The Sword and The Mountain (Kathardra book 1)

The shattering of a bottle did little to quench Golathar’s rage. It was followed by a chair that didn’t have the decency to break apart. The liquor cart was upended, leaving a wide scattering of liquid and glass.

“How can that be possible?” he raged. The guard captain, Fellon, said nothing.

“Assemble my council. Bring me Jearda.” he thundered at the man.

Fellon fled the room, a deer running from a wolf.

Golathar went to his balcony, his guards were not here, who had dismissed them? He realized he was exposed here. He jerked back inside and slammed the doors behind him.

Jearda walked into his room, pale-faced.

“You did this, didn’t you?” He stomped toward her like a soldier in battle.

“Did what my king?” The liar cowed toward the door. “Sire, when was the last time you slept?”

He grabbed her long hair and threw her to the ground. “You are the only one who has unsupervised access to my rooms!”

He kicked her stomach, she wrapped limply around his foot.

“My king,” the deceptive woman was gasping for breath. “I have done nothing!”

“You lie!” he roared at her.

He lifted Jearda from the ground, held her above his head, and shook her vigorously. “You must’ve had something to do with this! You have been conspiring to kill me since I brought you here! I, who have given you everything!”

Jearda spat in his face, the pure audacity gave him pause. “You have taken everything from me,” the snake hissed.

Golathar threw the woman as hard as he could, she smashed into the wall and fell still.

“Soveiga!” he screamed the summon.

The black-dressed witch hurried into his room, she looked down at Jearda in shock.

“Heal her, then throw her in the dungeon where she can await trial for treason.”

Golathar was a storm moving through the castle. Servants scurried the other way if they crossed his path. Those who made a custom of verbally accosting him to plead for boons, watched him come and go without a word. His own guards were further back than normal.

He stopped suddenly and rounded on them. “What is the purpose of you if you are so far that anyone can reach me before you?” they clustered back in close.

What if these men were the assassin in disguise? He regretted their proximity at once. He studied each of their faces carefully. One he had never seen before.

He pointed at the man, “Go back to your captain, you’re assigned stable duty. Send back a man I’ve seen before.” The guard hurried away.

The doors to the council room swung open wildly until they slammed against the walls they were hinged to.

“This would not have been possible without the assistance of one of you!” He growled at all of the council members. Each of them rushed to stand in his presence. He prowled around the table.

“Sire,” Aberin said. “To what do you refer?”

“Playing the fool, Aberin? I know all of you have spies within these walls. Every one of you receives accounts the moment I do so that you can twist them into your games.” They glanced among themselves uncomfortably.

“In fact. Aberin, who do the guards stationed in Geldur report to?”

Golathar came to a stop just behind Aberin. The man did not respond.

“My prisoner escaped last night. When was the last successful escape from Geldur prison?”

“Well over a decade, my king. My-”

His words cut off when one of Golathar’s swords entered his back and sprouted scarlet from his chest.

“This is laid at your feet, as much as at the guards,” Golathar said, dangerously low.

Aberin slumped against the broad council table, his lifeblood pooling around him and dripping thicky to the polished floor.

The other councilors backed from the table, gasps all around.

“Sit!” Golathar snapped at them. Nobody moved. “SIT!” He screamed.

Hurriedly they rushed into their seats, those on either side of Aberin’s corpse leaning away from it.

“And Zalfus,” Golathar circled the table until he was standing just behind the man. “You recommended a Slystir to my council. Surely you are aware that the Rhodrin heir was sired by a Slystir whore?”

Objections stuttered from Zalfus’s mouth. They turned to garbled bubbling at Golathar’s sword slid across his throat.

“Clean this mess up,” he barked as he left the council hall.

His heart was pounding so hard he felt like it was going to escape his chest. A sinking feeling of wrong flooded Golathar's body, the anticipation of horror.

He looked around trying to see where the attack was coming from, but there were only his guards around him. They looked back with confused expressions.

Was it one of them? Had the Rhodrin heir infiltrated his army?

"Get away from me," he whispered.

"My king?" the closest man asked.

"Leave me!" Golathar boomed at them.

The guards fled, nearly running back down the hall.

Death was coming for him, he looked down each hall as he passed, he even jumped a little when a maid slipped from a side room.

Golathar pulled at the neck of his tunic, it was suddenly uncomfortable, unbearably so. The brush of the material on his skin was grating, he started pulling the tunic over his head, not even in his rooms yet. He had to get it off, away from his skin.

He made it to his suite, the guards stationed on each side of the door looked at him bewildered as he stalked through the door with a bare chest.

Now that he was half undressed he was trembling from head to toe. He grabbed a wolfskin that was draped across a chair and dropped it over his shoulders. He reached for water and it sloshed the sides of his glass as he brought it to his lips. But just before he tipped it to his mouth he remembered the poisoned liquor.

He dropped the glass back to the table and walked to his bedchamber.

Golathar sat on the edge of his bed but stood immediately. He found being stationary insufferable.

He looked under his bed, there was no green-eyed assassin there.

Golathar walked circles around his bedchamber, his stomach was cramping now, but he didn't think he could bear to sit still long enough to use the water closet.

His vision darkened around the edges. Someone had managed it, someone must've slipped him poison despite his diligence.

Laying on the cold stone floor Golathar pressed his cheeks to the ground, grateful for the chill. He waited for death to come to claim him, but it didn't come. Not yet.

His symptoms passed but his fear did not.