Page 64 of The Sundered Blade

He sent Karreya a grateful nod, and then led the way out the door and into the night, heading towards the palace at a run.

There was a side passage that the gardeners used, but this time of night they should all be either inside the palace or returned to their residences outside the walls. Vaniell had taken this path a thousand times before, but it felt surreal to be here now, with Kyrion and Karreya in tow, no longer hiding his rebellion but ready to do whatever was necessary to stop the King of Garimore from pursuing his murderous course.

They slipped in without challenge, and Vaniell led the way through the narrow corridor and out again, ending up very near the stairs leading up to the main portico at the front of the palace.

He wasn’t sure what he had expected, but it was not the silent crowd of cloaked courtiers lining the carriage road that ended at the foot of the stairs, their numbers illuminated by scores of lanterns and torches alike. They stood tense and watchful, eyeing the doors and each other, neither milling about nor speaking, as if afraid of being overheard. Afraid of what was coming… Afraid they might be next… Afraid of everything, just as he had always been.

How many of them held the secret desire to stand against Modrevin’s tyranny? How many had never felt free to do so, for much the same reasons as Vaniell—because they had something or someone to protect?

And was there any chance that the three of them could break those chains of fear and helplessness for good?

The doors at the top of the stairs finally opened. Ten, twenty, perhaps thirty guards marched through, surrounding the prisoners in their midst. They descended the stairs in a tightly meshed group, each guard with a weapon drawn, watching the crowd warily as if anticipating resistance.

From their position at the rear of the crowd, Vaniell could see little, and felt Kyrion grow tense at his side.

“I still cannot feel her,” the night elf muttered. “And I do not see her. She is not here.”

A wave of murmurs ran through the crowd, and Vaniell looked up to find a familiar, dark-clad figure waiting on the portico.

It was too far to make out details, but he thought there was more gray in the king’s hair and beard than before. Yet the man still managed to appear wise, stern, and kingly, with a gravity of manner that lent solemn dignity to any occasion—even an execution.

But why do this here? Why now? Why gather the people at night and make an example of these prisoners by torchlight? Why risk staining the golden stone at his gates with blood that might never wash out?

Unless he had some other purpose… Unless he believed it would never actually come to the point of lopping off heads.

“He has some other plan…” Vaniell murmured as he searched the darkness around them. “This is all for show. He’s not going to execute them. He wants to scare them, which means…”

A high-pitched scream rang out, then another, and a ripple of terror shot through the crowd, originating from the end nearest the gates. At Vaniell’s side, Kyrion went cold and still, and beneath his hood, his eyes began to glow with a harsh silver light.

“What do you see?”

When Kyrion didn’t answer, Vaniell turned and moved swiftly along the edges of the crowd, as some of the gathered nobles began to back away towards the gardens in search of an escape. And as the crowd thinned, Vaniell was finally able to see the carriage road in front of him, and catch a glimpse of the figure that waited there, alone in the darkness, facing the palace.

It was a man in full armor—tall and broad-shouldered, shrouded in a dark cloak, with a hood over his head and an enormous broadsword at his side.

And as Vaniell began to swear viciously under his breath, the king’s voice rang out over the crowd.

“Perhaps many of you have heard the rumors that my Raven was no longer among us, and that you no longer need fear his blade of retribution. Those rumors seem to have emboldened those who would plot rebellion and sow discord, even at this dark and difficult time in our kingdom’s history.”

Melger’s piercing gaze roamed the heads of the crowd, and none seemed willing to meet it.

“Allow me to assure you that he has never left us. That he will never cease to guard these lands with his unwavering vigilance, and that those who seek to undermine the security of Garimore’s throne will never escape his vengeance.” He paused, as if for dramatic effect, and Vaniell heard sobbing from somewhere amidst the group of prisoners.

“I am not a king who lacks mercy, nor am I without compassion for those who fear the depredations of war. Therefore, I have decided to offer one last chance for those who have spoken or acted against the crown. If you will kneel at the foot of these stairs, and swear fealty once more, you will be forgiven and I will spare your lives. Should you refuse…”

The dark figure drew his sword, then rested it point down before him, gauntleted hands resting on the pommel.

Exactly as the Raven used to do.

“Should you refuse,” the king repeated, “I will no longer hold him back, and these stones will run red as a reminder…”

A metallic clank echoed through the crowd. Every eye turned from Melger to the dark-armored bulk of the Raven—whose threatening form had just fallen to his knees. As if moving in slow motion, he lurched and then fell forward, landing full on his face on the golden stone of the carriage road.

And there, where he had so recently stood, was Kyrion.

Cloaked in shadow, eyes glowing beneath his hood, the Raven’s sword now held in one gray hand.

“Yes.” His voice grated through the air, harsh with menace. “These stones will indeed run red, but withyourblood, imposter.”

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