The First Spear positioned himself at the center, becoming the prow of their little ship that braced against an angry sea. Making the commander the focal point of the attack was unconventional, and while brave, doing so was also ill advised. Nolyn considered intervening, but experience had taught him not to second-guess a First Spear’s instincts—especially when the prymus was new to the region.
Nolyn ordered an initial flight of javelins, the effectiveness of which was difficult to gauge in the dark. Then the men closed ranks. Trapped as they were, the first line’s unenviable task was to become an impenetrable wall, denying the enemy all opportunities. As the goblins advanced, Amicus inexplicably dropped his shield and broke the line. He stepped forward while drawing two swords. If it had been anyone else, Nolyn would have ordered him back, concluding that the soldier had panicked. But this wasn’t the first time the prymus had seen Amicus Killian fight.
That had been years before when everyone in Percepliquis had crowded into the Imperial Arena to witness the Battle of the Century, as it had been promoted throughout the city—the day a lowly human fought an Instarya, one of the best fighters of the invincible Fhrey warrior tribe. Nolyn had attended the spectacle with Sephryn. As prince, he could have sat in the High Box, but the two had chosen to stand in the Common Field. The view was limited but the energy amazing. During a competition that was as much an act of rebellion as entertainment, everyone saw where the heir and the councilwoman stood—shoulder to shoulder with humans.
The fight became the stuff of legend.
Amicus Killian had fought Abryll Orphe, son of Plymerath, the legendary hero from the Great War. Abryll, dressed in shimmering bronze armor, danced about the arena, his blue cloak and long, blond hair flowing. Amicus didn’t move. Dressed in only a leather skirt, bracers, and simple sandals, he waited—a sword in each hand and that huge one on his back. He’d used them in every arena battle where, over the course of three short years, he had become the most famous warrior in the world. Holding Sephryn’s hand on that day, Nolyn had learned why.
Now, while trapped in a dead-end canyon facing a horde of ghazel in the light of a fully grown fire, he witnessed the inconceivable again.
The enemy spotted Amicus and the door he held open in the ranks. They rushed him, coming two at a time. Caught in the narrow cleft and blocked by the fire, there wasn’t room for more. With an economy of movement, Amicus wasted no step, swing, glance, or even breath. Every action was purposeful, as if he performed a practiced-to-perfection choreography. Watching him, seeing how the fighter was two steps ahead of his opponents in each encounter, Nolyn recalled the man’s famous nickname—the one the crowds had chanted in the arena, “PRO-PHET! PRO-PHET! PRO-PHET!”
He sees the future, Nolyn thought. Nothing else can explain it.
Never off-balance or in doubt, the man moved with simple grace: thrust, slice, block, jab. All of it looked so easy. The ghazel appeared as trivial as children with sticks. But Nolyn had faced their kind in numerous battles in a different war. He knew all too well their strength, speed, and cunning. And yet, they fell in pairs before Amicus’s twin blades. Two, four, six . . . the carcasses piled up.
“That’s ten,” Riley called back. “He’s already met his quota.”
Why the goblins kept charging puzzled Nolyn. Maybe they thought Amicus would tire? Or perhaps slaying the one who had killed so many would elevate the victor? The most likely answer was that the warrior’s lack of shield, and his unprotected position ahead of the line, was too tempting to resist. Whatever the reason, they continued to come, two by two, left and right. And they died in sets. It took a surprisingly long time for their mass slaughter to abate. By then, a wall of bodies had stacked up, impeding their forward advance. The ghazel finally found a solution to their problem, and another hail of arrows flew past the fire.
That was where the tide ought to have turned. With his shield buried beneath the bodies, Amicus had no defense, or so Nolyn thought. When the man ducked behind the pile of corpses, Nolyn realized the full extent of the unfathomable martial genius of Amicus Killian. The man hadn’t merely defended his life against waves of powerful enemies; he had planned where each body needed to fall. He’d killed every goblin in the precise place to build a defense against the assault of arrows that he knew would eventually come. The man wasn’t just two steps ahead of his enemies; he was miles beyond them.
“PRO-PHET! PRO-PHET! PRO-PHET!”
After two fruitless volleys, the battle paused. The fire blazed, and from the darkness of the far side, the ominous clicking drone of frustration rose.
Stalemate. Although it’ll be short-lived.
Being trapped and unable to feed the fire, they would see their only source of light die. But it was full-grown now, a proper bonfire fed by the logs Paladeious and Greig had added. It might last until dawn, but daylight wouldn’t save them. Even with Amicus’s amazing feat, they were still significantly outnumbered.
No one spoke. All eyes peered through the dancing flames, struggling to spot what the shifting shadows were up to.
Amicus remained in his gruesome fortress of death, swords in hand.
He doesn’t even look winded.
Nolyn checked on the Poor Calynian. The lad’s bandage, which made him look like a gagged prisoner, was soaked with blood, but it didn’t drip. Nolyn pulled a cloth from his belt pouch and wrapped the boy’s wounded hand.
“T’anks,” the Poor Calynian managed to say around his bandaged mouth. “Gonna ’ave to fight left-’anded.”
“Can you?”
The kid shrugged. “Find out soon, eh?”
Nolyn was hoping they wouldn’t. If Amicus could maintain his amazing performance, there was a chance they would see sunlight at least one more time—and with it, a clear picture of their foes. In the Erbon Forest, it was tempting to think of the ghazel as animals: mindless beasts that could be stymied by the complexities of doors, fires, and a single-man slaughterhouse.
Nolyn knew better.
Ghazel were as cunning as men—more so—and once again, they proved it. From the far side of the fire came the unmistakable sound of chanting. The moment the Seventh Sikaria Auxiliary heard that, the entire squadron cursed. Everyone knew what that meant: oberdaza.
The goblins had a witch doctor, one of the crazed little wretches dressed in feathers and beads who danced and summoned dark magic. Their presence was never welcomed. No one knew exactly what to expect—that was part of their terror. The squadron might be swallowed by the ground they stood on or struck dead by lightning. They had to wait for the chant to end to discover their fate.
The answer came in the form of a rumble, a deep growl as if the jungle had grown angry. Loud and powerful, the noise shook the ground.
No, it’s the ground’s movement making the sounds. Nolyn felt shards of rock strike him, and he turned. Behind them, the cliff’s face quivered. Pebbles became rocks as the wall cracked and splintered. Then the fire suddenly went out, as if a giant had blown on a candle.
Choices became simple.
“Legionnaires!” Nolyn shouted while raising his sword. “Charge!”
He had no idea if anyone listened or if they could hear him in that crash of rock and drone of clacking claws. All he saw were shadows and vague rushing shapes. Nolyn sprinted straight ahead over hot coals, hoping to avoid death by a rockslide. The crash shook the ground. A blast of powdered rock and a hail of stones followed.
Ahead, the darkness was filled with glowing sets of yellow eyes that darted like fireflies. A pair flashed directly before Nolyn. He instinctively ducked and stabbed. Claws breezed overhead as his blade punched into flesh. Pulling it free, Nolyn ran on. Faint moonlight dribbled in, revealing outlines of leaves and hunched shoulders. Hundreds of years of battle granted Nolyn his own sixth sense, and he blindly dodged, swung, and killed as he advanced. Without warning, a stunning blow rang his helm and threw Nolyn to the ground. Remaining motionless was suicide, so while he was still working out which way
was up, he log-rolled into a tree. Scrambling to the far side, he heard something hit the trunk. With an even chance of success, Nolyn thrust to the left and was rewarded with a cry.
Clearheaded once more, he sprinted into the darkness, but he’d lost all sense of direction. He might be running back to the cleft or out into the canyon. Neither mattered; moving was the important thing. Listening for voices, telltale sounds that could help him regroup, he heard screams from every direction. His men were scattered, the battle lost.
Striking an unseen log with his knee, Nolyn went down again. His teeth clamped against a cry. He rolled beneath the fallen tree and waited for the pain to subside. Cries cut the night, but they were distant and fading until . . .
Nothing.
Around him, stillness reigned.
I’m alone.
Nolyn pulled himself deeper beneath the massive log and waited. He was dug in, partially buried, and filling his nostrils was the overwhelming smell of dirt.
Chapter Two
The Monk
The marketplace was alive with evening shoppers, mostly women looking to buy something cheap for dinner. Sephryn was one of those. She’d already gotten a good deal on a quatra of walnuts and thought she might try to pick up some eggs once the crowd thinned at Helena’s Poultry. Eggs were relatively cheap but approaching a merchant when there was a line of eager customers was the very definition of stupid. As the sun lowered in the western sky, so, too, did merchants’ prices. Sephryn didn’t splurge on meat or fish for herself, but eggs were something that she—
“Sephryn!” Arvis Dyer raced through the little square. Her wild, matted hair was decorated with bits of straw, and the old soldier’s tunic she always wore made her easy to spot. With one knee-high sandal and the other foot bare, the woman ran with a lopsided gait.
Arvis stopped short, her face frantic. “Hurry!” She waved for Sephryn to follow.
“What is it this time, Arvis?” Sephryn asked, studying the line to Helena’s stand.
Arvis had a habit of coming to Sephryn with all sorts of problems. One autumn, she accused a group of children of raising a demon in Imperial Square. When Sephryn got there, she found that four kids had carved a scary face on a pumpkin and put a candle inside. Arvis also insisted there were sharks in the sewers, that the clacking sound wagon wheels made on the cobblestone roads was a secret language, and that Pestilence took the shape of a man named Manny and walked the streets when it rained. Still, she was a friend. And for all her manic ravings, she had proven valuable as Sephryn’s eyes and ears in neighborhoods where most were loath to walk.
“What’s wrong?”
“He’s dying!”
“Who?” Sephryn asked, but it was no use. The woman was charging back the way she had come, screaming at people to clear the way, which they did. When crazy came, people scattered.
Clutching her little bag of newly purchased nuts, Sephryn sighed and chased after. Arvis’s declaration would likely turn out to be another fantasy, but she couldn’t take the chance. Together they shared the stares of irritation from those they passed. Arvis elicited scorn. Wearing men’s clothing was odd, but dressing in the remnants of a tattered military uniform was disrespectful. She was clearly courageous, but like most of the city dwellers, Sephryn also suspected Arvis might well be insane.
They raced down the hill past the bathhouses until Arvis reached the intersection at the end of Barber’s Row. In the street, a small crowd had gathered.
“What’s going on?” Sephryn asked.
Seeing her, or more likely Arvis, charging at them, several people stepped aside. On the ground, a young man lay in a pool of blood, his left hand severed, and dark red blood spilled from a stomach wound. The moment she realized she didn’t know him, Sephryn felt relief, which led to guilt, and guilt was an all-too-familiar terminus. The man seemed to be in his mid-twenties. He wore a simple undyed linen tunic, a rope belt, and sandals. Nothing fancy, but not rags, either.
Kneeling down, she touched his still-warm neck. Sephryn was no physician, but she knew what to feel for and didn’t find it. He was dead. Looking up at the circle of people, she saw the faces of men and a few women staring back. Farther away stood two Instarya. From their pristine white palliums edged in purple and studded with gold pins, she deduced they were both young—at least by Fhrey standards. An older Instarya wouldn’t wear the long robes that resembled a Fhrey asica. The younger generation had developed a taste for the old-world Fhrey culture that sickened their fathers.
“He’s dead,” she declared. “Who killed him?” She spoke to the crowd, who said nothing, but several eyes shifted toward the Fhrey. Sephryn recognized the pair, who were known troublemakers, but she hadn’t suspected they were capable of going so far.
“I did,” the left one of the pair replied. His name was Fryln, and his tone was as lighthearted as his smile.
Though she always tried to be fair and impartial, Sephryn found it difficult when dealing with the Instarya. All the imperial Fhrey possessed a destructive level of superiority, but the warrior tribe was the worst. The emperor was Instarya, and he unerringly filled every high office with his brethren. Although the empyre was overwhelmingly human, nearly all the high-ranking administrators, generals, and magistrates were Instarya, or at least Fhrey. And each spoke with the same dialect: arrogance.
“Why?” she asked, reminding herself not to jump to conclusions, which was difficult as she’d seen similar crimes too many times before. No two were exactly alike, but all were close enough to warrant a certain expectation.
“He tried to steal from me, so I cut off his hand. That’s what we do to thieves. Then he attacked me, so I gutted him. That’s the emperor’s law—is it not?”
“Liar!” Arvis shouted. “Kendel just bumped into them. I saw it. He wasn’t looking where he was going—”
“I felt a distinct tug on my purse,” Fryln said. “I turned and saw this creature with his hand on me. So I—”
“Liar! Liar! Liar! Liar!” Arvis screamed manically. She had a tendency to do that, which never helped her case.
The Fhrey pulled his blood-soaked dagger. The crowd gasped and shuffled back like a herd of startled cows. Two stumbled; one fell. Arvis didn’t move. She glared defiantly with a mad look in her eyes, daring the attack.
“Put that away, Fryln!” Sephryn ordered.
He turned toward her, that mocking grin still on his face.
He’s enjoying this.
“Or what?” he challenged, raising his chin and looking down his nose. That, too, was one of the Instarya idiosyncrasies, the habitually learned behavior of the dominant minority. Sephryn could write a book on the topic, if writing was legal.
She was on one knee, still in a pool of Kendel’s blood.
Not the best place to confront a pair of belligerents, particularly one who’s just killed. They’re like sharks—blood and fear make them aggressive.
Sephryn stood up. “Or I’ll have you arrested and tried for murder.” She was firm but kept her tone calm. She didn’t want to escalate the situation.
The Fhrey relaxed his stance, but the blade remained drawn. “I told you, he tried to rob me. I defended myself. Are you going to rely on the opinion of a lunatic? No one else will. You can arrest me if you like, but I’ll be free in minutes. Besides, he was just a Rhune.”
The crowd rustled. The term was an old one, rarely heard these days. It dated back to a time when the Fhrey were believed to be gods and humans were thought of as no better than animals.
That crossed a line for Sephryn. Try as she did to be civil, she wasn’t without a temper. Her family was actually famous for it. And while the hereditary trait was something she fought to quell, controlling her anger was still a work in progress. “And you’re just an elf,” she replied.
The smile of the Instarya vanished, and once more, the crowd gasped.
“What did you call him?” the other Fhrey asked.
Sephryn didn’t move or take her eyes off Fry
ln, the one with the dagger, whose pallium wasn’t quite as pristine as she’d first thought. Small dots of blood stained the edge. “Odd,” she began, her hot temper not yet run its course, “elves are famous for their exceptional hearing. What’s the matter? Do you have a head cold?”
Fryln took a step toward her.
“What are you going to do, kill me, too?” Sephryn asked. “Do you suppose stabbing the Imperial Council Director will make things better?”
“You think too much of yourself, Sephryn. The Imperial Council is a joke, and so are you. It’s been hundreds of years and you haven’t accomplished a thing. Can’t even get an audience with the emperor, can you?”
“Maybe not, but I’m surprised you’ve forgotten that most of the city guards are human. They don’t agree with your sentiment about the council.” She looked down at the dead man. “And I doubt they share your feelings about humans. Kendel was well liked. He had a lot of friends and family. So maybe you won’t stay locked up for more than a few minutes, but what about after? If I recall correctly, he has a brother or two serving. What if one of them decides to repay you by cutting off your hand and letting you bleed out in some dark alley?”
“If that happened, they’d be executed.” There was that haughty, imperious tone.
“Maybe,” she replied. “But it’d be little comfort to your parents as they bury you, don’t you think? What a loss, trading potentially thousands of your years for Kendel’s few dozen. But go ahead. Push me further.”
Nolyn Page 3
