin among them. Along with the monk who shared his name.
The hooded figure nary raised its hooded brow when Brother Dawkin, shaking himself from shock, pointed. “You . . . Betrayer! What are you doing here? You wicked –”
Ghost? Demon? God? Dawkin suspected those terms and more from the monk, whose jaw remained unhinged, his lips parted, ready to grant words to his thoughts. Instead, a gurgling erupted, a slew of slurred speech followed by a trickle of blood.
Brother Dawkin’s index finger bent, then his arm lowered before the whole of him dropped to the base of the mound. His body half in shadow, half in the circlet of sunlight from above, the white blade which had claimed him protruded upward, its pulsing glow showing the life it had robbed from its victim.
Those imposters not paralyzed by fear rushed forward, spurred by their martial instinct. As quick as the first of them started, the gray figure stayed ahead of their motion, one flow of momentum at a time.
It flipped from the top of the mound to land in the shadows before the fallen monk. Retrieving the white blade it had thrown, the anomaly suddenly stood awash in light, the sword in its hand radiating bolder and brighter.
Then it moved.
Circles and arcs. Wide in reach. Flashing with fury. The sword seemed to lengthen at all the right moments as the cloaked aberration turned from one set of imposters to another, pivoting only once those before it tumbled.
A few more seasoned assailants approached the hooded one, offering their wary swords and cautious stances. Their vigilance saw the figure answer in turn, first with a pause, followed by bent knees and elbows held close.
From his peripheral vision, Dawkin spotted sets of imposters branching out, sticking to the shadows as they moved to the flanks.
“Brothers, Grandfather –” Dawkin cried.
“I see them,” Artus responded first. “Defend the sides and rear of, of that, fighter.”
The Voiceless answered the call, spreading their line to cover the cloaked one’s most vulnerable points. Artus and his brothers hurried to their ranks to take their place among the silent knights. Dawkin led Gerry to a gap between two Voiceless, one of whom took his beleaguered brother under his shoulder. Gerry leaned into the knight, allowing Dawkin to slip from his embrace to join their hooded guardian.
“Dawkin!” Symon cried, too late.
The cloaked figure merely glanced at Dawkin as he hopped over the bodies of allies and foes. Dawkin joined the side of his new accomplice, his raised spirits tempered by the uncertainty of an unknown.
“Whatever your reason for fighting them, thank Mar you’re here,” Dawkin said.
The draped one turned – offering a flat, black oval under the hood, its face obscured – nodding in response. It spoke no words, though the radiance from its blade dimmed so that it appeared as ordinary steel.
Their assailants edged closer. Many still bore the familiar faces Dawkin had known all his life. Barons or sons of barons. Bishops and clergy. Knights. From all manner of court sessions and other gatherings. And yet a handful showed the signs of duress, with their garb askew and their grease paint ruined by sweat.
Never take on the horde. Only a few at a time. Or one. Piece by piece, wear down your enemy if no other clear path to victory stands out. His father once told him that. Or perhaps he had read it in the histories of the Century War? No matter. The adage struck him as apt and just, sharpening his focus and setting his resolve. He took in the whole scene before him, noting the close quarters made tighter by fallen enemies and comrades alike, overturned tables and benches, not to mention the debris from the new hole above. He wrapped his gauntleted hand around his blade, preparing to engage the imposters in half-swording.
“What say you?” Dawkin asked of the stranger by his side. “I can take the two in front of me, so long as you don’t –”
Interrupting his words, the figure leapt. The blade it bore rose above its head, foreshadowing the strike of steel to come. The imposters raised the tips of their swords and halberds in turn, threatening to impale the hero before its landing. In both awe and worry, Dawkin blitzed forward, hoping his advance would distract one or two of his opponents.
With his first step, the expected and familiar occurred. His calves and thighs contracted. The air rushed through the slit of his visor. He set his sights on the scene beyond the ring of light, to the enemies still hiding in the shadows of the covered hall. His breath held, his other foot ready to bear his weight. With his exhale, his second step took flight.
His third began just like his other two when a change occurred, contrary to all his expectations. His muscles suddenly relieved, weightlessness overtook him. The gust through his visor disappeared. Those in the dimness suddenly found themselves exposed as a brilliance – like something of a second sun – burst, its source emanating from the figure on high.
The assailants raised their forearms and hands to shield their eyes, turning away from the figure as it descended. Dawkin followed their lead, the blinding light invading the opening in his visor. He merely glimpsed the white blade before his eyes pained and instinctively shut. Though he pivoted from the figure, his torso bent toward it, as he was somehow pulled inward much like a ship caught in a current.
Crack!
A clap Dawkin could only compare to thunder deafened him. A surge of hot air blew him back while the light blinding him went out. Sailing through the hall, Dawkin opened his eyes midair. He spotted the figure bent on one knee, dimmed blade in one hand, the top part of a broken orb in the other.
A sharp pain jolted up the right side of Dawkin’s back as his left shoulder blade collided with a hard surface. Streaks and lines swept before him as he rolled. His head spun. His consciousness became a haze.
Reeling to a stop on his back, Dawkin groaned. He blinked through the throbbing in his head, the aches in his body, managing to turn his head.
The figure straightened. It released the remnants of its orb, which shattered amongst the other fragments of the crystal.
Is that . . . smoke? Indeed, from the translucent bits, tendrils rose, white wisps not unlike fumes from a fire. Dawkin lifted his head for a better look. A jab shot up his neck. He winced, surrendering to the agony, to rest his head back on the ground. He unclasped the strap of his helm to slide it off. Now free, he gasped.
Dawkin studied the floor with determination. In doing so, his vision began to clear, allowing him to grasp that the tendrils were not from fire. Yes, like smoke, the vapor rose. Yet it also turned and spread, fanning out from the figure like a web emanating from a spider. Those on the floor still rolling and moaning – the imposters, mostly – soon fell silent as the sweeping mist took them.
A current stretched in Dawkin’s direction. Against every instinct urging him to remain on the ground, Dawkin fought to his knees, then his feet. He nearly keeled over as he coughed up blood.
With one hand free, the anomaly retrieved another orb from inside its cloak. It approached the barricade the imposters had mounted before the closed doors. Cocking back its arm, Dawkin glimpsed the dark green liquid inside the crystal sphere as the contents swirled, revealing the sparkling translucent bits it held.
In an instant, the figure released its orb. Dawkin barely had a moment to process the projectile’s potential, but in instinct – after seeing the figure pivot and shield itself – he did likewise.
A blast of heat and light washed over Dawkin, who shut his eyes firmly while he lifted his arms before his face. The force of the explosion shoved against all, compelling him to peddle back. By chance, the path behind him remained clear of bodies and debris so that he only sank to one knee while the rest of him remained upright.
The air settled. Dawkin peeked out from under his hands. The once-mighty doors of the hall now stood as two splintered lengths on blemished hinges, while the makeshift rampart had been reduced to blackened debris and falling ash.
The figure – back hunched, knees bent – inspected its slate-colored cloak. Somehow, the unassuming cape and hood had served as protection more resilient than armor against such a formidable discharge. Only the dust on its sleeves and the jostled cowl showed the effects of the blast, leading the anomaly to brush and straighten its covering. In doing so, the rim of its hood drew back, exposing a golden ribbon from underneath. A single curl. So enchanting.
No. It couldn’t be . . .
The hood reclaimed the ringlet as the figure turned back to Dawkin. The cowl framed the abyss beneath it, offering a blackened oval where any would expect to see a face.
No porcelain skin. Nor green eyes. Nor blond strands. Only pitch and emptiness.
Impossible.
Dawkin’s lips parted. He knew her name. Didn’t he? It managed to evade him, disappearing from his mind and absent from his voice. He reached out to the anomaly, knowing it to be her, even as hood and cloak spun away to flap in the air. In a sprint, the slate-colored hero slipped through the opening and into the shadows.
Dawkin grunted. He bounded from his bent knee onto his two feet; they wobbled beneath him like those of a babe learning how to walk. He forced himself to step, finding his footfalls awkward despite his determination.
“James!” cried Everitt from some corridor beyond the hall. “James! You there?!”
“Aye!” Dawkin finally spoke, his throat burning as he did. His fingers found his neck, allowing him to remember he stood unhelmed.
“You in the Great Hall?”
“Yes, but stay back!” he urged, knowing Everitt would ignore the plea and come anyway. Still, he had to do something to buy time. “There, there is a poison by the hall doors. Vapors. I am fine, and you will be too, so long as we all keep our distance.” Dawkin waited. Everitt’s steps echoed in response, aligning with his suspicions. He continued to approach, perhaps wanting to move in as close as possible.
Not waiting to see if his Right Captain would heed his warning or not, Dawkin retreated to the stage. He hastened up to the first sibling he found: Ely. His brother, reeling on his back at the base of the staircase, stared up at him with glassy eyes.
“Dawkin,” he blinked through tears, “is that you?”
“Aye. What’s left of me.” Dawkin hoisted his brother to his feet, who held his palm to the side of his head as he scanned the bodies, both dead and dazed.
“What the bloody hell happened?” Ely pondered.
“Poisoned wine. Potions. Vapors. You name it.”
“Dear Mar, why can’t these gatherings ever be simple?”
Leave it to Ely to joke at a time like this. Dawkin hardly had the chance to admonish him when a Voiceless stirred, then moaned. Both Ely and Dawkin turned as Symon attempted to lift himself from under a silent knight. They rolled the guard, limp and lifeless, gingerly off their brother.
“He, he saved me,” Symon coughed. He sat up, the carnage of the Great Hall coming into focus for him. He groped for his sword, his sight never leaving the imposters scattered before them.
“They’re subdued,” Dawkin assured him. “For now.”
From the sprawled bodies close by, a hand reached for them. Dawkin recoiled, startled, before recognizing the hand.
Artus.
He and his brothers rushed to him. A Voiceless and his attacker had been blown back atop the former king, pinning him down underneath their lifeless bodies. He struggled to lift himself from under their combined weight, managing only to free his arm.
“Are you hurt?” Dawkin arrived first. “Did you break anything?”
“My right side, my ribs, ache,” their grandfather grimaced.
Symon grabbed Dawkin by the shoulder to pull him back.
“Help me lift these men off of him. And quickly,” Symon urged.
Dawkin looked Symon up and down. “You’re hardly fit to stand, let alone lift.”
“I’ll manage,” Symon insisted.
“You two want to lend a hand?” Ely asked as he bent to lift one of the bodies by the feet. “Literally, I mean. Dawkin, you grab one of this chap’s arms, Symon the other –”
“James!” their Right Captain called from beyond, his voice louder than before. “James!”
“We have company.” Dawkin looked to the top of the stage.
“Get Gerry up and ready,” Symon nodded. He reached down for the set of arms opposite of the legs Ely held; he ground his teeth, fighting through whatever pain he had. “We’ll tend to Grandfather.”
Dawkin bounded up the steps as his brothers heaved the first body off of Artus. Even before he reached Gerry, he spotted what he knew would be a problem: the curled form of a body, the wrinkled clothes covering him, and the sad mop of hair cupped between two shaking hands. Crippling fear. The kind which had been Gerry’s companion his whole life. Much of the time, it mocked him from the shadows, threatening to come out into the light only at the most inopportune moments.
Now? Dawkin asked, nearly turning away in disgust at the sight of his brother. You act like this now?
“Brother!” Dawkin cried, kneeling to rouse him.
Gerry looked up, at first not recognizing his brother. Settling on Dawkin’s steely eyes, he came to, panic washing over his face.
“I saw it. I saw it. Demon. From the ceiling. It fell. From heaven.” Gerry sank before Dawkin’s grip, even as his brother held him firmly. All purpose, along with any hint of vigor, had vanished from him. A shell of a man remained, far from what would pass as a king. “How does a demon come from heaven?”
“Never you mind, you hear?!” Dawkin shook him by the shoulders. “Gerry, you must stand. Rise. Enough of your whimpering!”
“The demon! It flew in. From the sky. The sky!”
Dawkin backhanded Gerry across his mouth. “You’re a king!”
Gerry wept. Dawkin delivered another blow.
“A king!” Dawkin reminded him once more.
Tears soaked Gerry’s face. Dawkin released him, disgusted. As his little brother curled up into a ball, Symon came to his side with Ely close, though he kept his distance.
“What did you do?!” Symon demanded as he cupped Gerry’s head.
“Tried to beat some sense into him,” Dawkin snickered. “It didn’t work.”
“You bastard. You laid a finger on him. You ought to –”
“Brothers!” Ely interrupted. “I hate to spoil the drama, but we still have this to deal with.” He thrust his sword toward the scene before them, which threatened to erupt again. The masses subdued by the blast and ensuing vapors had started to stir, their senses returning as they turned onto their backs or propped themselves upon their haunches. Some heaved or wretched, though Dawkin knew such delays would pass.
The footfalls in the corridor leading to the Great Hall drew their concern. Dawkin and Ely glanced back at Gerry while he lay in Symon’s arms.
“It’s still his turn,” Symon insisted. “He bears the garb of a king. Even the wounds of a fight, thanks to Dawkin. Help me get him to his feet.”
Symon dug his hands under the pit of Gerry’s arms, ready to lift him, while his other two brothers stared.
“Well?” Symon asked.
Dawkin closed his eyes. “I invoke the Rule of Mercy.”
A sharp pain resonated from his jaw through the whole of his head.
Better expect another one. His suspicions proved correct. Another blow landed upon him, this one to his left cheek.
Though his ears rang, he managed to hear grunts. He forced his eyes open through the blinding pain to find Ely and Symon scuffling.
“He has no right!” Symon cried.
“It’s the Law of Terran. We swore to it.”
“He broke the law when he drugged me.” Symon shoved Ely away. Dawkin peddled back with him, his hands up should Symon redirect his fury. His stronger brother stayed at bay, not wanting to abandon Gerry.
“Your Majesty!” Everitt called. His voice reverberated vehemently, indicating his proximity just outside their confines.
“Dawkin is next to ascend.” Ely approached Symon in earnest. “Gerry is, well, Gerry. He cannot rule nor summon in this condition. You must . . . allow Dawkin the Rule of Mercy.”
Symon bent down to inspect his little brother. He wiped a line of blood from the corner of Gerry’s mouth, which stretched down to his chin. “You’ll pay for this,” Symon promised Dawkin. He turned his back to him as he shielded Gerry. He looked to Ely. “Well, go on. Grab a helm from one of the others. Or two. Nay, three, so we can hide Gerry. No one can see him like this.”
“Dawkin . . .”
The strained voice drew their attention. Propped up against an overturned table rested Artus, who waved Dawkin toward him. Dawkin started for his grandfather, then hesitated. He looked to Symon.
“Go,” Symon granted, tempering his anger for a moment.
Dawkin hopped over fallen ally and foe to come to Artus’ side.
“What is it?” Dawkin asked, glancing over his shoulder in the direction of the hall doors. “Everitt will be here at any moment.”
His breath struck Dawkin; each inhale and exhale deliberate, his effort pained and forced. Sweat beaded his face, glistening in the low light, in contrast to the grime he bore.
“Are you –”
Artus thrust his hand onto Dawkin. He gripped the meat between his neck and shoulder. Dawkin winced though he fought to keep his eyes open.
“Listen,” Artus whispered through his teeth. The skin of his face tightened as he locked eyes with Dawkin. “Remember what I taught you in Arcporte while all your brothers were away, frolicking on the Continent.”
It pained Dawkin to recall the advice his grandfather had urged, along with his willingness to take it. What have I become? Dawkin had asked himself with every issuance and action he despised. The justification he used – all in the name of Marland – had worn thin by the time his brothers had returned.
For the greater good. That was his mantra. His truth in a sea of disgrace and deceit.
For the greater good. For the greater good. For the greater good . . .
“You are the true heir.”
Dawkin – his internal dialogue broken, his mindfulness returning – stared right back at the Gauntlet. The wise, old patriarch he had none had vanished, replaced by the feared warrior of legend. Right there, capturing his full attention.
“Your father’s son. His favorite. And mine. For the sole reason that you can hold this kingdom together. Your brothers have their place, whether they know it or not. Without you, Marland is done for.”
“But my brothers . . . I can’t do this alone.”
“One throne. One crown. One scepter. They can support you if you require it. But all the power can only be held by one. A leader.”
Artus loosened his grip on Dawkin. He lessened his stare.
“So lead, My King,” he pleaded.
He let go of Dawkin.
“James!”
Everitt’s cry rang loud and true through the Great Hall. Dawkin rose. He swung around to meet him.
“Sir Everitt!”
Not bothering to glance in the way of his siblings, Dawkin strode up to his Right Captain. Everitt, with what few knights he could muster, surveyed the whole of the gallery. His eyes scrutinized His Majesty with as much intensity until Dawkin gripped his forearm in a soldierly embrace.
“You well?”
“I – yes, I am.”
“And the men? The losses?”
Everitt somehow fell more solemn. “Several. Too many to recollect at this point.” Everitt continued to scan everything. “What in heaven and hell happened? And your armor? Why are you dressed as a Voiceless?”
“A last-minute show of force. Unannounced. It seems such theatrics saved my life.”
“Mar be good.”
A silent knight marched to join Dawkin by his left side. To his right, another Voiceless clanked as he struggled to support a man in helm, partially armored. His brothers’ ruse to hide their identity proved hasty at best. Yet seeing that all stood or laid about preoccupied, it did the trick.
“Your Majesty?” Everitt began. “What is your command?” 265Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡMFC4mb8vmg
