Uldar did not hesitate. He understood what she wanted to do and wouldn’t stop her. He still felt sorry that she had to do it, though. She and a dozen other Prophets stood their ground and bottle-necked the men rushing the gate. They’d hold, but not for long.
The remaining ten Prophets charged the hundred armored guards, Uldar and Bravham at the front. Only the best of Prophets remained, the lesser-skilled cut down before they reached the citadel. The defenders were the best of Grundar, too. Uldar threw the red banner over the guards’ heads to use his daggers more freely. Metal shattered and steel turned red as the two forces met. Uldar led his followers and cut through the soldiers quickly, their armor useless to the Red power.
Uldar saw Coril with his massive sword cut a man in half. Then a guard cut Coril’s sword-arm off. The Prophet punched his attacker in the face with his other hand and took the attacker’s sword, not having time to get his mighty blade off the ground. As Uldar picked up the banner shortly after it hit the ground, he and the remaining five Prophets rushed into the citadel, some fifty of the remaining armored guards rushing after them. Uldar looked back and saw Coril kill a few more with his attacker’s sword before he was put down, stabbed in the back of the neck by a desperate Grundarin in thick armor.
Uldar closed the doors of the Iron Palace behind them. He knew the Prophets at the citadel gates wouldn’t hold out much longer. He and Bravham set their banners at the doors and Uldar nodded to the other three remaining Prophets. They knew what this meant, and were happy to die near the symbols of their power.
“Thank you,” Uldar said, and rushed on, knowing he didn’t have much time. He was happy that Bravham had made it this far with him, an unfinished love flying towards death.
They made their way through the citadel, climbing up and up to the throne room. It was there that Uldar noticed a gash in Bravham’s head. “You’re hurt!” he said.
“It’s nothing,” Bravham said, her breath a little short. “Where’s the throne room?”
“Up a few corridors. We’ll take the back way, fewer guards.”
Bravham nodded, blood trickling down her face. Uldar didn’t want to see her die.
They encountered heavily armored guards at every corridor, elites in a craze wondering where the attack was coming from. The two Prophets cut them down swiftly. Uldar knew the throne room was close.
“It’s just around this corner,” Uldar said as they ran through a hall carpeted in red with tapestries and ancient weapons hanging from the dark, iron walls.
As they rounded the corner, they saw twenty men all with bows drawn. They immediately fired. Uldar deflected all but one, which nicked him in the shoulder, his first wound for many years. But Bravham could not move her sword fast enough. An arrow struck her in the stomach. Uldar felt the pain as if it were him who’d been struck. But there was no time for sorrow. And she was not dead yet. He did not want to see her die.
They rushed into the men as the elite guards drew their swords. Uldar fired into them then lobbed off two heads at once. He brought his blades back into two separate stomachs, penetrating the armor as if these men were naked. Then he twirled and slashed a throat and a leg. He blocked a rushing sword with one dagger then thrust the other into the face of the attacker. Spinning around, he cut a man across the chest and stabbed the final one through the throat with both daggers at once. The man swayed with his eyes open and fell against the great door to the throne room.
As Uldar pushed power into his daggers to clean the blood off, he saw Bravham lying next to the bleeding men. She had a sword through her chest and her saber stuck in her killer’s middle. She looked almost peaceful. Uldar wished he hadn’t seen her like that, seen her as she died with him able to do nothing but move on quickly. He shed one passionate tear and kissed her still warm cheek. Then he opened the throne room door.
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He closed it quickly, only to see a man clad in gold-lacquered armor rush him with a shining blade.
The great room, dressed in gold and black marble and etched in silver, made faint echoes with the man’s steel boots. Behind him were the twin thrones of the king and queen. Above the sword and shield-shaped seats hung the broken sword of Mendar Steel. Uldar was too quick to be taken by surprise. He blocked the attacker’s blow and stepped aside. Uldar recognized the man as the king of Grundar: Suldar Steel.
“Do not fight me, my king,” Uldar said with his daggers ready.
The king did not listen. He roared and charged at the Prophet again. This time, Uldar caught the king’s sword between his two daggers. He clamped down and twisted it away. The sword clattered against a golden pillar and fell to the ground with a clang, the blue steel leaving a mark on the floor. The king fell back.
“Please, don’t kill me!” he pleaded.
Uldar sheathed his daggers.
“I won’t,” Uldar said, and held out his hand.
The king hesitated.
“I want to talk,” Uldar said.
Suldar stared at the man’s hand in horror, thinking Uldar meant to torture him.
“Please, this was the only way,” Uldar said. He wiped away a little blood that had trickled off his dagger onto his hand and once more presented his cleaned palm to the king.
The king nodded cautiously and took the hand. He shook himself and adjusted his armor.
“You’ve killed many of my people, Prophet. What is it that you have to say to me?” the king asked, and walked over to his throne. He carried himself proudly, despite being defeated.
Uldar picked up the fallen sword, taking a second to admire its slightly blue blade, and walked over to him.
“You are taking Grundar down a path that will only end in suffering. King Suldar, I plead to you in the name of all the powers of all the seven planets, do not send your armies into Grundle,” Uldar said.
“Who are you to tell a king what is right for his kingdom?” King Suldar demanded. “I know that you now serve that foolish dog the king of Severdom. He mocks me with his wall, but he will one day pay for his arrogance.”
“I have said the same.”
The king paused, looking deeper into Uldar’s eyes. “I know you.” Suldar smiled. “You’re that fellow who messed up my plans to have games. You’re Grundarin. Why do you not serve your king and use your powers for the good of his land?”
“Because the king is wrong.”
The king’s lip curled up in anger. “You would have me stop my war. Why?” Suldar asked.
“Because Severdom was once like you. It dreamed of conquest and glory, too. It started with one army. Those armies grew stronger and more numerous, till all the people of the land served it. And for hundreds of years, it killed its way to power, spreading its armies far and wide across the globe. But all that it achieved was to have generation after generation die for nothing. It took hundreds of years for the Sevens Prophets to stop those wars. And now I come to you. You, who alone can stop the wars of Grundar in a single day.”
The king stared at Uldar, standing there with his sword.
“Look at the death of today, my king,” Uldar continued. “Look at what has happened. Is all this death what you want for Grundar? In one day, I have destroyed what would have taken a year in war for you to lose. I did this to show you the death and suffering that countless more years of war will bring to Grundar, as I know you and your sons plan to do.”
King Suldar sat in his throne. Uldar handed him his sword back.
“I beg of you to allow the Prophets to not kill any more of your people. Do not conquer. Allow the Sevens Prophets to help you unite your lands peacefully, as Severdom is doing now,” Uldar said, and presented the king his daggers.
The king’s eyes went wide.
But Uldar merely dropped his red blades on the steps of King Suldar’s throne, and bowed.
“You have the power, mighty king,” Uldar said. “Never raise another invasion army again, and Grundar can be peaceful and happy, prospering in a way that will bring happiness to everyone all over Triumph. What say you?”
King Suldar paused, and looked at the daggers. He stood and looked down upon the mighty Red Prophet. Taking a moment to hold his sword, he checked his grip as if making sure he still had the strength to grasp it.
Uldar looked the king in the eyes, utter sincerity painting his face. King Suldar lifted his sword to his sheath, taking a moment to turn and look at Mendar’s broken bronze blade, hanging above his throne. Then he turned back to the Prophet, his sword still raised.
“Grundar will conquer,” the king said, and drove his sword into the red heart of the Red Prophet.
And so, Uldar, last of the Red Prophets on Triumph for centuries to come, died.
As King Suldar removed his sword, Uldar fell on his daggers with a loud crash that echoes through the halls to this very day. I know you’ve heard it, softly, in the dead of night, when you’re pondering your nation in the presence of Steel’s sword and the king and queen’s throne. That day, nearly five hundred years ago, the king of Grundar wiped his sword clean on the dead Prophet’s cloak.