3

THE NEW KING

The crowd filed out of the Howling Hall. I remained where I was, as did Lukan and Magoran. Avokis, who I hadn’t even noticed before, started to pace back and forth, while Keterlyn scooped up one of the dead ravens and held it gently in her hands, stroking its limp head.

Lukan stood awkwardly, frowning down at the bloody knife in his grasp.

“You did well, my lord,” Magoran said, placing a hand on his shoulder.

“He died so quickly,” Lukan murmured. “Is that normal?” his eyes found me, as though I were on the expert on all things related to death. I supposed I was.

“Yes,” I said. Though generally, people tend to resist a lot more.

“And so much blood!” Lukan shook his head in amazement. “Really makes you think. We’re just full of the stuff, aren’t we?”

“Quite full,” Magoran said.

“And I’m really king now?”

“You really are.”

“So I can do whatever I want? Everyone has to do exactly what I say?”

Magoran bowed his head. “That is indeed how it works, my king.”

Lukan’s frown turned into a smile which continued to grow as he descended the stairs down from the dais and danced across the empty hall. He spun, arms out, and laughed. Then he stopped and his eyes found me.

“You!” he said. “You’re my First Blade still?”

“I am, my king,” I said.

“But you’re old now, aren’t you?”

“Oldest I’ve ever been.”

“Do you still think you could beat anyone in the world?”

I shrugged. “I reckon so.” No point in mentioning that my best years were past me and that it was only a matter of time before some young warrior took my place. That was the cycle.

“My father liked you a lot,” said the boy. “He said you were the most excellent warrior the world had ever seen, and that he was blessed to have the greatest First Blade serving him.” The king wrinkled his nose. “I’m not sure I like you much.”

I hid my surprise. “Have I done something to offend you, my lord?” There were six other members of the king’s guard present, and they were all looking at me. How many of them were listening hopefully, praying that they got the opportunity to strike me down and replace me?

“Offend me?” said the king. “I don’t know. Maybe. But you always look so…sad. I don’t like that. It ruins my mood. I wish you’d look more…I don’t now, fearsome, or intimidating.”

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I didn’t know what to say, so I said nothing.

“My king—” Magoran started.

Lukan held up a hand. He was looking at his other guards. “Which of you men think you could beat Sigmund in a fight?”

The guards all exchanged looks. One of them, a slender, cocky man named Tunir, stepped forward. “I could beat him easily, my lord.”

I tensed up. Tunir was a fine duelist, excellent with a sword. Fast, with masterful footwork. My eyes darted from him then back to the king. What was Lukan playing at now? I had a sinking feeling in my gut that Lukan was most definitely not fit for the role.

Now Lukan looked at Magoran. “A First Blade is meant to be the finest guard at my service, yes?”

“Well,” said the old man, “certainly, your First Blade should be the most capable man possible—”

“Then the two of you should fight!” Lukan announced. “I want to start my reign by making sure I have the very best men around me. Sigmund, Tunir, come forward.”

I took a step forward, rolling my shoulders. How could I get out of this? I wasn’t sure there was a way. Tunir looked excited, eyeing me like a hungry wolf preparing to hunt down its prey. Lukan was bouncing around in place, evidently ready to see some blood. Magoran wasn’t going to help me, since the wretched bastard had always hated me. There was nothing I could do, and there was nothing I wanted less than to fight. Twenty years ago I would’ve been exactly like Tunir was now, smiling and baring my teeth and cracking my knuckles, but I was not that man anymore. I didn’t want to live this life.

Keterlyn was staring at me again. I glanced at her and cocked an eyebrow, as though to ask, anything you can do to help? But she just crossed her arms and shook her head ever so slightly. That was okay, I hadn’t expected anything from her. Life was easier without expectations.

Tunir drew his sword, but Magoran cleared his throat. “Perhaps, my king,” said the old man, “it would be better if these men battled each other hand to hand. If Sigmund is indeed too old for his role, he would still make for an invaluable member of your personal guard. And, likewise, it would be a shame to lose young Tunir.”

Lukan seemed to think about this for a long moment. Then he spat. “No. I want blood.” And he looked at me in a manner that made me think that he only wanted my blood.

Did he know? Had someone told him about me and his mother? Or had he mentally compared his face to mine and drawn the obvious conclusion?

Was he trying to get rid of me?

“Draw your blade,” Tunir said, head held high. Tunir brushed a lock of dark hair out of his black eyes. He had his chest puffed out like a bird desperate to showcase itself. He wore iron armor and leather and around his throat was a necklace with the triangular pendant of the divine.

I drew my blade, and so there was no going back. We faced each other while everyone else took a few steps back, clearing space for us in the hall. Tunir was as still as a mountain, body held perfectly in place, awaiting the right moment.

“Fight!” Lukan cried.

Either I was about to kill a man to satisfy a child, or I was going to die. Neither possibility was an appealing one. I stepped toward Tunir, who still hadn’t moved. He would wait for me, then, and be the counter-striker. So be it. I took another step and the tip of my blade darted out in search of his throat. He parried it and, predictably, swung for my head. Fast, and with impeccable technique, but it’d been too obvious, and I was already moving out of the way before it came close. While he missed me, I stomped down on the knee of his lead leg.

Tunir’s leg folded. He collapsed, fell right on to his back, his sword forgotten, clutching at his knee with both hands. His mouth was open in a scream even as I stabbed him through the face.

The tip of my sword broke somewhere inside of Tunir’s head, but that didn’t matter, I didn’t need it anymore. I ripped it out, threw it at the ground, and sighed. An entirely senseless death. It had accomplished nothing, meant nothing. Tunir’s soul would likely be trapped within a raven if he was lucky, or otherwise he would find his head hanging from the Screaming Tree. And, in the material world, another corpse had been made, and no doubt there would be just another grieving family, as if there wasn’t enough grief in the world already.

I turned away from the corpse. I hated this.

“Oh…” Lukan was the first to speak. “That was quick.” And he sounded so fucking disappointed.

“As you can see,” I said dispassionately, “I’m still the best.”