Page 193 of Keeper of the Word
Her answer was to gaze at the sovereign’s torch.
Tolvar stilled himself from shaking his head and instead surveyed the horde of soldiers, steadying Valko’s prancing at the same time. He took a breath.
A noise crept from behind. Out from the trees, soldiers wearing Norwell and Anscom uniforms attacked. He shouted to the others, but ’twas too late.
The attackers pounced on them, and before Tolvar could act, five Order knights had been dispatched.
Tolvar pivoted Valko to face the onslaught only to witness the queen be run through.
“Your Majesty!” he cried.
She glanced at the sovereign’s still-lit torch before meeting Tolvar’s eyes. A last command to save the realm. Even as Ferika’s life was extinguished, she appeared regal.
Tolvar commanded Valko forward, his focus on his sword hand’s grip.
The first soldier he downed almost caused him to lose his grip. He tightened it, silently cursing himself. He would avenge his queen!
The others rushed to the fray, and it did not take long to down the rest.
Joss yelled, “We need to retrieve the Edan Stone!”
She was right. He called for Ghlee and the others to follow.
But from the corner of his eye, Tolvar noted the retreat of a man combing back through the trees.
Turas!
Tolvar sprang Valko into action. He halted the stallion in front of Turas. The Earl of Anscom flung his hands into the air.
“Tolvar! I surrender!”
Tolvar slid from the saddle, his sword already in hand.
“Traitor.” Tolvar swiped his sword and opened a gash in Turas’s chest. The man howled and hunched protectively. “Coward.” Tolvar slashed his sword again making two gashes bloom red on his forearms.
“Cease!” Turas yelped in pain; his eyes pled with Tolvar’s. “I surrender!”
Tolvar’s sword plunged through Turas’s chest. The man choked out a grunt.
“I told you I would kill you,” Tolvar said, disengaging his sword from Turas’s body. The life went out of Turas’s eyes.
Tolvar’s sword hung at his side. Stars, he was already spent.
“M’lord!” Joss sat tense on her steed. “We must get the Edan Stone.”
“Aye.” Tolvar mounted Valko and followed Joss to the others before directing them toward Anscom’s army, which Crevan obviously led alone.
In the midst of the battlefield, his nostrils flared under the odor. Sweat. Blood. Men’s innards. The foul smell of bowels being released upon death. War. Slowly, they zigzagged through the clash of men. Earls against their neighbors. Neighbors against their friends. Friends against all reason. Grenden against Lenfore. The facial expressions he trotted past were made of rotten intentions, repugnant deeds, and repulsive outrage. ’Twas disgraceful. ’Twas misguided.
’Twas war.
Evening laid to waste. The Falling Leaves Full Moon had begun its ascent by the time Tolvar had fought through the masses. He thought he could make out the form of Norwell and a few Brones he recognized from his time in imprisonment. Crevan could not be far.
Someone cried out, and Tolvar caught a soldier pointing toward the city.
The torch of the sovereign had been doused. King Rian was dead.
Men, comprehending the act, paused, glancing about as if in astupor. Tolvar noted more than one man was marked with a dark trace across his neck. One man began sobbing.
