have the right to know who I am. Well Nicholas of Boramulla of that information I am proud to confess. My name is Mathew San Mons, though that knowledge will be of little use to you." There was short silence broken only by the crackling of the fire, before he turned and spoke again. "You really don't know of what has passed before; do you?" He spoke in a puzzled, questioning voice; though he did not wait for an answer. He just shook his head in a sad gesture as he walked over to the table in the middle of the room. Half sitting on it he stretched his right leg toward the open fireplace. The firelight flickered in the shine of the high boots. He did not look at his prisoners as he sighed. "As a young soldier I was taught that for a man to die with pride, he should meet with his maker in battle with a weapon in his hand, fighting the enemies of the state. You will not have that honor, but I will allow you to die with some knowledge." His mood changed as if he had reminded himself of some distant memory, and he turned to face them. "Where shall I begin; a history lesson perhaps. Not too far back in time, I would not wish to occupy your last moments of life with that of no direct consequence." The cruel smile that Nicholas remembered from their last meeting had returned. "When the first Marshal took power, he did so by being the strongest, and uniting other warlords round him. There was some opposition at first, but he subdued them. As for the population at large: if they had any choice, they just accepted him as leader. They saw it to be just another autocratic regime; one was as good as another and it was normal for the times. Little opposition as there was came from those who had held high office in previous clans. Still the Marshal tried to be magnanimous, and felt this was best controlled by diplomatic means. Propaganda campaigns were organized to discredit some, with others? well other means sufficed?" He shrugged. "Eventually remnants of what could have been thought of as the royalist, of royal houses accepted him. Very reluctantly true, but they accepted him. So by this time voices raised in protests were very few, and as a gesture of reconciliation he allowed the Royal house to continue its rule, but strictly under his direction."
"This state of affairs continued for some time, until a movement against him, and those loyal to the old ruling system began to grow in strength. Of course it was totally forbidden, but more and more misguided took the risk to join with this movement. With such support, ultimately some of the Royal household rebelled against him, and stated they would publicly denounce what they termed as his corrupt practices. It was then the decision was taken to remove all dissent by any means required. Patrols were dispatched to take all of the royal families, and their supporters into custody, they were to be disposed of in labour camps or permanently removed.
All went as planned until while mopping up one branch, it became known that a princess Tanalee, a descendant of an important Northern Royal family had given birth to a child days before her own death. This information failed to find its way to the Marshal, and because of that it... but I digress; the short story is that this child was spirited into obscurity. Rumours sprang up; they always do, and while they persisted, there was no proof. That is until more rumours began to spread saying that the heir was approaching the age of rule. This gave your rebels their rallying call, and they became bolder. It was then that I amoung others were given the task of finding and removing this last link; the last remaining rallying post, the last legitimate claimant to the house of Loc-Sie." He fell silent staring at Nicholas. "But when I arrived to serve that cause; he, as now the child was a young man, had gone." Mathew spoke without doubt. "You have the ring?"
What he was listening to seemed not to concern him, but the mention of the ring suddenly brought back his attention. "Ring?"
"Yes, the ring, you have the ring?"
Nicholas was sure the Captain was referring to another ring. "I don't have your ring."
"Don't waste time playing games. "It wasn't in the house when the Alderman took it over, and we know he was telling the truth, so it can only be with one other person: you. If you didn't have it before then you took it the night you murdered one of our guard. We know you have it."
"I have my mothers ring, that's all?"
"Then give it to me."
"It is of value only to me?"
"I can have you stripped if you prefer?"
"You have you facts wrong I am nobody but Nicholas Day of Boramulla."
"I have already said that we know all we need to know so show it to me." He nodded to the guard holding Harriet and the man jabbed the blade into her flesh.
Nicholas didn't want to hand his mothers ring over but as he heard Harriet murmur in pain he knew he had no option. For a moment he wondered if he could use the pretence to take out the knife, but the odds were against him getting her before the blade dug too deep. Nicholas took the pouch from around his neck and took out the ring.
Mathew looked at it eagerly. "Go ahead put it on."
Nicholas looked at him.
"Put it on I said."
Nicholas slipped it onto his finger. It felt cold to the touch, but comfortable. The opaque stone seemed to reflect the lamplight. He could have sworn that for a moment it appeared wet. A brief flash of colour seemed to appear from deep down inside as if one could see through it; his eyes had to be playing tricks on him. Nicholas looked at Mathew.
"Bring him over to the light." Mathew said to the guard. "?And be wary of him." He looked at Nicholas's hand. "?It is said that the ring once placed on a finger, would know the chosen one, and will indicate they who have the right to rule. If that is so, we will all see the true heir to the Royal house."
Nicholas's eyes caught those of Harriet's. There was something in them he sought to understand. She was trying to tell him something. Her lips were moving, but no sound came out. Her eyes turned to the guard behind him.
"Let us all see who is the claimant to the throne," snapped Mathew.
As he moved forward the silence was broken as Harriet screamed. "Warn them Nicholas." Uttering her cry, she lunged for the sword of the guard holding her. Her bare hands closed about the blade, pulling it down while the guard tried to pull it from her grasp. Blood poured out between her fingers, as the blade sliced through her flesh to the bone as she tightly held on. Suddenly her grip failed and the man's reflexes thrust the blade up into her body. Making barely a gasp she took the sword deep into her chest cavity. Her eyes were wide, and then rolled up as she slumped forward dragging the sword from the guard's hands.
For moments even Mathew was stunned. The scream of Harriet's sacrifice had taken them all by surprise. The suicidal lunge had been totally unexpected and for an instant the guards forgot Nicholas. In that same space of time he twisted away and reached down for the cuff of his trousers. The movements were smooth, two fingers lifting the material, the others drawing the knife from its sheath. At the same time his other hand deflected the guard's blade with a flat slap to his arm. Then with the power of his tensed leg muscled he brought the knife up under the jaw of the man so violently that the soldier was lifted into the air. Instantly the man died and Nicholas spun to see the other guard roughly pulling the sword from Harriet's bleeding body, using his foot on her face. Nicholas's single angry slash almost severed his head from his body.
Barely three seconds had passed as he turned to the Captain
Mathew was drawing his sword. Nicholas knew this would not be like the other encounters. The Veldt were poorly trained; the men in the tavern had been no more than thugs, but this time he faced an expert. No matter how skilled he was a knife was no match for a sword in competent hands.
Nicholas made his decision and flicked his wrist, spinning the short knife into the air in a low arc briefly splattering traces of blood around the room. In slow motion Nick saw it gain a little height, then fall slightly towards Mathew.
Mathew saw it too, his eyes opening wide he had time to utter a terrified. "No," before the blade buried deeply into his throat. Whatever else he would have said was lost in a gargling sound made through the now open windpipe in his neck.
It was finished; the
man who now lay dying before him had destroyed him twice: how much grief was he to endure. He was doubly cursed; if what Mathew had said; he had and lost two families, and now the only one who he had ever begun to love.
There was a whimper behind him and he spun around; Harriet was still alive. He was quickly at her side cushioning her head. Her lips were moving, but the words were too faint. Nicholas leaned close to her mouth.
"...Be... my... white night... give me a vict..ory to die for..." She said her voice failing.
"Be quiet; save your strength."
"...I wish... it could have... been... different for? us?"
"No? No don't." he sobbed. "You can't? I love you." Tears were streaming over his cheeks.
She said nothing more as she began to lose consciousness.
The cuts almost made his heart stop. They were deep and wide. "Oh where are you now Reigel with your knowledge," he wept.
Through tear soaked eyes he quickly packed the wound below her shoulder, with a wad torn from his own shirt; and bound it with strips torn off the table cover; until the flow of blood was partly stemmed. Then he bound still more around her body so that she could not move her arm. Her delicate fingers hung back from her hand. Three were almost totally severed. The bleeding from these wounds was not as bad as had
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