11

Sebastian sat on his throne, knife in hand. At his feet lay a pile of fluff, along with large strips of cloth. He’d cut the Lion from every cushion, and as for the carved wood, he’d hacked at it with an axe. His throne was a disheveled, mutilated mess, but he’d never felt more lordly than when he sat awaiting Luther’s arrival.

An hour after dawn, the dreaded message came, bringing with it a surprising amount of relief.

“A steward of Luther requests an audience,” said one of his soldiers. He remained by the doors of the great room, as if nervous to come too close. Sebastian nodded, and with a weariness he pushed himself to his feet.

“Come with me,” he said. “And bring your bow. It’s time we give our answer.”

“I do not have a bow,” the soldier said as he took up step beside Sebastian.

“Then I suggest you find someone who does.”

They exited the front of the castle. Pausing for a moment, Sebastian turned around so he could observe the mark of his family. The castle was large and inelegant, little more than an enormous rectangular block of stone hollowed out with rooms, but across the front was its true beauty. It was a yellow rose, drooped to one side, with a single petal falling from its center. Sebastian remembered the day they’d begun, back when he and Arthur were children, and their father was still himself.

“This ugly thing’s been crying out for beauty for too long,” Rodrick had said. “I hope the gods can forgive me for not getting it done before your mother died.”

Over twenty men had worked for days on end, painting, drawing, marking sections for the various flowers and carving holes in the stones to help with the planting and watering. Months had passed as the castle front transformed into the symbol of his family, a family now perilously close to being wiped off the face of Dezrel.

An image struck Sebastian with enough force to take his breath away. He saw his castle, except instead of the yellow rose a roaring lion was painted over the stone, white flowers as the teeth, red roses the drops of blood that dripped down toward the castle entrance. It felt profane, and his stomach clenched. Shaking it away, he turned back to the soldier escorting him.

“Take us to the wall,” he said, his conviction renewed.

It was a long walk to the wall, built just shy of a mile from the castle. The wall itself wasn’t extraordinarily tall, and ladders could scale it with ease, but it’d been built sacrificing height to enclose a greater area. They had plenty of wells for water and grazing land for livestock. So long as they weren’t shut into the castle, they could endure a siege from a smaller force for many months. A larger one might force a retreat to the castle proper. But what about one made up of dark paladins and priests?

“Are all of my men at the wall?” Sebastian asked as they walked.

“Per your orders, yes. Your men are loyal to the true lord of the North.”

“Even to the end?”

Not the slightest hesitation to his words. It made Sebastian feel proud, and for once, grateful.

“Even to the end.”

As the wall neared, Sebastian saw his gathered men. It wasn’t that impressive of a force, but the hundred and fifty were formed up on either side of the gate, safely out of view of Karak’s lurking army. It wouldn’t be enough to stop them, for they couldn’t guard even a shred of the wall’s length. But it didn’t matter. He wanted to, at least for one brief moment, show Luther he was unafraid.

“We could last longer if we pulled back to the keep,” the soldier said. He spoke tentatively, as if afraid his suggestion might cause offense.

“If we do, we’ve lost all chance at surprise,” Sebastian said. “Luther thinks of me as a coward. He’s probably right. He’s the lion, and I’m the hare, and the last thing he’ll expect is me to jump straight into his mouth. Perhaps with a bit of luck, we can rip off his tongue and shove it down his throat before we die.”

When they arrived at the wall, he saw the men looking his way. Many had expected death for years, and were finally being given the chance to meet it. Others were nervous, and were looking to Sebastian to see if he would offer them hope, or change his mind completely. He’d give them neither. Maybe a noble death, if there was any nobility in rebelling against a god.

“I have no words, no speeches,” Sebastian said to his escort. “All I have to say is for Luther’s ears. And like I said, find yourself a bow.”

The soldier called out a name, and then with two men as escort, Sebastian climbed the steps of the wall, and above his gate he peered over at the forces arrayed against him. Luther’s army had been gaining in number every single day. Sebastian knew he must have called for them long before arriving at his castle. Perhaps he had always expected a fight, perhaps he only wanted to increase his show of force. Guessing why was pointless, so he didn’t bother to try. At last count there were five hundred mercenaries in the temple’s pay. Far more worrisome, though, were the dark paladins, twenty in number. Sebastian could pick several of them out from where he stood, tall men in dark platemail walking like kings among the more ragtag ranks. Along with the twenty paladins were a handful of priests, each one possessing an unknown degree of power.

But Sebastian knew that power well. He’d heard the stories, and seen the rare example of it in use. His gates? His walls? They’d mean nothing to them. In fact, he was counting on it.

“Where is Luther?” Sebastian called out. He saw a younger man wearing the dark priestly cloth standing before the gate below him, but he had no interest in speaking to a whelp like that, regardless of the message he carried.

“I am to speak for him,” said the young man.

“Good for you, but I will be speaking only to Luther, and it is my answer he desires. Piss on your message. Bring me Luther. I will surrender only to him.”

Every word was carefully chosen. The young man bowed low, then ran back to the camp. Sebastian watched, and was not surprised to see how quickly they readied for war. Regardless of whether or not Luther expected him to surrender, he was still prepared for a fight. Catching him unaware would be a nightmare, yet that was exactly what Sebastian was hoping to do. A bitter smile crossed his face. By the gods, he must be going as crazy as his late father.

Several minutes later Luther arrived, a paladin at each side. He looked up at Sebastian with an expression unreadable at such a distance.

“Come now, Sebastian,” Luther said, “it is uncomfortable for a neck as old as mine to crane up at you in such a way. Can we not talk in your castle, or face to face at your gates?”

“I promise to keep this short to spare your neck,” Sebastian called back. “Not that I should. You wouldn’t spare my life if I went against your whims, let alone my neck. Tell me, why should I extend you the courtesy?”

“I have no desire for banter,” Luther said. “Just your answer.”

This was it. He could still change his mind. He could agree to the terms, and live out the rest of his life in relative peace. Did it truly matter what happened after his death? Did it matter who ruled his lands once he no longer walked upon them?

Sebastian glanced at his father’s castle and saw the rose replaced with a lion. It did matter, he knew. He might not leave much of a legacy, and little of it would be fondly remembered, but at least he’ll have done one thing right.

“No hesitation,” Sebastian said to the man with the bow beside him. To Luther, he shouted, “I will not surrender. I will not obey. I will not kneel. You can cross these walls, but my keep will delay you. By the time you drag my body out, the King’s army will be on its way to crush your squalid dreams. If you’re still alive then, Luther. I pray otherwise.”

The bowman drew an arrow and fired in a single smooth motion. Another was in the air before Arthur registered the hit of the first. The arrow punched into Luther’s chest, knocking him to the ground. The two paladins reacted with shocking speed, flinging themselves in the way so the second arrow struck armor and ricocheted off without causing harm.

Sebastian fled down the stairs before any of the other priests might retaliate with a spell. Deep down, he dared feel a spark of hope. The arrow hit had been solid, though he hadn’t caught where Luther had been pierced.

Be through a lung, he begged. Be through a lung, and kill that goddamn lunatic.

Feet back on solid ground, the men around him drew their weapons and readied their shields. From beyond the wall he heard war cries and the sounds of marching feet.

“Should we open the gates?” one of his men asked.

“Keep them closed,” Sebastian shouted over the din. “Let no one be seen through them, either. I want Luther thinking we’ve fled to the keep.” He looked to the gate and imagined the furious priests on the other side. “Besides, we won’t need to open it. They’ll do that themselves.”

Sure enough, the spell hit before he could even finish the sentence. The gates were hurled inward, torn from their hinges and accompanied by the sound of shrieking metal. A solid beam of shadow continued through the gap, and the few men caught in its path died, the bones in their bodies crushed by the force. With a shout to Karak, the mercenaries charged. Sebastian looked to his army, split evenly between the two sides of the entrance, and hoped they would carry far less regrets to their graves than he.

“Crush them!” he cried to his men. “Tonight we bathe the Yellow Rose in blood!”

The first of the mercenaries rushed through the entrance, and then Sebastian’s men charged. There were only about fifty through at the time, and caught on both sides, they were overwhelmed. Sebastian watched from the rear of the fight, wearing no armor and not even bothering to carry a blade. He would take no lives with him, other than those who already bled and died at his orders.

The ambush couldn’t have been more perfect. The mercenaries fell, many trying to turn back around to flee. They had no room, the rest of Karak’s men pushing forward with only a vague idea of the combat on the other side. As Sebastian watched, his men merged into a single line, bowed at the middle, completely enclosing the gate entrance. Hopelessly outnumbered, the mercenaries slowed their rush, until at last they were beaten back.

“Build a wall of their dead!” one of Sebastian’s commanders cried.

Despite the victory, Sebastian felt a pall settling over him.

Not enough, he thought. Still not enough. Where are their paladins?

With another cry, a second wave hit, and this time the dark paladins accompanied it. Their blades burned with black fire, and when Sebastian’s men tried to lock shields against them, they beat them back with flurries of blows that tore their shields in twain. Mercenaries swarmed around them, letting the paladins spearhead the assault. Where the initial ambush had Luther’s men dropping like flies, now they died in equal numbers, and outnumbered nearly four to one, equal numbers was not something Sebastian’s men could keep up for long.

Luther’s men surged forward, and despite their heavy casualties, the dark paladins themselves would not go down. Their push was unstoppable, until at last they were free of the gateway entrance. With more room to fight, and greater numbers of mercenaries rushing in, Sebastian saw the turning point had arrived at last. His men died, and there were many who saw the end and flung down their blades. They were not spared. Sebastian stood tall, and he stood alone. Those before him died, and then a dark paladin towered over him, ax in hand. The fire on its heavy blade was hot enough to feel from where he stood.

“On your knees, dog,” the dark paladin said, striking him across the temple with the hilt of his ax. Sebastian collapsed to his side, and he felt blood running down his face and neck. As the screams of the dying slowly faded, he looked up with blurred vision at the rest of Karak’s forces surrounding him. They kept a wide berth, and Sebastian knew they planned to torture him somehow.

“All this, just for me?” he asked the paladin with the ax. His remark earned him a boot to his teeth.

“Damn coward,” the paladin muttered.

Sebastian laughed even as he spat blood. Despite everything, despite the loss and death, he could at least die knowing that the paladin was wrong. He might have lived as a coward, but he wasn’t dying as one.

The crowd of mercenaries parted. Sebastian rubbed his eyes, craning his neck up from where he lay to see who approached. It was Luther, held in the arms of two other priests so he might walk. The arrow was still embedded in his chest. By his guess, it was a mere two inches from his right lung.

“So close,” Sebastian said, laughing despite his terror. Luther lifted a hand. He said nothing, no mocking words, no bitter remarks. Any desire the priest had to lord over his victory was gone. Luther’s palm flashed with darkness, and within it Sebastian saw fire. Pain flooded his body, a great pressure swelled within his skull, and then the darkness took him far, far away.