“No!” Hadjar shouted at the warriors that had emerged from the snow. He launched another imperceptible attack at them, but it was too late. The snowmen had disappeared as quickly as they’d appeared.
Chapter 242
Hadjar caught Atikus’ falling body. His thick, black hair that had been tied into a tight bun spread out across the snow. Hadjar realized that even this part of his appearance had been copied from his childhood idol. His simple, torn clothes gradually ended up covered with crimson stains.
“The judges have made... their decision,” the traitor wheezed. “I’ve wanted this for so long...”
“Don’t be absurd, General,” Hadjar didn’t understand why it was so painful for him to hold this dying man in his arms. Over the past fifteen years, he had dreamed about sending the bastard to the forefathers with his own two hands. “Our battle is not yet over. You aren’t allowed to die so easily! It’s only a few arrows!”
Hadjar reached for Atikus’ back and broke the nearest arrow shaft. The General groaned in pain and blood gushed from his mouth. Hadjar immediately realized that it was very likely that the man’s arteries and lungs had been hit as well, not just his muscle tissue. If Atikus didn’t receive immediate assistance, he would die within the next ten minutes. Hadjar reached for the horn on Atikus’ belt, but he was stopped by the grip of a rapidly weakening hand.
“Please, stop... my Prince,” the former General managed to whisper through his pain and the blood seeping out of his mouth. “...I have waited too long for the stigma... of dishonor and... Eternal... oblivion.”
“Oblivion? You’re not making any sense. For thousands of years to come, parents will tell your story as an example of dishonor, General. You won’t be forgotten for a long time.”
Atikus smiled and the ghosts of the past danced before Hadjar’s eyes: Atikus lifting him high above his head and showing him distant lands while they stood on the very top of the Palace observatory’s spire, and then, them laughing as they run away from Elizabeth, who had been enraged by their recklessness. Atikus had taught Hadjar how to use a sword and the secrets that every man had to know, but which were kept hidden from women. Atikus had told him stories about battles and wars. Only decades later did Hadjar realize how these stories had downplayed one in order to exalt the other — they had lacked blood and pain so that only honor and dignity would remain.
If it hadn’t been for Atikus, Hadjar would never have put his back in front of lashes meant for the guilty soldiers. His soldiers. And now this man, the hero of countless epics, was dying. He was thin, old, and no longer as mighty as he had been long ago. After all, if it hadn’t been for those arrows, Hadjar’s next strike would’ve cut Atikus in half, not another hill. Anyone could’ve seen the inevitability of it. Apparently, that’s why the snowmen had decided to end their duel.
“I won’t ask for forgiveness, my Prince,” Atikus’ body shook and his limbs spasmed, “because... what I did...deserves no... forgiveness. But, please... my Prince... take it.”
Somehow, even while almost screaming in pain, Atikus reached into the folds of his clothes and took out the dagger — it was simple, without an adorned hilt or precious stones in the handle. Its blade wasn’t especially strong. Very few people would’ve bought such a dagger. But, to Atikus, it had an extraordinary significance. It was the only legacy of his family, one that he had never managed to pass on to the little Prince whom he had betrayed...
Hadjar took the dagger and hung it on his belt.
“Help me get up, my Prince,” Atikus didn’t wheeze this time. Seeing the Prince take the dagger and hang it on his belt... Well, the act meant more to Atikus than any words ever could.
For a moment, his strength returned to him. The power thanks to which he had once been known in all the neighboring Kingdoms. The might and dignity that had allowed him to become the idol of the heir to the throne. The power that he’d lost that day on that accursed riverbank.
Hadjar helped Atikus stand up and stepped aside. The former General leaned on a tree, which immediately became covered in blood. Atikus pushed off it and, holding out his left hand, raised his sword with his right. The arrows still protruded from his back and blood flowed from his mouth. But there was neither fear nor regret in his eyes. Only determination. The wind ruffled his black hair, buffeting his tattered, simple clothes. Behind him, the snow-white figures appeared, there to witness the execution of their sentence.
“I won’t hold back,” Hadjar said, suppressing the pain that had somehow arisen in his heart, “General Atikus.”
The whistling of the wind almost drowned out Atikus’ last, fading words: “I would be very disappointed if you did... my beloved Prince.”
Atikus, despite swaying woozily, rushed forward. Along with his blood, his famous battle cry escaped his throat... The same roar that had often made the enemy feel like a terrible beast was charging them. Just like the Mad General’s own...
A moment later, Atikus’ knees buckled and he fell into the snow. His head landed nearby. An expression of pure relief would remain frozen on his face forever.
Hadjar put his sword back into its sheath and touched the dagger’s hilt. Had he just killed a traitor or ended the life of a famous, but unfortunate General, whose fate the gods had laughed at so cruelly? He would probably never know the answer to that question or would end up looking for it for a very long time.
Four figures emerged from the snow and headed toward Atikus’ body.
“Take one more step,” Hadjar’s voice was emotionless, but in its depths was a dragon’s growl, “and I’ll turn
