Heartless

“It’s yours. Take it!”


The memory faded; the fire died away. Lionheart stood again in the silence of his chamber, which was cold and black as a crypt. He felt tears in his eyes but blinked them away and dropped his head heavily to his chest.

A woman’s voice brushed his consciousness again – subtle, serene. A seductive voice speaking from far-off reaches, without fire, without warmth, like a sunless day.

You did what you had to do, Lionheart.

“I did what I had to do.”

There was no other way.

“No other way.”

Now take my hand and walk with me, Prince of Southlands, and I will show you what it means to see your dreams realized.

He raised his head and for a moment caught a flashing vision of white, white eyes and a black hand extended to him. Then it was gone, and his chambers were silent once more.

“I did what I had to do,” Lionheart whispered, a shiver running through his body. “There was no other way.”

–––––––

Behind the walls and ramparts where Imoo and Rogan stood, in the ancient, moss-grown keep of the fortress, high in a private chamber, Fidel sat by candlelight, reports and papers spread out before him. He should pack them away and go to bed, he knew – should have done so hours ago. But he also knew that he would not sleep, and as long as sleep eluded him, he might as well work.

Three weeks now, Fidel had lived tucked away in this remote fortress, far from the comforts of his palace. Strategically it was the safest place to which he could flee, for the mountain pass was narrow and it would be difficult for any attackers to penetrate the defenses General Argus had arranged under the direction of the three Knights of Farthestshore. Fidel did not doubt his own safety.

The papers before him contained figures on supplies and the needs of the troops that were gathering from various reaches of Parumvir. The country had not come together for war in many years, and Fidel suffered agonies as he realized just how defenseless they had become during the generations of peace.

Somewhere outside among the cold mountains, shouting voices rose in the air.

Fidel pulled another sheaf of papers toward him. Commanders of various garrisons had sent reports, and some sent pleas for assistance that Fidel was unable to give. The world was falling apart, yet what could he do to stop it? He’d sent word to allies in Beauclair and Milden but so far had heard no response.

Fidel cursed and pounded the tabletop with the flat of his hand. “What can I do against the Dragon? There are no heroes left in this day and age who can fight him.”

The shouts outside increased, and a horn blast rang clearly. Fidel, pulled from his thoughts, pushed his chair back and went to the window. He cupped his hands in order to see through the dark glass. Torches flickered below him in the fort yard. Risking the cold night air, Fidel opened the window and leaned out to get a better view.

The clang of sword on sword filled his ears, the shouts of commanders and even General Argus’s voice booming in the night, “To the king! Find the king!”

“Shippening,” Fidel breathed and drew back from the window. In the same moment he heard pounding on his door, and Sir Oeric burst in.

“Your Majesty,” the knight said. “The Duke of Shippening – ”

“Impossible!” Fidel roared and with a mighty swoop knocked all his papers and the candle from his desk. “Impossible!”

“Please, sire,” Sir Oeric said. He stood like a great boulder in the doorway, and his drawn sword had blood on the blade. “My brethren can deal with the duke, but we must be certain you are safe. If you will come with me . . . ”

He stepped over the piles of papers on the floor and took hold of the king’s arm, for Fidel had slumped heavily against the wall. The king looked up into the knight’s white-saucer eyes, and suddenly his own haggard face hardened and he knocked Sir Oeric’s hands away. “Away with you! I’m not some old dotard, not yet!” He straightened his shoulders and took down his own sword from where it hung, ever ready, beside the door. He strapped it about his waist and stormed from the room into the hall.

There was no escape; he knew that. If Shippening had breached the wall, there would be no escape for any of them. Fidel made his way down the stairs, hearing the sounds of battle from the floor just below.

“Please, Your Majesty!” Sir Oeric cried behind him. “Not that way!”

He whirled on the knight, drawing his sword as he spoke. “Away from me!” he cried.

“Your Majesty,” Sir Oeric said, looming huge above him on the narrow stair, “I am charged by my Prince to keep you safe. You must come with me.”

“I’ll not abandon my men here!”

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