A Charge of Valor

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Sarka sat there in her cottage, cross-legged, her back against the wall in her humble living room, and watched Gareth. Bleary-eyed, she had been watching him all night, while he held his dagger to her sister’s throat. She had been waiting for her chance. She knew that at some point he would give into weakness and doze off. She, though, would not.

Sarka adored her sister more than anything, and it sickened her to sit here, helpless, and watch this excuse of a King burst into her home and hold her kid sister hostage. It had been one of the worst feelings of her life, and she sat there, determined, whether he was king or not. She would not cower in fear and deference like her father; she would be bold and risk her life to save her sister’s.

Her father, an oaf of a man who had never been too bright and who had always been too hard on her, had always insisted that he knew the right way and that she did not. He had chastised her earlier, after Gareth had taken her sister hostage, warning her that she better not do something rash. He had argued that if she made a wrong move her sister could die—and so could she. Plus, her father had argued, it was sacrilegious to raise a hand against the King—whether he was corrupt or not.

Sarka, as usual, disregarded her father’s logic, and his threats. He’d been wrong one too many times in her life, and even though she was just a peasant, she still had her pride and she was not about to sit by passively, waiting for Gareth to make up his mind. After all, waiting was risky, too—Gareth might break his word and kill her sister. It might be a chance her father was willing to take, her stupid father who had always trusted everyone; but it was not a chance that she would take. He had taken her sister hostage by the blade, and he would pay for it. She would not give him a chance to make a decision.

The first light of dawn crept through the window, and as it did, Sarka could see clearly that Gareth’s eyes were shut, that the dagger which she had been watching all night, was slipping. She held secretly the hemp rope which she had taken from her father’s stables in the middle of the night, just enough to do the trick. She was young, and perhaps not as strong as this man, and perhaps naïve to believe she could bring down a King, a man who had evaded every sort of assassination attempt—yet she was determined. And she would have the element of surprise on her side.

Sarka sat there, heart pounding in her chest, and knew her moment had come. It was now or never.

“Pssst!” she hissed at her sister.

There came no response.

“Pssst!” she hissed again.

Larka finally opened her eyes, and looked up at her. There was fear and terror in them as she sat there in Gareth’s lap.

Sarka motioned for her to stay calm and not move. She slowly held up the rope, and gestured what she was about to do. She hoped she understood. Her younger sister cried, tears rolling down her cheeks, but she slowly nodded, seeming to understand.

The time had come.

Sarka leapt to her feet, her limbs more stiff than she had anticipated, not working as quickly as she would have liked, and she felt as if she were moving in slow motion as she bounded across the simple cottage, rope held out in front of her. She moved quickly, and as she ran across the cottage, her sister took her cue and leapt forward, out of Gareth’s arms.

Gareth’s eyes opened wide, startled, but before he could reach out and grab her, Sarka was already on top of him, not giving him time to react. She kicked the dagger from his limp hand, and it went flying across the cottage floor; as Gareth turned to grab it, she descended on him with the rope, wrapping it tightly around his upper body, again and again, tying it tight.

Gareth struggled and squirmed, his weight nearly too much for her, but she managed to hold on, the coarse hemp rope digging into her palms, as she pinned him down face first. His legs buckled beneath her, and it was all she could do to hold him in place.

“Help me!” Sarka yelled out.

Her mother and father came running over, standing over her, her father looking down wide-eyed in fear, shaking his head.

“What have you done?” he asked her. “You know better than to lay a hand on the King!”

“Shut up and help me!” she yelled.

His father just stood there, though, hands on his hips, shaking his head, cowering to authority as he had always done.

“I cannot lay a hand on the King. Nor should you.”

Sarka flushed with rage, but luckily Larka came running over and helped her, grabbing the other end of the rope and helping her secure it. Sarka immediately made a tight knot, binding Gareth’s arms behind his back. Then she took her other piece of rope and handed it to her sister, who ran it around Gareth’s ankles and crafted a knot no man could undo. He moaned and whined and began cursing them, and she reached around and tied another piece of rope in his mouth, muffling his noise.

The two of them leaned back, breathing hard, surveying their handiwork: Gareth was secure.

Sarka was thrilled. She had succeeded. Here was Gareth, her King, bound by her hand, in her control. And her sister was free—and safe. She was elated.

Her sister turned and hugged her, weeping, and Sarka hugged her back, rocking her, not wanting to let her go.

“I was so scared,” Larka said, again and again.

“You’re okay now,” Sarka said.

Sarka leaned forward, dug a knee into Gareth’s back, and scowled down at him. She retrieved the dagger from the floor and raised it. The time had come for him to pay, and she was determined to put an end to him for good.

“You dare hold a blade to my sister,” she hissed down at him. “Now you see what it feels like,” she said, digging the blade into the back of his neck. Gareth grunted, his cries muffled by the rope.

Sarka raised her hand to finish him off when suddenly she felt a strong beefy palm grab her wrist; she looked over to see her father standing there, scowling down.

“You are a foolish girl,” he said. “The former King is worth much more to us alive than dead. I can sell him for ransom to Andronicus’ army. They would pay a hearty price for it. The money I earn can keep us all clothed and fed for years. You almost ruined a glorious future for all of us.”

Sarka’s heart pounded in anger.

“You don’t know what you are talking about,” she said. “Andronicus will not pay anything for him. They will either kill him or let him free. We have him now. This is our chance. We must kill him before he wreaks any more havoc.”

But her father yanked her back roughly, so hard that he yanked the dagger from her hand and pulled her to her feet.

“You are too young to understand the affairs of men,” he scolded.

Then her father reached down, grabbed Gareth by his ropes, and yanked him to his feet. He looked Gareth up and down, as if he were an item for sale.

“You shall fetch a hefty price,” he said.

“No Papa!” Sarka screamed, in a rage, as she watched them cross the cottage, leading Gareth out the door. “Don’t let him go!”

Sarka ran to the door and watched her father walk out, leading Gareth proudly to the closest group of Empire soldiers, on patrol.

The soldiers all stopped at the sight, then turned and looked Gareth up and down.

“I’ve caught the former MacGil King,” her father announced proudly. “Give me one hundred dinars of gold, and he is yours.”

The soldiers turned and looked at each other, then broke out into a grin. Finally, the lead soldier stepped forward, pulled back his sword, grabbed Gareth, pulled him close and inspected him. Satisfied, he turned and threw him to the others, who caught him.

The soldier turned and smiled at her father.

“Why don’t I pay you a fistful of steel instead,” the man said.

Before her father could react, the man stepped forward, and plunged his sword through his heart.

“Papa no!” the girls screamed in horror, as they watched their father’s face contort in shock, then blood pour from his chest as he sank to his knees.

“But thanks for the gift,” the soldier added. “I can’t wait to tell Andronicus who I just caught.”