Chapter 18 - The Final Judgement
Before Garrick’s panicked mercenaries could recover from the blinding shockwave, a deafening sound echoed from the western entrance of the pass.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
Hoofbeats—thousands of them—shook the ground. Rounding the corner of the gorge came General Marcus’s main reinforcement army, banners flying high in the crisp mountain air, led by the elite northern cavalry. They had anticipated the possibility of a trap and had shadowed the queen’s route at a safe distance precisely for this moment.
"Charge!" Marcus bellowed, pointing his sword toward the upper ledges.
The cavalry surged into the pass, scaling the hidden goat paths with astonishing speed and capturing the stunned assassins before they could even draw their swords.
Lord Garrick, realizing all hope was lost, turned to flee down a narrow mountain trail. But as he sprinted across the rocky ledge, a frail, robed figure stepped out from behind a boulder, blocking his path.
Father Thomas.
Garrick skidded to a halt, panting heavily, staring at the old priest in utter disbelief. "Thomas! Help me! We can still—"
Father Thomas raised his wooden staff, not to support himself, but pointing the sharp iron-shod tip directly at Garrick’s chest. His face was carved from stone, devoid of all the deceit he had worn for decades.
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"You used my faith, Garrick, and you used the blood of a princess for your own petty ambition," Thomas’s voice was cold as winter ice. "Your game is finished."
Before Garrick could lunge past him, northern soldiers swarmed the ledge, tackling the traitorous lord to the ground and slamming heavy iron manacles onto his wrists once and for all.
