A Vow of Glory

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Lord Kultin marched with purpose down the stone corridors of King’s Court, his dozens of soldiers behind him, looking forward to betraying Gareth, slicing his throat, and seizing his throne for himself.

Kultin had been biding his time for way too long, putting up with Gareth’s nonsense only because the pay was good and the Shield was up and for a while it seemed as if Gareth would rule forever. But once Andronicus breeched the Ring, Kultin knew Gareth’s days were numbered, and he knew the time had come. At first Kultin was just going to abandon Gareth; but then, when he saw what a weak and pathetic king he was, it sickened him. He knew that he, himself, could be a better king, and that that was exactly what King’s Court needed now. Not Gareth, not his sister and not any more MacGils—but rather he, Lord Kultin, a real man, a mercenary who could take the throne by force. For centuries, that was how kings were made, and Kultin felt it was time to reinstate the old way. After all, who better merited being a king than he who had seized the throne not by entitlement but by power?

Kultin quickened his pace, looking forward to Gareth’s expression when he marched into the little weasel’s chamber and defied his command, when he threw him from his throne and killed him on the spot. He might allow Gareth to beg for a little while. But no matter what he said, in the end, he would do what everyone in King’s Court wanted: he would kill the king.

Kultin breathed deep, already savoring the rush of power he would feel. He would be king. He. King. And then he would turn things around for King’s Court. He would rally all the soldiers, who would be thrilled to have a real soldier leading them, and he would bar the gates of King’s Court and put up a real defense against Andronicus. He would oust him from the Ring and then he, Kultin, would be supreme ruler of all the Ring.

Kultin slammed open the high, arched doors leading into the King’s private chamber, expecting to find him sitting there, on his throne, as he always did—excited to see Gareth’s look of surprise and horror.

But as he entered the chamber, he knew right away that something was wrong. It couldn’t be.

It was empty.

It was impossible. Kultin had sealed off all exits to prevent Gareth’s escape. He couldn’t have just vanished. And he didn’t understand how Gareth had known he was coming.

Kultin scoured the room thoroughly, and then, he saw it: the fireplace. Inside its opening was a trap door, ajar.

Kultin leaned back, reddening. Gareth had escaped. He had found a back way out of the castle. He had known he was coming. He had outsmarted him.

Kultin screamed in frustration, knowing Gareth would already be far away, out of his grasp. As he turned to the window, he began to feel his dreams being dashed.

But as he looked out through the open-air window, he caught sight of something that gave him far greater worries. He did a double-take, unbelieving at first. But as he looked carefully, his heart dropped to see that it was true. For the first time in his life, he knew what it meant to feel fear. Real fear.

Down below there came a great shout, as Andronicus’ army suddenly burst through the gates of King’s Court, slaughtering everyone in sight. In they poured, thousands of them, like a dam breaking, one massive wave of destruction.

Behind them, filling the horizon, were a million men, covering the ground like ants.

Before Kultin could even process what was happening, before he could even turn to command his men, or reach for his sword, suddenly a lone soldier looked up, set his sights on him through the window, and let his spear fly.

It sailed through the air and pierced Lord Kultin’s throat, entering one end and exiting the other.

Kultin stood there, wide-eyed, grasping his throat as blood poured through his hands. And he keeled over and fell out the window.

He tumbled, end over end, heading for the ground, and in his final thoughts, he wondered, of all things, how Gareth got away.