Free A Clash of Honor by Morgan Rice Page A

Yes, they had won this round, but they would not win the next.
    Gareth heard another groan, spun, and saw nothing in this chamber. He had to get out of here—he couldn’t stand it anymore.
    He turned and stormed from the room, the door opening before he reached it, his attendants careful to anticipate his every move.
    Gareth threw on his father’s mantle, crown and scepter, as he marched down the hall. He turned down the corridors, until he reached his private dining room, an elaborate stone chamber with high arched ceilings and stained-glass windows, lit up in the early morning light. Two attendants stood waiting at the open door, and another stood waiting behind the head of the table. It was a long banquet table, stretching fifty feet, with dozens of chairs lined up on either side of it; the attendant pulled Gareth’s out for him as he approached, an ancient, oak chair that his father had sat on countless times.
    Gareth sat, and he realized how much he hated this room. He remembered being forced to sit in here as a child, his entire family lined up around it, being rebuked by his father and mother. Now, the room was profoundly lonely. There was no one in here but him—not his brothers or sisters or parents or friends. Not even his advisors. Over the past days, he had managed to isolate everybody, and now he dined alone. He preferred it that way anyway—there were too many times he had seen the ghost of his father in here with him, and he had become embarrassed to cry out in front of others.
    Gareth reached down and took a sip of his morning soup, then suddenly slammed his silver spoon down on the plate.
    “The soup is not hot enough!” he shrieked.
    It was hot, but not piping hot as he liked it, and Gareth would not tolerate one more mistake around him. An attendant ran over.
    “I am sorry, my liege,” the attendant said, bowing his head as he rushed to take it away. But Gareth picked up the plate and threw the hot liquid in the attendant’s face.
    The attendant grabbed his eyes, screaming, as he was scolded by the liquid. Gareth then took the plate and lifted it high over his head, and smashed it over the attendant’s head.
    The attendant screamed, clutching his bloody scalp.
    “Take him away!” Gareth screamed to the other attendants.
    They looked at each other warily, then reluctantly took away the bloody attendant.
    “Send him to the dungeons!” Gareth said.
    As Gareth sat back down, trembling, the room was empty save for one attendant, who walked over to Gareth meekly.
    “My liege,” he said, nervous.
    Gareth looked over at him in a seething rage. As he looked over, Gareth could see his father, sitting erect at the table, a few chairs away, looking back at him and smiling an evil smile. Gareth tried to look away.
    “The Lord you summoned has arrived to see you,” the attendant said. “Lord Kultin, from the Essen province. He waits outside.”
    Gareth blinked several times, as he began to process what his attendant was saying. Lord Kultin. Yes, now he remembered.
    “Send him in at once,” Gareth ordered.
    The attendant bowed and ran from the room, and as he opened the door, in strutted a huge, fierce warrior with long black hair, cold black eyes, a long black beard. He wore full armor and a mantle, wore two long swords, one on either side of his belt, and he kept his hands resting on both of them, as if ready to defend—or attack—at any moment. He looked as if he were in a rage himself, but Gareth knew he was not—Lord Kultin had always appeared this way, ever since the time of his father.
    Kultin strutted up to Gareth, stood over him, and Gareth waved his hand at an empty seat.
    “Sit,” Gareth said.
    “I will stand,” Kultin said back curtly.
    Kultin scowled down at Gareth, and Gareth could hear the strength in his voice, and knew that this Lord was unlike the others. He was fierce, filled with bloodlust, ready to kill anyone and anything at the drop of a dime. He was exactly the type of