The Excalibur Key

Начало книги

The king’s final orders began with a fit of coughing, as did nearly everything he’d said in the last three days. A thin line of blood oozed from the corner of his mouth into the dark blond beard, his pale face the ghastly color of eminent death.

Godfrey stared at the far wall, eyes bloodshot and sagging. He’d been propped up on a stack of pillows to make him more comfortable, but the cushions did little to ease the pain from the illness ravaging his insides. Ever the warrior, Godfrey didn’t give in. He hardened the muscles in his face so as to not show weakness to the others in the room.

His younger brother, Baldwin, stood nearby with hands folded. He wore a solemn expression — lips drawn into a frown, eyes sullen and full of pity.

No one was sure what had happened.

Godfrey was a relatively young man, only forty years of age. Up until the day he first noticed the symptoms, he’d been in near-perfect health.

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