Chapter 24: Betrayal

"Sandor!" Ragnar exclaimed, helping the soldier up. "What are you doing here?"

"Same as you, I guess," Sandor replied, pulling himself up. The soldier looked tired. His face was drawn tight on his slim face and was dotted with spots of red and green blood. His armor, once silver and shiny when Ragnar last saw Sandor at the meeting room, was marred, scratched, and covered in dirt and blood. Sandor must have been through some ordeal.

"Then why'd you attack me?" Ragnar asked, raising an eyebrow. After what Darnell had told him about Sandor's treatment to him, Ragnar did not completely trust the ambitious soldier. However, Sandor was the only human Ragnar had seen since he left Izmit. Seeing a familiar face was always inviting.

"I thought you were one of them," Sandor simply replied, pointing to the entrance to the floor.

"'One of them'?"

"Yeah," Sandor said. "Those blasted elves."

"You know of the elves?" Ragnar asked, becoming intrigued.

"Well, I haven't seen them," Sandor replied, somewhat quickly, "but I've heard that they're the ones in charge here. Trust me, I was as surprised as anyone when I found out." He paused for a moment, then asked, "How did you know about the elves?"

"It's a long story," Ragnar simply replied, "but one that you can read in my report when we return home. Right now, we have to find a way of defeating them."

"Right," Sandor slowly replied, absorbed in his own thoughts.

After a moment, he started to point to Ragnar's shield. "I believe you have something of mine there," he said.

Ragnar looked at the face of his shield and saw a large sword embedded. He had been so intent on stopping Sandor when he first attacked that Ragnar had not even notice the sword before. "What's this?" he asked, yanking the sword out and admiring the fine craftsmanship of the hilt and blade. "I don't think you left Burland Castle with this."

"Um, no," Sandor muttered, grabbing the sword from Ragnar's hands. The soldier sheathed it and a third of the blade stuck out of the scabbard that was meant for copper swords.

"Where'd you get it?" Ragnar asked, curious as to how Sandor could have gotten a hold of such a fine weapon. If a copper sword had struck the iron of Ragnar's shield, it would usually bounce off, sometimes even shatter. Sandor's sword would have to be extremely sharp and strong to get stuck in Ragnar's shield.

"Does it matter?" Sandor snapped angrily. Ragnar remained unfazed, however. Sandor kept his glare up for a few moments, and then mellowed his eyes. "Sorry," he muttered, "but I've been somewhat stressed lately."

"I think we all have been," Ragnar agreed with a nod.

He then remembered something. The innkeeper at Izmit had said that Garn and Denuve had left with Sandor. However, they were nowhere in sight in the dark basement.

Sandor was starting to head to the entrance to the basement when Ragnar roughly grabbed him by the shoulder and spun him around. "Where's Garn and Denuve?" he asked firmly. "I heard that they left with you."

Sandor looked at Ragnar for a moment but held no emotion in his eyes. He then turned away and stated matter-of-factly, "They're dead." He then started to walk back to the entrance.

Ragnar stood still for a moment, shocked by the coldness of Sandor's reply. "Where are their bodies?" he called after Sandor. The soldier did not reply.

"Hey!" Ragnar called and ran to catch up. "Didn't you hear me? I asked-"

Sandor suddenly spun around, anger in his eyes. "Don't start asking me questions!" he said, jabbing a finger into Ragnar's breastplate. "They're dead and that's all there is to it! We've got a bigger problem here now and that's getting out of here!" Sandor relaxed a bit but Ragnar remained tense.

"Those monsters up there can't come down here for some reason," Sandor continued, "but we can't stay down here forever. We have to get out of here."

"Agreed," Ragnar muttered.

"The way I see it," Sandor said, turning his head back to the entrance, "our only option is surrender."

"What!" Ragnar exclaimed, not believing what he just heard. "Are you mad? Surrender is not an option!"

"It's the only one we have!" Sandor argued, turning back to face Ragnar. "We're hopelessly outnumbered. We'd fall to overwhelming odds alone!"

"Then that's what we're going to have to do," Ragnar muttered grimly. "A Royal Soldier would sooner fall on a rusted blade then surrender to the enemy."

"Damn it, you don't know what you're talking about!" Sandor argued. "Times are changing! There are events happening in this world that will make your old fashioned ways obsolete. Even your armor is outdated by a good hundred years. Don't you understand?"

The younger soldier's insult towards his family's armor slightly stung him but Ragnar crossed his arms over his large chest, showing he was sticking by his decision.

Sandor shook his head, looking away from Ragnar. "So, nothing will change your mind?" he asked.

"Nothing," Ragnar replied gruffly. "We will just have to find other options."

The shadowy light hid Sandor's smile. "I was hoping you'd say that," he chuckled.

Without any warning, Sandor whipped out his blade and slashed savagely at Ragnar. Ragnar, taken completely by surprise by Sandor's attack, had hardly any time to dodge. He stepped back and the blade cut deeply into Ragnar's breastplate, sparks flying into the dark air as it left a large, horizontal line in its wake.

Ragnar realized he was very lucky to have avoided the attack. He backed up, his copper sword already in his hand.

Sandor looked at Ragnar for a moment and laughed. "Do you really think you can defeat me with that puny thing?" he asked between chuckles. "I was your equal in battle practice. With this sword, I'm your superior!"

Sandor charged Ragnar, the deadly sword prepared to strike high. As the attack came, Ragnar deflected it with his shield. However, he was so unprepared of the sheer force of Sandor's strength and ferocity that the vibration of the savage attack left Ragnar flailing backwards. Sandor made use of the advantage and swung the large sword at Ragnar's right. Ragnar managed to get his sword up to block but Sandor's blade went cleanly through the inferior weapon, shattering it in half.

Ragnar did not even have a chance to be amazed for he felt the blade cut deeply into his left forearm. Ragnar screamed in pain as Sandor brought the blade out. He undid the shield on the arm, his forearm no longer strong enough to hold up the heavy iron. It clattered noisily on the stony floor, echoing throughout the chamber. Ragnar then grabbed his forearm, hoping to stem the flow of blood.

He backed up again and saw that Sandor was standing still for the moment, apparently surprised. "You've got tougher skin than I thought, Ragnar," he said emotionlessly. "Such a blow would have severed a man's arm." The fire from the tiers lighting his face revealed an insolent smirk as he started to raise the impressive sword. "How does it feel that you know you're going to die?"

"I'm not finished yet!" Ragnar spat, clenching his teeth.

"Oh, but you are!" Sandor smiled, bringing the hilt above his head. "Here, let me show you why the elves call this blade the Sword of Malice!" The hilt began to glow strangely, lighting Sandor's face with an eerie, red luminescence. Ragnar looked at the hilt for long moments, watching as a fiery red aura started to form. He then had a sudden realization that he should get out of the way. Whatever the sword was doing, it could not be good!

Ragnar turned and bolted for the altar. "Yes, run!" he heard Sandor laugh. "The lot of good it'll do for you!" Ragnar kept running, the altar just a few feet ahead. He heard a sound like a muffled explosion and then started to feel heat against his back. Gritting his teeth, Ragnar leapt forward and dove behind the altar, flame licking the bottom of his boots.

As he hit the hard ground, Ragnar saw a fireball the size of his head sail above and impact on the wall ahead. Ragnar sat up and ducked behind the altar, hearing several explosions of heat and flame pummel the stony face.

The soldier undid his pack and reached in, hoping to find a medical herb that could possibly cure the deep wound in his forearm. Before he found one, however, the explosions stopped and he heard footsteps approaching the altar. Ragnar stood still, trying to think of some sort of strategy against the superior enemy. However, he could not come up with anything when he felt the sharp point of a sword lightly touch his neck.

"Get up!" Sandor commanded. Ragnar hesitated and Sandor dug the sword into his shoulder a bit. Biting his lip, Ragnar slowly stood up. "One last chance," Sandor said, pointing the sword at Ragnar's chest. "Join me or die."

Ragnar stuck out his chest in defiance, his silence giving Sandor his response.

The treacherous soldier snickered, shrugged and prepared to deliver the deathblow. Ragnar calmly closed his eyes, preparing for an eternal blackness.

It did not come.

Ragnar then realized that Sandor's snickering had turned into gurgling. He opened his eyes and saw Sandor reaching for his throat in haggard, jerky motions. Ragnar also saw the silhouette of another person behind Sandor but could not make out any features from the shadows created by the tier flames.

Ragnar then noticed blood spilling onto the altar, dripping through Sandor's hands clasped around his throat. Sandor continued gurgling as the Sword of Malice fell from his weakening grip and clattered on the floor. Sandor's mouth began to drip blood as well, oozing over his already blood-soaked hand. He put his other hand in the back of his neck, trying to grab something. However, his body could no longer take the loss of blood nor the lack of air and he fell forwards, falling over the altar. Ragnar backed up, not wanting the treacherous soldier to grasp a hold of him as he fell. Sandor finally stopped moving and his hands limply fell, revealing the hilt of a dagger in the back of Sandor's neck.

The dark silhouette then moved into the fire's light and spat on Sandor. "So much for bad sewage," Sir Garn muttered through a blood-covered mouth.