“Majesty, please, I beg of you,” said Arran Belphon, jogging alongside the King’s horse. The rattle of armor and the shouts of men rose into the air, and a distant drum thundered out a march. “This is your only chance. Please, I beg, heed me.”
Septimus Stormrider, King of Antarese, did not deign to look down. “Marshal!” An Antardrim in elaborate plate armor rode to the King’s side. “Have the scouts returned?”
“Yes, majesty,” said the Marshal. He pulled off his plumed helm and pointed. “Lord Marugon’s army advances across the Plain.” Arran looked north across the Emerald Plain, one of the few lush lands in arid Antarese.
He saw the distant black mass of Marugon’s soldiers. “Four hundred men,” said the Marshal, his weathered face impassive. “All carry the hell-forged guns of Earth.”
“Majesty!” said Arran.
King Septimus snorted. “Four hundred men, fallen Knight?” Arran stiffened. “Am I to fear four hundred men?” He waved his arm, his armor flashing in the sun. “Look!”
Behind him a line of horsemen stretched in all directions. Legions of armored riders sat armed and ready, their banners fluttering in the dry breeze, a forest of lances waiting in their hands. Behind them stood the grim walls and iron parapets of Antarese itself.
“Twenty-five thousand riders,” said King, “mounted on the finest Antardrim steeds, armored in steel plate, armed with the sharpest weapons. What have we to fear from four hundred of Marugon’s rabble?” He turned to the Marshal. “Signal for battle formation.”
The Marshal nodded and rode off. Trumpets blared, brassy notes ringing over the Emerald Plain. The thunder of hooves rumbled in Arran’s ears as the horsemen of Antarese arranged themselves for battle.
Arran reached into his belt and pulled out a machine pistol, a Glock 17C. “Majesty, I beg…”
King Septimus had his sword leveled at Arran’s throat in an instant. “Put that hell-spawned thing away.”
Arran held the handle out to the King. “Take it. I beg.”
The King slapped it aside with his sword, the pistol clattering over the ground. “I need it not.”
“There are four hundred of them…”
“A mere four hundred…”
“All of them have Kalashnikovs!”
The King sneered. “We have the true gods on our side. Their hell-forged machines will avail them not.”
“Majesty,” said Arran, fighting to keep his emotions under control. “You are the king of the last of the High Kingdoms. Carlisan is gone, Amnisos has burned, Rindl is gone, every other High Kingdom is gone, swept away by Marugon and his gunmen.”
The Marshal rode back to King Septimus’s side. “The men of Antarese stand ready, majesty.”
The King nodded. “Carlisan was not Antarese, fallen Knight. Nor was Rindl, nor Amnisos, nor any of the others. Marugon’s tide shall break on the rock of Antarese.”
The Marshal snorted. “And is not much of tide. Four hundred low-born rabble.”
“Take the guns I have found,” said Arran. “If even twenty of your men carry guns it will turn the tide. Marugon’s gunmen are complacent and arrogant. They do not expect resistance…”
“Resistance?” spat the Marshal. “Resistance? They face the fury of Antarese and do not expect resistance? Bah!” He slammed his helm onto his head. “Then we shall teach this scum a lesson in humility. I await your orders, majesty.”
“Majesty, I beg of you, listen me,” said Arran. Despair blacker than anything he known, even during the dark days of Carlisan’s fall, settled on his heart. “This is our last chance. Antarese is the last of the High Kingdoms. Your kingdom is the last hope for our world.”
The King looked across the plain at Marugon’s soldiers. “I am not a fool. I know the power of the guns. Many of my men will fall. We are, as you say, the last hope for the world. But we shall prevail. The gods are on our side, I know it…”
“Did the gods help Carlisan?” spat Arran. “Did they save Narramore? Did they rescue Alastarius from Goth-Mar-Dan?”
“Blasphemy,” said the King, his voice mild.
“You don’t know their power!” said Arran. “The guns destroyed the White Council, they destroyed all the Knights of the Order of the Sacred Blade…”
“And they destroyed you,” said the King. “You use their hell-spawned weapons. I see the corruption in you, how easily and remorselessly you kill. I will not have that corruption in my own men. I will not turn my loyal men into creatures like Marugon’s killers. Yes, many will die. But better to die like men than to live as someone like you.”
“Please,” said Arran.
“You may go as it pleases you, fallen Knight.” King Septimus donned his crowned war-helm. “I know Marugon’s men fear you, believe you are a ghost of vengeance that haunts their lines. You have been useful to me, and for that I am grateful. But leave my realm, once the battle is won. I see the nature of your soul, and I will not have you among my subjects.” The King galloped off to join his Marshal at the head of the lines.
A black wave of despair washed over Arran, and his hands began to shake. He willed them to stop. It had been so close. King Septimus had almost agreed to arm his men with guns. But Arran had failed, and Marugon’s four hundred soldiers would annihilate the bright armies of Antarese. Marugon had destroyed the wizards of the White Council. His gunmen had slaughtered the Knights of the Order of the Sacred Blade. Antarese was the last beacon. When it went out, darkness would flood the world…
Arran reached over his shoulder and clenched a hand around his fallen brother’s Sacred Blade. “No.”
He had not fought the gunmen for ten years to lose all. He had not sacrificed everything, had not damned himself by taking up the guns, only to succumb to despair.
He scooped up the fallen Glock and jammed it back into its holster. Perhaps King Septimus was right. There were only four hundred of them. Perhaps, if Arran struck now, he could turn the tide.
Whatever happened, Arran intended to die with his weapons in hand
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The Tower of Endless Worlds Page 64
