The knight’s body fell to the stone floor with a rattle of armor. Useless. The prince stood there, breathing heavily after the long fight. He was wounded. He was victorious. He was alone with the priest.
The prince leaned on his sword to move forward, as the priest fell backwards onto the altar. Upon it, amidst the decoration of golden giants and ruby-studded dragons was a precious box which contained an artifact of great power.
“No, please,” the priest cried, “This is blasphemy. This is a sin. You cannot take it away from here. It is its rightful place.”
“The Lock,” said the prince, “I need it. The enemy is tightening its foul hold on us. Darkness falls and with it descent inhuman brutes. There is chaos in the streets and in the farms. People devouring each other to stay alive. I need the Holy Lock to protect us. To end this horror.”
“But it has given our land prosperity for ages. We need it as well, to keep the crops up. To protect from the plague.”
“Your people will live, priest.”
“I cannot let you take it.”
“Then you will die,” said the prince, as he thrust the blade into the old man’s chest. Useless.
Three of the prince’s guard ran into the chapel with a rattle of armor. “Our lord, you are wounded!”
“Do not worry about me, men. Get the Holy Lock and transport it to Rome as soon as possible. Our freedom hangs in the balance. And may the Lord guide you.”