The Gift of Battle by Morgan Rice

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 .

CHAPTER FOURTEEN
     
     
    Kendrick raised
his sword and blocked the blow as a Sand Walker brought its razor-sharp claw
down for his face. It stopped it with a clang, sparks flying out, and Kendrick
dodged out of the way, as the creature slid its claws down off the blade and
swiped for his head.
    Kendrick spun
around and slashed, but the creature was surprisingly quick. It backed away,
Kendrick’s sword just missing. It then lunged forward, leaping high into the
air and coming straight down for Kendrick—and this time, he was prepared. He
had underestimated its speed, but would not do so a second time. Kendrick
squatted down low and raised his sword high—and he let the beast impale itself,
falling right through the blade.
    Kendrick rose to
his knees and swung his sword low, slashing off the legs of two Sand Walkers as
they came for him. He then turned and thrust his sword backwards, stabbing one
in the gut right before it landed on his back.
    The beasts
descended on him from all directions, and Kendrick found himself in the midst
of a heated battle, Brandt and Atme by his side and Koldo and Ludvig by his
other. The five of them instinctually