“That was always your weakness,” Herric said. “You think being remembered matters. You think fear and legacy are the same thing. But I don’t need to be remembered. I only need to be the man who rides through.”
The Duke tilted his head. “I burned a village. The fact that it was yours is incidental. You swore an oath to me, Herric. You broke it when you rode away. The punishment for desertion is death. The punishment for those who harbor a deserter is—well. You saw.”
The citadel of Cinderfell rose from the mountain’s spine like a black tooth. Its walls were sheer basalt, slick with frost. Its gates were iron-bound oak, reinforced with spells of warding that Herric had helped design a decade ago, when he still believed he could change the Duke from within. He knew three ways in: the main gate, the postern door behind the kitchens, and the drainage sluice that emptied into the river gorge. a man rides through by stephen r donaldson.pdf
“Herric,” the Duke said, without surprise. “I wondered when you’d come. The smith? The miller’s daughter? You always did take these things personally.”
He had killed four of them before they fled. Their blood mixed with rain on his sword. It meant nothing. “That was always your weakness,” Herric said
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He did not scream. He had learned, long ago, that pain was only a message. And he had stopped listening to the Duke’s messages.
The blow was clean. Quick. The Duke’s head struck the marble floor a full second before his body understood it was dead.
