“Forget the wedding! Ethelred is dead. Kill her and we’ll tell everyone she is still sick. I will rule until we can find a replacement for Ethelred. We will announce that the new emperor married her in a private ceremony.”
“No one will believe that.”
“We don’t have a choice. Now kill her!”
Archibald peered in. Guy stood, sword in hand, with Saldur. Beyond them, near the window, was Modina in her red-stained nightdress. Presumably the blood belonged to Ethelred, who lay dead on the floor. Sunlight glinted off a shard of glass gripped tightly in the empress’s hands.
“How do I know you’re not going to just saddle me with both their murders?”
“Do you see another way out of this? If we let her live, we are all dead men. Look around you. Look at the guards you just killed. Everyone believes she really is the empress. You have to kill her!”
Guy nodded and advanced on her.
Modina took a step back, still holding the shard out.
“Good afternoon, gentlemen,” the Earl of Chadwick announced as he entered. “I hope this isn’t a private party. You see, I was growing bored. Waiting for this wedding is very dull.”
“Get out of here, Archie,” Saldur snapped. “We don’t have time for you. Get out!”
“Yes, I can see you’re very busy, aren’t you? You have to hurry up and kill the empress, but before you do… perhaps I can be of assistance. I would like to propose an alternative.”
“Such as?” Saldur asked.
“I’ve wanted to marry Modina for some time—and still do. Now that the old bugger’s dead”—he looked down at Ethelred’s body and offered a wry smile—“why not choose me? I’ll marry her and things can go on as planned, only with me on the throne instead of Ethelred. Nothing has to change. You could say I dueled him for the right of her hand. I won and she swooned for me.”
“We can’t let her leave the room. She’ll talk,” Saldur said.
Archibald considered this as he strolled around Saldur. He eyed the empress, who stood defiantly even though Guy’s sword was only a few feet away.
“Consider this. I’ll hold the point of a dagger hidden by my cloak at her ribs during the ceremony. She either does as we want or dies on the altar. If I kill her in front of all the crowned heads, neither of you will be held responsible. You can claim innocence of the whole affair. Her death will fall on me—that crazy lunatic Archie Ballentyne.”
Saldur thought for a moment, then shook his head. “No, we can’t risk letting her out of this room. If she gets to people, she can take control. Too many are devoted to her. It has to end here. We’ll pick up the pieces afterward. Kill her, Guy.”
“Wait!” Archibald said quickly. “If she’s going to die—let me do it. I know it sounds strange, but if I can’t have her, I will take some satisfaction from denying her to anyone else.”
“You are a twisted little git, aren’t you, Ballentyne?” Guy said with a disgusted look.
Archibald moved closer. For each step he took forward, Modina took a step back, until she had no more room to retreat.
Archibald raised his sword, and while keeping his eyes focused on Modina, he plunged the blade toward Luis Guy. The sentinel did not see the attack coming, but Archibald’s ruse prevented an accurate strike. His thrust landed poorly. Instead of piercing Guy’s heart, the blade glanced off a rib and merely sliced through his side. Archibald quickly withdrew his blade, turned, and tried to strike again. Guy was faster.
The earl felt Guy’s blade enter his chest. The last thing Archibald Ballentyne saw before he died was Modina Novronian running past Saldur, slicing his arm as he unsuccessfully tried to stop her.
Royce’s head turned abruptly.
“What—” Hadrian began, but stopped when Royce held up a hand.
Getting to his feet in one fluid motion, Royce paused mid-stride on a single foot, listening. He waited a moment and then moved swiftly to the cell door, which admitted the light. He lay down and placed his ear to the crack at the bottom.
“What is it?” Hadrian asked.
“Fighting,” he replied at last.
“Fighting? Who?” Hadrian asked.
“I can’t hear the color of their uniforms.” Royce smirked. “Soldiers, though. I hear swords on armor.”
They all looked at the door. Soon Hadrian heard it too. Very faint at first, like the rustle of leaves in autumn, but then he picked out the sounds of steel on steel and the unmistakable cries of men in pain. Within the prison, new sounds rose—the main entrance opened, shouts rang out, and footsteps echoed down the hall.
Royce picked up the sword he had brought and held it out toward Hadrian.
He shook his head. “Give it to Breckton. I doubt I can even hold it.”
Royce nodded, handed the weapon to the knight, and raced down the hall with Alverstone drawn.
Breckton left Amilia’s side and moved to stand in front of them all. Hadrian knew whoever was coming would have to kill the knight to get by.
Hard heels and soles echoed off the stone. A man cried out in terror.
“By Mar!” Hadrian heard Royce say. “What are you doing here?”
“Where is she?” responded a young man’s voice. Hadrian recognized him but could not understand how he could possibly be there.
Torchlight filled the hall, growing brighter as footsteps hurried near. The group appeared first as dark silhouettes, the prisoners wincing at the brilliance. Hadrian raised an arm to shield his eyes.
“Alric? Mauvin?” Hadrian asked, stunned, then quickly added, “Breckton, stop! Don’t fight!”
The King of Melengar and his best friend were leading a party of men into the dungeon. Renwick, Ibis Thinly, and several others Hadrian did not know crowded the stone corridor. When Alric Essendon saw the prisoners, he wavered and a sickened expression crossed his face.
“You two—go back.” Alric barked orders to his retinue. “Fetch stretchers.” He raced to his sister’s side. “Arista! Good Maribor, what have they done to you?” Over his shoulder he shouted, “Bring water! Bring bandages and more light!”
“You’re not looking too good, my friend,” Mauvin Pickering said, kneeling beside Hadrian. Mauvin was dressed in shimmering mail, his blood-spattered tabard bearing the crest of the Essendon falcon.
“They have indeed treated you poorly, sir,” Renwick agreed, looking distraught. He was also dressed in bloodstained mail, and his face and hair were thick with sweat.
“I don’t understand,” Royce said. “Last we heard, Drondil Fields was under siege and about to fall.”