He opened his eyes. He had no idea where he was. Somewhere deep in the bowels of Sark. The roughly cut walls dripped with moisture. Fissures showed in the rock.
Standing in front of him was Torathon, High Lord Tessolar’s personal bladesinger guard. He had stayed in Sarostar while the rest of them fought and died.
Bladesinger Torathon smiled when he saw Miro’s eyes open. Miro couldn’t stop another moan from escaping his lips.
Next to Torathon was Ronell. The former recruit had given up trying to hide the disfigurement of his face. His eyes glared from a scarred and deformed face. Ronell’s one arm rested on the hilt of his zenblade, the other ended in a stump.
"New orders from the High Lord," said Torathon. "You’re to be killed."
"Torathon… Don’t… do it. The High Lord is insane. Save Altura."
Torathon simply grinned and looked up. For the first time Miro noticed his eyes. The irises were yellow. He was already under the Primate’s spell.
There was a hiss as Torathon drew his zenblade. He activated it. Miro watched the glowing steel with horror. It grew brighter as Torathon started to sing. Miro felt more blood running down his arms as the manacles cut further into his wrists. He prayed for it to be over quickly.
The zenblade turned hot, a searing, scorching heat. Torathon was paces away, but Miro already felt his skin begin to burn. The grinning bladesinger began to slowly approach, the heat growing ever greater. He paused in his song.
"I’m going to slice you open from your nose to your navel," he said. "I’ll open your ribs like wings and see if you can fly off the walls of Sark. Serosa the Dark died near here, didn’t he? How fitting."
Torathon added more to his song and the zenblade flared. Miro was forced to close his eyes. He could feel the heat on his face as if his head was in a fire.
Suddenly there was a second hiss. Miro heard Ronell’s voice, activating rune after rune in quick succession. There was a sickening crunching sound. Miro flinched. Torathon’s song was cut off.
Then there was silence.
Miro felt the heat slowly fade away.
He opened his eyes. Ronell stood silently, his zenblade in his hands, its runes already fading. There was an unreadable look on his face.
Torathon’s body lay on the ground, his eyes staring into nothing. Blood formed a pool around his body.
Ronell looked at Miro, the zenblade still wavering. Then he sheathed it.
"It wasn’t your fault I was injured." He paused. "Let’s get you down."
~
THEY ran through the endless corridors and chambers beneath the fortress. Miro knew they had limited time to act. It was now, or never.
Suddenly the two bladesingers stumbled into an infirmary. Miro recognised many of the men. They had fought with him from one end of Halaran to another.
A Halrana in an officer’s uniform stood in front of them, his hand on his sword. There were two other guards with him. Every eye was suddenly on them. Miro held his breath.
Suddenly, every man in the infirmary who was able to stand did so. Hundreds of men, young and old, rose to their feet. They said nothing, they simply stood.
The Halrana officer looked behind him, and then looked at Miro.
"What orders, Marshal?" the officer said.
Miro nodded, releasing his breath.
"Find Captain Beorn. Tell him to gather the men outside Mornhaven Town Hall."
"At once, Marshal," he detailed one of the men with the task.
"What about us?" Ronell asked.
"We need to get to Mornhaven before Tessolar surrenders to the Primate."
"It’s this way, Marshal," the Halrana said.
"Thank you," Miro said.
~
MIRO gathered men with him on the way. At one stage Ronell disappeared without a word, returning with Miro’s armoursilk and zenblade.
The men followed Miro’s orders without question. Their silent approval gave him a great sense of certainty. He finally knew that what he was doing was the right thing.
They formed a great column, with Miro at the head. The march down the long winding road from Sark to Mornhaven began as the moon rose above the town below.
Miro’s heart was filled with pride when they reached the marble fa?ade of the Town Hall. Behind him stood an army of two nations. These weren’t men for whom hope was lost. These men were willing to stand up and be counted.
"Marshal, Bladesingers — look," said Captain Beorn, pointing.
Bartolo was lounging against a pillar outside the entrance to the hall. With him were the rest of the bladesingers. Miro felt a moment’s concern, and then saw the smile on Bartolo’s face.
"Saw you coming down from Sark," said Bartolo. "You should get that face looked at. We’re all behind you. The lords — they’re in there," he gestured inside the hall. "They’re waiting for you."
Miro entered the hall, flanked by the bladesingers.
Prince Leopold and the lords of Altura and Halaran were sitting down at a glass-topped table. In front of them were the trappings of a feast — stuffed game birds, crystal decanters, and artfully constructed nightlamps.
"What is the meaning of this?" Prince Leopold said.
"Where is he?"
"Where is who?"
"High Lord Tessolar. Where is he?"