The King's Traitor (Kingfountain #3)(96)
The two armies slogged through the mire of slush and carnage to strike at each other. This was how it was supposed to end. Owen was almost relieved that the king hadn’t truly surrendered. His respect for the man would have diminished. No, Severn would fight. But where was he?
“My lord!” Ashby warned. “We’ve drifted ahead of our men. Fall back!”
An archer bearing the standard of the white boar impaled a knight with an arrow before he could be hacked down. Then he turned his bow on Owen, aiming for his mount this time. The arrow struck the horse’s withers, causing him to scream in pain and begin to fall. Owen managed to scrabble off the thrashing beast before it pinned him beneath it. Owen had lost his shield in the tumult, and he gazed around the battlefield, amazed at the number that had fallen. Tunics with the stags on blue were intermingled with the White Boar, the dead bodies frozen as the snow continued to come down in never-ending waves.
“Grab my hand!” Ashby said, riding up alongside Owen.
But as he reached for it, a spearman rode up and stabbed Ashby in the back. A rictus of pain transformed the spattered face, and Ashby yelled in agony as he arched and then tumbled from the saddle.
A dozen knights emerged from the woods to flank Owen, among them the king, his crown affixed to his helmet. Seeing him made the world suddenly totter, as if a giant had slammed his boot on the ground and caused an earthquake. The king was pointing at him with his sword, but Owen could not hear any words over the sudden ringing of the magic within the Maid’s blade. He felt a grinding sensation, and images of the ancient Wizr board filled his head. He saw the black king move to occupy the space of the white knight, and his stomach filled with dread.
He felt a blade slice into his arm and realized he was surrounded by enemies. The sting could not be felt over the rush of panic. Owen twirled and swept his blade around. When it struck the knight who had attacked him, he felt the invocation of the sword’s magic. The knight flew backward, leaving his arm in the muck at Owen’s feet. Another knight dressed in a boar tunic charged Owen, but Owen deflected the attack and then used his magic to find the man’s weakness. The sword’s magic was building up again, preparing for another thunderous blast that would repel his attackers.
They came at him in droves, but Owen beat them back, the sword blasting them away like a catapult. His breath came thick and heavy. He was wounded in a dozen places, but the magic of the scabbard kept him alive and on his feet. Bodies of dead kingsmen were scattered around him in a wide arc. Where were his own men? He was in the thickest part of the fight.
The sight of the king filled him with despair, for he sensed the piece on the Wizr board moving.
Owen clenched the blade tightly, summoning its power. But his strength was failing, and Firebos felt heavy in his hand. His cracked lips pulled back into a snarl as Severn approached, a sword in one hand, a dagger in the other. The two men circled each other, but each step Owen took made his head spin, his knees tremble. It felt as if a huge mountain were suspended over him. Was this what Roux had felt the night of his death?
“You thought to beat me!” Severn said with fury. “You thought to wear this crown! Take it from me, boy! If you can!”
Owen knew this was his chance . . . and he also knew that he was doomed to fail. Somehow the king had discovered the power of the Wizr set. Owen could sense the whorl of magic around him, making him heavier and heavier. The pieces had already been moved, and not in his favor.
He let out a grunt of rage and rushed at the king, hefting Firebos high over his head and bringing it down toward the king’s shoulder. But it was like swinging against a huge boulder. The instant the weapon hit the king, the magic repulsed against Owen. The surge of magic would have killed another man. But while his arm went numb, it was the soldiers rushing up behind him who were flattened by the blast. His entire body and arm hurt, and suddenly the king’s dagger plunged into his ribs. He felt the steel slide into his flesh, and his legs turned to water.
Firebos fell from his numb fingers into the snow, where it was instantly covered in hoarfrost.
Owen slumped forward against the king’s body, pain traveling through him in spasms. He saw the fury and hatred melt away from the king’s face as he collapsed into the bloody snow. The world spun recklessly.
The king knelt by his body, staring at him with a strange look of grief and surprise.
“It worked,” Severn said with awe. “The magic worked! I’ll not fail after all!”
Owen lay still, his strength in tatters.
The king picked up Firebos and held it aloft. A clap of thunder broke in the sky. “Victory!” he shouted. “Victory!”
A cry of triumph came from the soldiers wearing the White Boar.
The sickening realization of defeat washed through Owen. He saw the dagger pommel sticking out from his armor. No blood came from it. The scabbard on his belt was the only thing keeping him alive.
The king turned and looked down at Owen with pity. “Take him to my tent,” the king said. “Have my surgeon tend him.”
“My lord!” one of them uttered, aghast. “He’s a traitor! Slay him!”
“He’ll meet a traitor’s death,” Severn said grimly, “after we’ve buried this rebellion.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
The Black King
“Well, my lord,” the surgeon said, drying his hands on a bloodied rag. “I can’t account for the duke surviving. These wounds would have killed another man. I’ve done all I could.”