his people future ravages. As the priests of the One God would say, Daylon had made his pact with the Dark One; he had sold his soul.
It proved to be a black irony: upon the morning of his departure, his wife had informed him that she was with child. Too committed to withdraw from this butchery, Daylon had been sick in his soul from that moment.
Last to step upon the platform were Lodavico of Sandura and Mazika of Zindaros, their tabards and armour noticeably free of gore and mud. ‘I see two kings are missing,’ muttered Rodrigo.
Daylon nodded and as the gathering crowd of soldiers was unusually quiet for a public display such as this, he whispered, ‘Bucohan and Hector both claim fatigue and minor wounds keep them abed. They may be complicit in this, but they’re content to stay in their tents and let Lodavico and Mazika take all the credit for this charade. And it is in Lodavico’s nature to claim as much credit as possible; he confuses it with glory.’
‘No charade,’ whispered Rodrigo, ‘when the blood is real.’
As Daylon expected, it was Lodavico who stepped forward to speak. The king of Sandura was easily the most loathed noble in the five kingdoms, for his rule was harsh and arbitrary. He despised anything that he saw as being a threat to his dignity, not realising that he had none by nature or act. Daylon had called him a doleful monarch of a melancholy nature after their first meeting more than twenty years ago and nothing he had seen of the man since had altered that opinion. His red-trimmed black garb did little to lessen that perception, as well.
‘We are here to restore order, to deliver an oath breaker to his fate, and to end a threat to the sovereignty of our brother kingdoms.’ For a man who hated theatres, thought Daylon, Lodavico had a penchant for theatrics. His posturing and accent were overly broad, to the point of self-mockery, though the king of Sandura could never see it, and no one would dare apprise him of the fact. So men stood by and endured the histrionics, only to deride him privately later over drinks. At this moment, however, Daylon found little humour in Lodavico’s bad acting.
Since the plot to kill Steveren had been hatched, rumours that the king of Ithrace coveted the crowns of other nations had spread. There was no foundation for it; the most trivial of acts were characterized as evidence of his ambitions, and men anxious to plunder the riches of great kingdom needed little excuse for feigned belief and mock outrage. The sack of Ithrace could provide a noble or fighter with more wealth than a lifetime of skirmishes on the borders of the Wild Lands, the Burning Lands, or the Mountain Barriers.
A rebellion by malcontents within the Covenant lands had been staged. Another charade with real blood, thought Daylon. Word was then passed to Steveren that Lodavico was behind the incursion: the only truth in the string of lies. Steveren had answered duty’s call, as Lodavico and his allies knew he would, leading the core of his army into as vicious a betrayal as could be imagined. Nothing in Garn’s recorded history matched the scale of this treachery.
‘The poison tree bears poison fruit,’ continued Lodavico, pointing at the children. His face contorted in a mask of theatrical rage, eyes wide, brows arched, his head tilted as if listening for menace: the behaviour expected of a madman trying to convince his audience that such innocents were a threat to their existence. ‘All of this line must perish,’ finished Lodavico, slamming his right fist into his left palm for emphasis. A soldier stepped up behind the smallest child on the platform. Daylon tried to remember the boy’s name and failed before the soldier grabbed a handful of the child’s fire-red hair and yanked back his small head. A quick slice of a sharp dagger and the boy’s eyes rolled back up into his skull as blood gushed from his neck.
A weak cheer rose from the soldiers, and Daylon knew they just wanted this grisly spectacle to be over so they could rest, eat, then set about organizing for the march south to Ithra. He had no doubt several free companies had already departed, eager to be first to choose spoils; mercenary companies were free of political considerations and would race to be first to claim spoils. If there was any justice, Steveren had left behind a big enough garrison to inflict real pain on those adventurers. Let the early companies pay the price for their greed, and perhaps give some of the populace the opportunity to flee before the bulk of Lodavico’s forces descended on them. The only nations with fleets big enough to blockade a sea escape were Meteros and Zindaros. Zindaros’s navy had transported their army here, and Helosea had chosen to stay aloof from today’s butchery. Their navy was big enough that they could ignore Lodavico’s demands. The day might come when they’d regret their choice, but Daylon welcomed their decision. If some of Ithra’s citizens could find boats and reach the open sea, perhaps one day they might rebuild their nation …
Daylon shook off a rush of guilt and shame, to face the last blood that would he spilled today. What was done was done, and regret served no good purpose.
With swift precision, the executioner moved down the line, pulling back the heads of the children and then the women. Rodrigo asked, ‘Who’s missing?’
‘The two eldest sons,’ said Daylon. ‘Both fell in battle.’
Steveren Langene, the last king of Ithrace, watched in silent rage and torment as his family was slaughtered before his eyes. Daylon almost physically winced at the sight of a man he loved like a brother losing his ability to stand unaided. Two soldiers gripped the ends of Steveren’s restraining yoke, holding him upright on his knees as he began to collapse. The last to die was his wife of over thirty years, his queen, and the mother of his children. She fought when her hair was grabbed, not to avoid death but so that she could see her husband’s face as her life fled.
‘There’s no glory here,’ muttered Rodrigo.
‘Our four remaining kings wish to ensure there is no doubt that the line of the Firemanes is done.’
As soldiers dragged the dead off the platform, Lodavico felt the need to reiterate all the fabricated sins of the Firemanes, embellishing the lies with innuendo that even more perfidy and treachery might yet be uncovered. ‘Will this ever end?’ whispered Rodrigo.
Finally, they came to the king. Lodavico finished his speech and stepped aside as a soldier moved forward, a large two-hand sword in his grip. As others held Steveren’s yoke firmly, lowering it until he was on his knees, the soldier measured the distance from the wooden collar to the base of the king’s skull, then with a single circular swing he brought round the blade and cleanly sliced head from shoulders.
The crowd cheered, again with no real conviction. As if disappointed by the lack of enthusiasm, Lodavico motioned for the headsman to pick up the dead king’s head by its flame-red hair and then he shouted, ‘Behold the fate of a betrayer!’
Again came a weak response.
Lodavico looked at the hundreds of soldiers before him, as if trying to memorize their faces for a future accounting. His forehead creased as he scowled, his lower jaw protruding as if ready to challenge the entire army to a fight. The awkward moment was broken when Mazika Koralos, king of Zindaros, shouted, ‘Finish tending the dead and wounded, eat, and rest, for at dawn we march to Ithra!’ This brought a more enthusiastic cheer and the men began to leave.
Daylon turned away and saw an unspoken question in Rodrigo’s expression. Softly, almost through clenched teeth, Daylon said, ‘A king executing a king? On the field of battle is one thing, but this murder?’ He locked eyes with Rodrigo. ‘It is not done.’
‘You killed Genddor of Balgannon, after you took his castle.’ There was a hint of challenge in that statement.
‘He was no king,’ answered Daylon. ‘He was a usurper and pretender. And I killed him as he stood at bay in his great hall. Besides, Balgannon was no kingdom.’
