opponent. Thelonius struck first and Harold defended. The first few clashes were conventional enough. Thelonius was an expert swordsman, but Harold was well-tutored too. Thelonius was bigger, more muscled, and far more experienced, but Harold had smoke.
The fight seemed almost mundane. The swords clashed; the fighters moved back. They met again, moved back again. But at the next meeting, Thelonius lunged. Harold turned quickly to avoid the blade and then whipped round, making a counterattack that cut low to Thelonius’s leg before stepping back out of his reach. Thelonius staggered but raised his sword.
Harold said, “Well, this is all very well as a warm-up, but it’s not a historic battle. It’s far too dull. No one wants to see a fight like this. They want to see this.” Then he ran and leaped up and over Thelonius, turning in the air and swiping at his opponent’s left shoulder. Thelonius was knocked forward, but he managed to stay on his feet, blood pouring from a deep wound.
Harold paced around. “Your right leg is the weaker. Almost useless. You’d be better off without it.” Then he shouted: “Would he be better off without his useless leg, boys?”
There was a huge cheer in reply. The boys thrilled at their power. And Harold ran at Thelonius, knocking his sword out of the way and turning, slicing at his leg, and then using the momentum of his own sword to lift him high in the air and somersault, landing firmly on two feet. The boys around him were cheering. March forced himself to cheer with them.
Thelonius was still standing. He roared in anger and tried to move forward, but his right leg fell away, cut clean through at the thigh. He stood a moment, blood pouring from his wound, before he toppled to the ground.
Harold stood over him. “Do you yield?”
“You’re mad and evil and I curse the—”
But March never learned what he cursed, as Harold sliced Thelonius’s head off with a loud scream of fury. “Don’t you dare curse me, you pathetic old man!”
Harold stood triumphant over the body and ordered, “Put his head, body, and leg on display. Let everyone see him. All three bits.” Then he looked up and around, as if trying to decide what to do with the huge Calidorian force. He shouted, “Lay down your weapons. Surrender.”
Some of the soldiers threw their weapons down and dropped to their knees, but many ran for the woods. A group of boys chased after them, but Harold had lost interest already. He was too busy parading around victoriously and congratulating the boys. “We have taken Calidor. I have defeated Thelonius. Calidor is ours. We have taken it all.”
March was sickened. Harold would do the same to Edyon if he ever caught him. The boys were mad too. Everything was mad and bloody and awful. He wanted to get out, but more than that he wanted to be rid of Harold. March could end this with a single stone. He plucked one from his bag, pulled his arm back—but then a Fox ran forward, blocking the shot and shouting, “Your Highness, I’ve news. We’ve captured Thelonius’s son. He’s our prisoner in Calia.”
“Edyon?” March said.
And again March had lost his chance, but perhaps it had never been a chance at all.
CATHERINE
ARMY CAMP, NORTHERN PITORIA
If you suspect something is wrong, you’re probably right.
Pitorian saying
CATHERINE HALF wished she could have stayed in camp with Tzsayn but knew she needed to be with her men. Without the king, the army was lacking a figurehead. She might not be able to fight, but she could lead. The route they took was through farmland and green hills, and Catherine marked their progress by the Northern Plateau, which was a constant presence, looming closer and higher all the time. And somewhere there, inside all that stone, was Ambrose. She remembered standing on the edge of the plateau with him, and how different things had looked from there and how far they could see. Anyone up there now would see her army for certain, and they’d see she was at its head.
Catherine suddenly felt very small. It was a sensation she’d had before—like being a tiny red ant walking across a paving slab, watched by her father, only now she was a shining white ant. And she knew she was being watched—the Brigantines would surely have lookouts on the plateau.
She felt a flicker of fear, but then she looked at the men around her and reminded herself, I’m not an ant,