David Eddings - Queen of Sorcery

“What treason is this?” Mandorallen demanded of them. “Are ye so enamored of this Murgo and his gold that ye will draw weapons in the king’s presence in open defiance of the law’s prohibitions? Put up your swords.”

But they ignored his words and continued their grim advance.

“Defend thyself, Sir Mandorallen,” Korodullin urged, half rising from his throne. “I free thee of the law’s constraint.”

Barak, however, had already begun to move. Noting that Mandorallen had not carried his shield into the throne room, the red-bearded man jerked an enormous two-handed broadsword down from the array of banners and weapons at one side of the dais. “Mandorallen!” he shouted and with a great heave he slid the huge blade skittering and bouncing across the stone floor toward the knight’s feet. Mandorallen stopped the sliding weapon with one mailed foot, stooped, and picked it up.

The approaching knights looked a bit less confident as Mandorallen lifted the six-foot blade with both hands.

Barak, grinning hugely, drew his sword from one hip and his war axe from the other. Hettar, his drawn sabre held low, was circling the clumsy knights on catlike feet. Without thinking, Garion reached for his own sword, but Mister Wolf’s hand closed on his wrist. “You stay out of it,” the old man told him and pulled him clear of the impending fight.

Mandorallen’s first blow crashed against a quickly raised shield, shattering the arm of a knight with a crimson surcoat over his armor and hurling him into a clattering heap ten feet away. Barak parried a sword stroke from a burly knight with his axe and battered at the man’s raised shield with his own heavy sword. Hettar toyed expertly with a knight in green-enameled armor, easily avoiding his opponent’s awkward strokes and flicking the point of his sabre at the man’s visored face.

The steely ring of sword on sword echoed through Korodullin’s throne room, and showers of sparks cascaded from the clash of edge against edge. With huge blows, Mandorallen smashed at a second man. A vast sweep of his two-handed sword went under the knight’s shield, and the man shrieked as the great blade bit through his armor and into his side. Then he fell with blood spouting from the sheared-in gash that reached halfway through his body.

Barak, with a deft backswing of his war axe, caved in the side of the burly knight’s helmet, and the knight half spun and fell to the floor. Hettar feinted a quick move, then drove his sabre point through a slot in the green-armored knight’s visor. The stricken knight stiffened as the sabre ran into his brain.

As the melee surged across the polished floor, the nobles and ladies scurried this way and that to avoid being overrun by the struggling men. Nachak watched with dismay as his knights were systematically destroyed before his eyes. Then, quite suddenly he turned and fled.

“He’s getting away!” Garion shouted, but Hettar was already in pursuit, his dreadful face and blood-smeared sabre melting the courtiers and their screaming ladies out of his path as he ran to cut off Nachak’s flight. The Murgo had almost reached the far end of the hall before Hettar’s long strides carried him through the crowd to block the doorway. With a cry of despair, the ambassador yanked his sword from its scabbard, and Garion felt a strange, momentary pity for him.

As the Murgo raised his sword, Hettar flicked his sabre almost like a whip, lashing him once on each shoulder. Nachak desperately tried to raise his numbed arms to protect his head, but Hettar’s blade dropped low instead. Then, with a peculiar fluid grace, the grim-faced Algar quite deliberately ran the Murgo through. Garion saw the sabre blade come out between Nachak’s shoulders, angling sharply upward. The ambassador gasped, dropped his sword and gripped Hettar’s wrist with both hands, but the hawk-faced man inexorably turned his hand, twisting the sharp, curved blade inside the Murgo’s body. Nachak groaned and shuddered horribly. Then his hands slipped off Hettar’s wrist and his legs buckled under him. With a gurgling sigh, he toppled backward, sliding limply off Hettar’s blade.

A moment of dreadful silence filled the throne room following the death of Nachak. Then the two members of his bodyguard who were still on their feet threw their weapons down on the blood-spattered floor with a sudden clatter. Mandorallen raised his visor and turned toward the throne. “Sire,” he said respectfully, “the treachery of Nachak stands proved by reason of this trial at arms:”

“Truly,” the king agreed. “My only regret is that thy enthusiasm in pursuing this cause hath deprived us of the opportunity to probe more deeply into the full extent of Nachak’s duplicity.”

“I expect that the plots he hatched will dry up once word of what happened here gets around,” Mister Wolf observed.

“Perhaps so,” the king acknowledged. “I would have pursued the matter further, however. I would know if this villainy was Nachak’s own or if I must look beyond him to Taur Urgas himself.” He frowned thoughtfully, then shook his head as if to put certain dark speculations aside. “Arendia stands in thy debt, Ancient Belgarath. This brave company of throe hath forestalled the renewal of a war best forgotten.” He looked sadly at the blood-smeared floor and the bodies littering it. “My throne room hath become as a battlefield. The curse of Arendia extends even here.” He sighed. “Have it cleansed,” he ordered shortly and turned his head so that he would not have to watch the grim business of cleaning up.

The nobles and ladies began to buzz as the dead were removed and the polished stone floor was quickly mopped to remove the pools of sticky blood.

“Good fight,” Barak commented as he carefully wiped his axe blade.

“I am in thy debt, Lord Barak,” Mandorallen said gravely. “Thy aid was fortuitous.”

Barak shrugged. “It seemed appropriate.”

Hettar rejoined them, his expression one of grim satisfaction.

“You did a nice job on Nachak,” Barak complimented him.

“I’ve had a lot of practice,” Hettar answered. “Murgos always seem to make that same mistake when they get into a fight. I think there’s a gap in their training somewhere.”

“That’s a shame, isn’t it?” Barak suggested with vast insincerity.

Garion moved away from them. Although he knew it was irrational, he nevertheless felt a keen sense of personal responsibility for the carnage he had just witnessed. The blood and violent death had come about as the result of his words. Had he not spoken, men who were now dead would still be alive. No matter how justified—how necessary—his speaking out had been, he still suffered the pangs of guilt. He did not at the moment trust himself to speak with his friends. More than anything he wished that he could talk with Aunt Pol, but she had not yet returned to the throne room, and so he was left to wrestle alone with his wounded conscience.

He reached one of the embrasures formed by the buttresses along the south wall of the throne room and stood alone in somber reflection until a girl, perhaps two years older than he, glided across the floor toward him, her stiff, crimson brocade gown rustling. The girl’s hair was dark, even black, and her skin was creamy. Her bodice was cut quite low, and Garion found some difficulty in finding a safe place for his eyes as she bore down on him.

“I would add my thanks to the thanks of all Arendia, Lord Garion,” she breathed at him. Her voice was vibrant with all kinds of emotions, none of which Garion understood. “Thy timely revelation of the Murgo’s plotting hath in truth saved the life of our sovereign.”

Garion felt a certain warmth at that. “I didn’t do all that much, my lady,” he replied with a somewhat insincere attempt at modesty. “My friends did all the fighting.”