Though he now faced the man pointing a sword in his face, Alijah’s attention was quickly drawn to the man on his right. Judging by the fear in his eyes, the rebel had recognised the person before them was the king of Verda, the most powerful and dangerous man in the world. And they were trapped down here with him.
“It’s him,” he said in a quiet voice.
“What are you talking about, Bervard?” the gruff voice demanded, his eyes never straying from Alijah.
Trembling now, the man uttered, “It’s him… the usurper.”
That word got stuck in Alijah’s head, striking him like a physical blow. “Usurper?” he echoed acidly. “I am your king.”
One of the four desperately shouted, “Kill him!” But it was too late.
Alijah had but to flick his wrist and the man pointing the sword in his face was hit by a wall of compressed air. The magic picked him off his feet and launched him into the back wall with enough force to spill some of the contents of his head across the stone. He didn’t get back up.
The trembling fool who had recognised the king staggered backwards, his fear taking a hold of him. The remaining two rebels advanced from different angles, accustomed to fighting side by side. As they came at Alijah, he felt Malliath waking from his slumber with a start.
I’m coming! he growled across their bond.
The half-elf had no time to reply. He shifted his body one way to evade a thrusting sword before pivoting to avoid an incoming axe. A pained wince flashed across his face as his injured leg protested at the quick movement. The rebels turned around, ready to spring again. Alijah stood his ground, considering which destructive spell would be the most spectacular.
Then he thought about the battles to come. He would be the fool to believe that Inara and Gideon weren’t on his tail. Clashing with them both was inevitable and, right now, he didn’t know if he could even swing his sword without the pain getting in the way.
Using speed any human would find unattainable, the king freed his Vi’tari blade from its scabbard. His shoulder cried out but the pain only served to anger him which, in turn, led Alijah to lash out with his green scimitar. He batted his foe’s sword aside and, in the same blow, sliced across his eyes, blinding him. The rebel fell away, wailing in agony.
The axeman hesitated, giving Alijah enough time to face him properly. When, at last, he attacked, the king snatched the haft of his weapon mid-strike and held it high. Again, the pain in his back was akin to a lashing whip, but he adopted some of Malliath’s rage and pushed through, just as he slowly pushed his Vi’tari blade through the rebel’s chest. Shock ripped through the axeman’s expression. What pain there was didn’t last long before Death claimed him and he slipped from Alijah’s scimitar.
Keeping hold of the axe, the king twisted the weapon in his hand. He turned to face the trembling sop who was trying to disappear into the corner. Wherever he had seen Alijah before, he had obviously borne witness to his terrible might. He approached the man with deadly intent, a predator closing in on its prey. To silence the blind rebel’s constant whimpering, he threw the axe into the side of his head, adding a third corpse to the training room. This made the survivor tremble all the more.
“Please!” he begged. “Please! Your Grace!” Pushing away from the corner, the man prostrated himself before the king. “I am your humble servant! I will do anything you ask! Please, your Grace!”
Alijah loomed over him. “What was your name?” he asked softly. “Bervard?”
“Yes, your Grace,” he stuttered.
“Bervard, you have committed grievous crimes against the realm. Treason is punishable by death.”
The man sobbed some more. “Please, your Grace! I’m begging you! I will do anything!”
Alijah sighed and sheathed his blade. “I am merciful,” he said, giving the man hope. “Go,” he instructed, nodding at the door.
Fearing a trick, Bervard hesitated. Then, he swallowed hard and rose to his feet, nervously looking from the king to the door.
“Do you wish to die down here?” Alijah questioned.
“No, your Grace!” Bervard blurted.
“Then why am I still looking at you?”
The fool bolted for the door and swiftly disappeared from Alijah’s sight… but not Malliath’s. The king heard the tavern’s front door burst open as Bervard darted for the street. Then he heard the flames that engulfed the rebel and half the road.
All four of them were dead the moment they entered the chamber. Alijah had known that, just as he knew his own fate was sealed by his actions.
With a lasting look at the interior, the king made his way back to the street, ready to leave The Pick-Axe behind forever. It had served its purpose in his life.
Outside, the smell of charred flesh stung Alijah’s nostrils, but he was sure not to display any discomfort. Instead, he took a moment to examine what remained of Bervard. That didn’t take very long. Small flames licked at the street here and there but Malliath had kept the damage to a minimum, a stark difference to the devastation he unleashed upon the city during The Ash War.
With a force of their own, the dragon’s purple eyes pulled Alijah in. Why did you come here? Malliath asked bluntly.
Alijah regarded the old tavern. I don’t know, he confessed.
Malliath huffed, expelling a blast of hot air from his nostrils. It has passed the time we were leaving. We have work to finish.
Alijah could feel his companion’s need to be in the sky again, to fill his wings with air, and soar with the kind of freedom that only a dragon could know.
“Your Grace!” Lord Starg called from astride his horse. Accompanied by a handful of
