The Gift of Battle

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Mardig strutted down the castle corridors with determination, his heart pounding as he contemplated in his mind’s eye what he was about to do. He reached down and with a sweaty palm clutched the dagger deep hidden in his waist. He walked the same path he had a million times before—on his way to see his father.

The King’s chamber was not far now, and Mardig twisted and turned down the familiar corridors, past all the guards who bowed reverentially at the sight of the King’s son. Mardig knew he had little to fear from them. No one had any idea what he was about to do, and no one would know what had happened until long after the deed was done—and the kingdom was his.

Mardig felt a whirlwind of conflicting emotions as he forced himself to put one foot in front of the other, his knees trembling, forced himself to stay resolved as he prepared to do the deed he had contemplated his entire life. His father had always been an oppressor to him, had always disapproved of him, while he had approved of his other, warrior, sons. He even approved of his daughter more than he. All because he, Mardig, had chosen not to participate in this culture of chivalry; all because he preferred to drink wine and chase women—instead of killing other men.

In his father’s eyes, that made him a failure. His father had frowned upon everything Mardig did, his disapproving eyes following him at every corner, and Mardig had always dreamt of a day of reckoning. And at the same time, Mardig could seize power for himself. Everyone had expected the kingship to fall to one of his brothers, to the eldest, Koldo, or if not he, then to Mardig’s twin, Ludvig. But Mardig had other plans.

As Mardig turned the corner, the soldiers guarding it reverentially bowed, and they turned to open it for him without even asking him why.

But suddenly, one of them stopped, unexpectedly, and turned to look at him.

“My lord,” he said, “the King did not make us aware of any visitors this morning.”

Mardig’s heart started pounding, but he forced himself to appear bold and confident; he turned and stared back at the soldier, a stare of entitlement, until finally he could see the soldier looking unsure of himself.

“And am I a mere visitor?” Mardig answered coldly, doing his best to seem unafraid.

The guard slowly backed away quickly and Mardig marched through the open door, the guards closing it behind him.

Mardig strutted into the room, and as he did, he saw the surprised eyes of his father, who had been standing at the window and looking out looking pensively at his kingdom. He faced him, confused.

“Mardig,” his father said, “to what do I owe the privilege? I did not summon you. Nor have you bothered to visit me any of these past moons—unless there was something you want.”

Mardig’s heart slammed in his chest.

“I’ve not come to ask anything of you, Father,” he replied. “I have come to take.”

His father looked confused.

“To take?” he asked.

“To take what is mine,” Mardig replied.

Mardig took a few long strides across the chamber, steeling himself, as his father looked back at him, baffled.

“What is it that is yours?” he asked.

Mardig felt his palms sweating, the dagger in his hand, and did not know if he could go through with it.

“Why, the kingdom,” he said.

Mardig slowly released the dagger in his palm, wanting his father to see it before he stabbed him, wanting his father to see firsthand how much he hated him. He wanted to see his father’s expression of fear, of shock, of rage.

But as his father looked down, it was not the moment Mardig had expected. He had expected his father to resist, to fight back; but instead he looked up at him with sadness and compassion.

“My boy,” he said. “You are still my son, despite all, and I love you. I know, deep in your heart, you don’t mean this.”

Mardig narrowed his eyes, confused.

“I am sick, my son,” the King continued. “Soon enough, I will be dead. When I am, the Kingdom will pass to your brothers, not you. Even if you were to kill me now, you would gain nothing from it. You would still be third in line. So put down your weapon and embrace me. I still love you, as any father would.”

Mardig, in a sudden rush of rage, hands shaking, leapt forward and plunged the dagger deep into his father’s heart.

His father stood there, eyes bulging in disbelief, as Mardig held him tight and looked into his eyes.

“Your sickness has made you weak, Father,” he said. “Five years ago I could never have done this. And a kingdom does not deserve a weak king. I know you will die soon—but that is not soon enough for me.”

His father finally collapsed to the floor, motionless.

Dead.

Mardig looked down, breathing hard, still in shock at what he had just done. He wiped his hand on his robe, threw down the knife, and it landed with a clang on the floor.

Mardig scowled down at his father.

“Don’t you worry about my brothers, Father,” he added. “I have a plan for them, too.”

Mardig stepped over his father’s corpse, approached the window, and looked down at the capital city below. His city.

Now it was all his.