Chapter 5 - Blood in the Dust
The clash of steel rang through the vaulted hall like a death knell.
King Darian, despite his sixty-eight years and frail frame, parried Garrick’s ferocious lunge with surprising agility, the force of the blow sending sparks flying into the air. But Garrick was younger, stronger, and driven by a desperate, maniacal fury. He pressed the attack relentlessly, forcing the old king backward toward the edge of the dais.
"You should have died of your sickness a decade ago, brother!" Garrick snarled, raining down heavy, crushing blows against Darian’s defense. "You left the kingdom weak! You left it vulnerable!"
"I left it in peace, you traitorous bastard!" Darian panted, his breath coming in ragged gasps as sweat beaded on his forehead.
Clara scrambled backward, her heart hammering against her ribs. Around them, the throne room had dissolved into a full-scale melee. Lord Garrick’s private mercenaries, disguised as members of the court guard, drew hidden daggers and attacked the king’s loyalists. Blood splattered across the polished marble floor, staining the white stone a brilliant, shocking crimson.
Captain Vane, seeing which way the tide was turning, swung his heavy broadsword toward Father Thomas, who had dropped to his knees to pray.
"No!" Clara screamed.
Moving on pure adrenaline and instinct, Clara lunged forward, grabbing a heavy brass candelabra from a fallen table. With a mighty swing born of sheer desperation, she brought the heavy metal crashing down across the side of Vane’s helmet.
The captain grunted, his eyes rolling back into his head, and he collapsed heavily onto the floor, unconscious.
Across the room, a collective gasp ripped through the remaining nobles. King Darian, exhausted by the frantic exchange, stumbled under one of Garrick’s crushing blows. His sword slipped from his failing grip, clattering across the stone.
Garrick grinned maniacally, standing over his brother with his broadsword raised high for the killing strike. "And now, little niece," Garrick sneered, glancing toward Clara, "the bloodline ends where it should have twenty-one years ago."
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Before Garrick could bring his blade down, a deafening horn blast echoed from the outer courtyards, followed by the thunderous roar of hundreds of boots marching through the iron gates.
The heavy oak doors of the Great Throne Room were smashed inward, splintering into a thousand pieces.
