a threat to their existence. ‘All of this line must perish,’ finished Lodavico, slamming his right fist into his left palm for emphasis. A soldier stepped up behind the smallest child on the platform. Daylon tried to remember the boy’s name and failed before the soldier grabbed a handful of the child’s fire-red hair and yanked back his small head. A quick slice of a sharp dagger and the boy’s eyes rolled back up into his skull as blood gushed from his neck.
A weak cheer rose from the soldiers, and Daylon knew they just wanted this grisly spectacle to be over so they could rest, eat, then set about organizing for the march south to Ithra. He had no doubt several free companies had already departed, eager to be first to choose spoils; mercenary companies were free of political considerations and would race to be first to claim spoils. If there was any justice, Steveren had left behind a big enough garrison to inflict real pain on those adventurers. Let the early companies pay the price for their greed, and perhaps give some of the populace the opportunity to flee before the bulk of Lodavico’s forces descended on them. The only nations with fleets big enough to blockade a sea escape were Meteros and Zindaros. Zindaros’s navy had transported their army here, and Helosea had chosen to stay aloof from today’s butchery. Their navy was big enough that they could ignore Lodavico’s demands. The day might come when they’d regret their choice, but Daylon welcomed their decision. If some of Ithra’s citizens could find boats and reach the open sea, perhaps one day they might rebuild their nation …
Daylon shook off a rush of guilt and shame, to face the last blood that would he spilled today. What was done was done, and regret served no good purpose.
With swift precision, the executioner moved down the line, pulling back the heads of the children and then the women. Rodrigo asked, ‘Who’s missing?’
‘The two eldest sons,’ said Daylon. ‘Both fell in battle.’
Steveren Langene, the last king of Ithrace, watched in silent rage and torment as his family was slaughtered before his eyes. Daylon almost physically winced at the sight of a man he loved like a brother losing his ability to stand unaided. Two soldiers gripped the ends of Steveren’s restraining yoke, holding him upright on his knees as he began to collapse. The last to die was his wife of over thirty years, his queen, and the mother of his children. She fought when her hair was grabbed, not to avoid death but so that she could see her husband’s face as her life fled.
‘There’s no glory here,’ muttered Rodrigo.
‘Our four remaining kings wish to ensure there is no doubt that the line of the Firemanes is done.’
As soldiers dragged the dead off the platform, Lodavico felt the need to reiterate all the fabricated sins of the Firemanes, embellishing the lies with innuendo that even more perfidy and treachery might yet be uncovered. ‘Will this ever end?’ whispered Rodrigo.
Finally, they came to the king. Lodavico finished his speech and stepped aside as a soldier moved forward, a large two-hand sword in his grip. As others held Steveren’s yoke firmly, lowering it until he was on his knees, the soldier measured the distance from the wooden collar to the base of the king’s skull, then with a single circular swing he brought round the blade and cleanly sliced head from shoulders.
The crowd cheered, again with no real conviction. As if disappointed by the lack of enthusiasm, Lodavico motioned for the headsman to pick up the dead king’s head by its flame-red hair and then he shouted, ‘Behold the fate of a betrayer!’
Again came a weak response.
Lodavico looked at the hundreds of soldiers before him, as if trying to memorize their faces for a future accounting. His forehead creased as he scowled, his lower jaw protruding as if ready to challenge the entire army to a fight. The awkward moment was broken when Mazika Koralos, king of Zindaros, shouted, ‘Finish tending the dead and wounded, eat, and rest, for at dawn we march to Ithra!’ This brought a more enthusiastic cheer and the men began to leave.
Daylon turned away and saw an unspoken question in Rodrigo’s expression. Softly, almost through clenched teeth, Daylon said, ‘A king executing a king? On the field of battle is one thing, but this murder?’ He locked eyes with Rodrigo. ‘It is not done.’
‘You killed Genddor of Balgannon, after you took his castle.’ There was a hint of challenge in that statement.
‘He was no king,’ answered Daylon. ‘He was a usurper and pretender. And I killed him as he stood at bay in his great hall. Besides, Balgannon was no kingdom.’
‘No more,’ agreed Rodrigo, ‘since Ilcomen annexed it.’ He sighed. ‘It was hardly a real barony. Genddor’s father was nothing but a puffed-up warlord. You should have kept it for yourself.’ He looked around and saw the men moving away from the platform, so he nodded to Daylon that they too should depart.
Walking down the hillside, Daylon said, ‘Now comes the reward.’
Rodrigo said, ‘So, the riches of Ithrace are ours for the taking?’
Daylon put his hand on his old friend’s shoulder for a moment. ‘You can have my share, I will march my men home. I am tired of this.’
Daylon had been one of the few free barons who were truly independent and unallied. The rulers of Marquensas and Copper Hills had sworn to no king, but most of the remaining thirty barons had social or monetary obligations that effectively bound them to one of the great monarchs, at least until debts were repaid or obligations discharged.
‘Your oathmen won’t object?’ asked Rodrigo.
‘My oathmen are free to travel with Their Majesties,’ Daylon replied dryly. ‘I have no plans to campaign again soon, so should they wish to wager blood against gold, so be it. My castellans will come with me without complaint. I provide for them well enough.’
‘You may feel free to choose, my friend,’ said Rodrigo, ‘but from Lodavico’s mood, your departure may be seen as insult. He might not care that mercenaries and other lowborn left without his leave … you are hardly anonymous.’
‘He’s going to be too busy fighting over Ithrace to notice I’m not there.’ He shrugged as if it was of no concern. ‘And if he does notice, he will not dare make an open issue of it, lest he offend the other free barons.’
Rodrigo forced a smile. ‘You are so well loved, then, my friend?’
Daylon returned his faint smile. ‘No, but should my freehold and lands be taken by Lodavico, what is your first thought, Rodrigo?’
‘Who’s next?’ he conceded. Rodrigo paused, stopping where he would leave Daylon to make his way back to his own encampment. ‘You’ve thought this through.’
‘I have. All that I have done I did to ensure my family and people’s survival. Lodavico is covetous, and more than a little mad, but he’s not stupid.’ Daylon gestured towards the carnage around them. ‘A stupid man cannot scheme to end a rival kingdom in a single day. Lodavico planned this for a long time and in great detail, and he paid no small sum of gold to make it happen.
‘So, would he turn on me out of spite?’ Daylon shrugged and let out a small sigh of fatigue. ‘He knows that every free baron, and their oathmen, would think as we do; and while alone none of us are a threat, united we could end his rule.’
Rodrigo nodded in agreement. ‘More than a few of Lodavico’s oathmen would seize the opportunity to change their allegiance if all the free barons rose at once: he does not treat them gently. Release from his yoke would be worth the risk.’
‘The day will almost certainly come, my friend, when Lodavico has earned enough ire to force an alliance of enemies, but that day is still years away. Too many rivalries have been exploited, too much distrust seeded among those who need to unite against Sandura, and too many willing to support him out of fear, or hope of benefit.’
Daylon took a deep breath and let it out slowly, then with a wry smile he said, ‘Yes, that day will come, but not today.’
Rodrigo was thoughtful for a moment, and then dismissed the notion with a wave of