Narin nodded gravely. “Go. I’ll hold the tower.”
Relam turned and ran back up the stairs, leaping over the many obstacles in the way until he reached the landing where he and Tar and Yavvis had stood moments before. The door to the roof stood open now, but Relam could not hear any fighting.
The young prince ran out onto the roof, sword drawn, shield at the ready, taking stock of the situation. The archers were down, their bows smashed into pieces beside them. To the right, Yavvis and Tar were menacing D’Arnlo with their blades while Oreius stood back, breathing heavily.
“You!” D’Arnlo snarled when he caught sight of Relam. “I should have known you would run to Tar and Yavvis for help.”
“Actually, they came to me,” Relam said. “I just held the wall while they climbed.”
“And convinced them to betray me,” D’Arnlo said, chest heaving.
“That wasn’t too hard, once they heard you had betrayed the crown and orchestrated the death of my mother,” Relam replied coldly.
“And you took his word for it?” D’Arnlo demanded.
Yavvis shrugged wordlessly.
“Seemed like the right thing to do,” Tar replied. “Besides, Oreius has kept me filled in on the investigation into the queen’s death and the assassins Relam overheard that one night-”
“At the banquet,” Relam added. “Which you were at, D’Arnlo.”
“That proves nothing!”
“And the prisoners in Eyrie tower told me they met with someone in Mizzran a few months before the first attempt,” Relam continued. “And you were there at the same time.”
“And there’s the matter of your . . . discussion with Lord Thius this morning,” Oreius added, rejoining the small group. “Admit it, D’Arnlo. You’ve been exposed. You’re finished. Your plan to take the throne has failed. Now, surrender.”
D’Arnlo did not move, glaring back at Relam and the three sword masters.
“Drop your sword,” Relam urged. “There are only two ways this ends: your surrender, or your death.”
“I think it ends with my death regardless,” D’Arnlo replied. “Isn’t that the procedure for traitors?”
“It is,” Relam admitted, nodding.
“No thanks,” D’Arnlo replied. “If you don’t mind, I think I will choose life.”
The sword master charged towards Relam, aiming to cut between Tar and Yavvis. But the two sword masters intercepted D’Arnlo and drove him back, swords flashing in the bright sun. Relam stepped back, watching in awe as the battle began in earnest.
The three sword masters were in constant motion, advancing, retreating, striking, and parrying, their swords darting and flashing, weaving and slashing. Relam could not keep track of all three men at once, nor was he able to follow each individual movement. This was swordplay at a level Relam had never dreamed of.
And, despite the odds, D’Arnlo was holding his own. His defenses never showed gaps, no attack looked on the verge of breaking through. A couple of times, he even forced Tar and Yavvis to jump back to avoid being impaled. But he was losing ground, bit by bit, so slowly that Relam wondered if he was imagining it.
Then, Oreius joined the fight and everything changed.
The oldest of the masters came at D’Arnlo from the side, distracting him and driving him back. D’Arnlo turned slightly with a snarl, which was quickly replaced by a look of abject terror as he realized that he was finally, indisputably outmatched. Three on one was never fair odds. And against the three masters, D’Arnlo had no chance.
The traitor began retreating quickly, giving ground until his back was against the ramparts, the curvature of the tower reducing the space his attackers had to operate in. But it was not enough. Oreius got in a slash on D’Arnlo’s left forearm, then Yavvis scored a cut across his thigh. Tar nicked his shoulder slightly and Oreius nearly ran D’Arnlo through, missing by a hairsbreadth.
After that close brush with death, D’Arnlo looked around wildly and caught sight of Relam. With a snarl, he lunged forward, fueled entirely by rage. But his wounded leg betrayed him and he collapsed on the roof of the tower. A fraction of a second later, Tar disarmed the traitor, sending his blade skittering across the stone floor.
“Yield!” Tar commanded, breathing lightly, glaring down at D’Arnlo.
The traitor shook his head, crawling backwards, pressing his back against the battlements, looking around fearfully at the circle of gleaming blades. There was no pity there, no sympathy. Nothing but grim determination from the other three masters.
Relam stepped forward, hoping to break the impasse and end this for good. “D’Arnlo,” he said quietly. “It’s over. Surrender.”
The traitor stood slowly, inclining his head to Relam, his hands shaking at his sides. Then, in a single convulsive movement too quick for even the other masters to react, D’Arnlo turned and hurled himself from the top of the Bastion and out into empty space with a terrible yell.
Relam and the others ran to the edge, Oreius cursing, Tar and Yavvis shouting incoherently. Relam alone among them was silent. They watched together as the rapidly shrinking figure plummeted downward. D’Arnlo struck the bridge between the Bastion and the Anchor and flipped sideways, spinning uncontrollably. Then, he slammed onto the unyielding surface of the seventh level courtyard and lay there, broken and unmoving.
Chapter 44
The word of D’Arnlo’s death spread quickly through the Citadel. Guards hurried to the seventh level courtyard to see for themselves, gathering around the broken figure. Relam wasn’t sure what to do about them yet, but that could wait a few more moments. He went to the archers first, who were moaning and stirring restlessly.
“Are you all right?” he asked them gently.
One opened his eyes, blinking slowly. “I think I have orders to kill you,” he muttered.
“You did,” Relam said, backing away smartly. “But the man who gave those orders was a traitor. He is dead now.”
“D’Arnlo?”
“Yes,” Tar said joining Relam. “If
