Algora

This is it. I can feel it.

The sweet taste of victory.

Standing in the middle of the battlefield, I turn in a slow circle. Abaddon used to be thriving and beautiful, full of orchards and gardens located just outside of King Lucien’s palace.

Now it is a bloodied ruin.

There are bodies and forgotten weapons littering the muddy terrain as far as the eye can see. In some spots, the mud is much darker than the rest, soaked with the blood of our enemies, but still visible in the darkness of the wintry night because of the many small fires burning across the barren land.

I smile grimly at the sight. My plans have worked. My father, Tiern Valmont Mournhollow, has defeated the king and his other advisors and claimed the throne.

Now, as the wind howls across the battlefield, stirring abandoned war banners and the clothes on the dead bodies strewn across the cold, unforgiving ground, the corner of my mouth lifts slightly.

All that’s left to do is defeat Bjorn Fielder and his band of rebel farmers. I catch sight of Papa fighting one of the farmers and watch proudly as he swings his broadsword and cleaves the man’s head cleanly from his shoulders.

The severed head falls to the ground, but it takes the body an instant longer to react. I watch in morbid fascination as the sword slips from the man’s lifeless hold before his body crumples to the ground.

I feel no pity for the man, nor for any of his fallen brethren. This is war and they chose the wrong side. Papa should be king and anyone who stands in his way will feel the bite of our blades.

“There he is, Daughter.” Papa points to the west side of the field where Fielder and a few of his men battle our warriors.

This is the first time I have seen the rebel leader in person. There have been plenty of tales about him, though. He has been causing us all kinds of trouble, what with his talk of avenging the late king and protecting the people.

At first, Papa and I had disregarded him as a loudmouthed upstart. But soon, he had gathered a following that continued to grow into a rebel force. One that we now have to put down.

Although he is still a short distance away, I have to admit he has a commanding presence. For a farmer, that is.

“He’s a bit larger than I imagined.” I didn’t realize I’d made the observation out loud until Papa raises a bushy eyebrow.

“Big men fall just as hard as the small ones,” Papa says.

As I watch, Fielder swings his blade at Thom, one of our most experienced warriors. My eyebrows go up in surprise when Thom doesn’t move fast enough and Fielder’s sword slices through his shoulder, nearly removing the man’s arm.

A howl of anguish pierces the air, drowning out the clatter of weapons and curses as men battle each other. Thom drops his sword and staggers back, clamping a hand over his bloody shoulder.

“I’ve told Thom a hundred times to twist with the swing instead of stepping into it,” I remark to Papa.

He shrugs. “And now he’ll lose his life over it.”

Papa’s prediction comes true an instant later. Fielder hesitates for the briefest of seconds, as if contemplating mercy, before he rams his sword home and ends Thom’s life.

A movement to my right has me spinning around, my sword held defensively in front of my body.

One of the rebels charges at me. His expression, or what I can see of it through the mud smeared across his face, is screwed up in fear yet determination.

I don’t move as he advances, and my casual stance and steady nerves rattle the man even more. It’s there to see in the way his eyes widen slightly an instant before he’s within striking distance.

Evencrest, my sword, slides smoothly into the man’s chest, striking vital organs and I grimace. Killing this man doesn’t bother me, but the sound of my sword tearing through his heart isn’t pleasant.

The sickening suction sound is even worse when I pull the sword out of his chest. I watch dispassionately as he slides to the ground, dead at my feet, then wipe my blade on his filthy shirt.

Pivoting slowly, I take in the battle scene, or what is left of it. Most of the rebels are dead. There are only a few pockets of men still desperately trying to fight.

The wind picks up in speed and strength, carrying the acrid stench of blood and death. I wrinkle my nose at the scent as I check on Papa again.

His back is to me, and I briefly admire his midnight black cloak fluttering in the wind.

Made from raven feathers, Papa’s sigil, it flows from his broad shoulders down to his ankles. The tips are dipped in silver so when the cloak moves, silver glints of light splinter the area which has the advantage of temporarily blinding enemies.

Papa nods at me and my heart thumps in excitement. I return the nod and head over to him. The fight is over. Only Bjorn Fielder remains standing. His men have all been cut down, and there is nothing left for him to do but admit defeat.

“Do you surrender?” Papa demands of Fielder.

I stand casually, but keep Evencrest gripped firmly by my side. If the farmer knows what’s good for him, he will submit to Papa.

Bjorn turns his brown eyes on me, his lips pulled into a grim line. Defiance and what I suppose is a sense of honor glimmer in his heated gaze.

“Never,” he growls, keeping his eyes on me. He breaks eye contact just long enough to spit at Papa’s feet.

“You dare to spit at your king?” I growl between clenched teeth.

“He is no true king,” Bjorn snarls. “He is the king tyrant and the biggest coward in Eldoria!”

I stiffen at the insult and grip Evencrest more firmly.

“Careful, Fielder,” I warn him, my face expressionless. “And you,” Fielder seethes. “You do his bidding without a care in the world. You are just as evil.”

“Papa?” I say with a raised eyebrow. He knows what I’m asking and gives me a nod of approval. Turning my attention back to the man, I gesture with Evencrest.

“Raise your sword,” I tell Fielder.

His mouth turns grim, but he steps back and takes up a fighting stance, raising his sword. I have to admire his courage, foolish though it is.

Our weapons clash just as a loud clap of thunder rolls overhead. Lightning splits the blood-red sky and one fiery bolt hits close enough that I feel the shock through my feet and legs.

If I had a fanciful mind, I would think the thunder and lightning were a portent of evil. . . or victory.

At first, I toy with the farmer. I have years of professional training and have no doubt I can beat him. Let him feel a glimmer of hope before I take him down.

But Fielder is much more skilled than either myself or Papa gave him credit for. He parries nearly every move I throw at him and even manages to put me on the defensive a few times.

Fielder surprises me with a leg swipe at my left ankle. I manage to keep from tripping. . . barely. But the move costs him. Expecting me to fall, he steps forward, putting him within my reach.

The butt of my sword slams down on the side of his head. Hard. He staggers back, a hand briefly going to the injured area.

He shakes his head, his mouth drawn into a tight line, and advances on me. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Papa standing nearby, silently watching.

My sword arm starts to ache. I know I need to end this. I can’t take the chance that I’ll slip and give him an advantage.

I’ve been watching for the perfect opportunity, and there it is. He raises his sword high and I slide Evencrest smoothly between his ribs, piercing his heart.

His brown eyes widen in surprise as he slowly collapses to the ground. I stand above him, my sword dripping with his life’s blood, and watch the light dim from his eyes and go blank.

“Well done, Daughter,” Papa says as he walks up to me.

We stand over Bjorn’s defeated and dead body. The battle is over. We have won.

Papa’s eyes drop to my sword and he holds out a hand.

I frown. Why does he want my sword? However, I don’t disobey or even question his motives, and hand him Evencrest.

Papa grins, studying Bjorn’s blood as it continues to drip from the blade. When he raises his gaze to mine, I see something in his eyes that gives me pause.

But before I can identify it, he thrusts my very own sword into my chest.

I stare at him incredulously as he withdraws the blade.

Time slows down. I feel every inch of the cold blade as it leaves my body, taking my life as well as my heart and soul with it.

Betrayed. Papa has betrayed me.

I drop to my knees. Blood fills my mouth, and I spit it out savagely.

I stare at his face as my hand clutches my chest, blood pooling through my fingers, looking for any sign of remorse. But there’s nothing. No sadness. No regret.

Not a shred of love in those dark eyes.

“Why?” I manage to croak out.

“It is for a good cause, Daughter,” he says, then turns and walks away.

I watch him disbelievingly. “Papa?”

My vision starts to blur. My heart slows down, struggling to pump blood to replace all that has been lost. That is still flowing from my body.

But he doesn’t even look back.

“Your death has given me eternal youth,” he tosses over his shoulder.

I collapse to the ground as a dark haze claims my vision.

Just another body on the battlefield, I think as my eyes close. How could Papa do this to me?