The Throne of Amenkor

by Joshua Palmatier

  The patrol boat lurched, guardsmen on the deck grunting as they lost their footing and crashed to the deck, the smaller patrol boat swinging around and crashing into the side of the larger enemy ship as it sped on. The captain of the patrol boat screamed at his men to get up as they were dragged alongside the ship deeper into the harbor, cursing as men regained their feet slowly, grasping a few by the scruff of the neck and hauling them upright, shoving them toward the side of the Chorl ship. A rope ladder with grapnels on the end was flung up the side of the enemy ship grinding at their side and men began to climb.

  I felt fraying rope scrape into my palms as the captain of the guardsman seized the rope ladder nearest to him and began the climb up to the deck. Halfway up the ladder, a scream rang out, and as he glanced down the length of the patrol boat, he caught his first sight of the Chorl.

  He gasped and froze. Leaning over the railing above, three blue-skinned warriors with black hair glared down at the patrol boat, then caught sight of the ladders and the grapnels holding the two ships together. Abruptly, two of the faces vanished, returning a moment later.

  There was a flash off the head of an ax, followed by a solid thump of metal digging into wood.

  Adrenaline flooded the captain’s numbing arms with heat, overtaking the sizzling terror of the strange and horrifying faces of the Chorl. “Climb!” he bellowed, his voice tearing at his throat. “Climb, you bloody bastards! Before they cut us free!”

  He lurched farther up the ladder, grasping the next rung even before the feet of the man above him had cleared it, pulling himself up with all his strength. His breath hissed between his gritted teeth. A few paces away, men screamed as the ladder they were climbing suddenly went slack and they fell back, hitting the deck of the patrol boat with a thudding crash followed by moans, but the captain didn’t turn, didn’t hesitate.

  The man above him kicked out, almost catching him in the face as he dove over the railing of the enemy ship. The captain reached up over the railing next, pushed off with his feet as he pulled with his arms—

  And then he was up and over, rolling onto the deck of the enemy ship, his back thudding up against a yielding body, his hand landing in blood.

  He gasped, saw the dead, vacant eyes of the man who’d been climbing the ladder above him—

  And then he rolled away. A curved blade swished out of the darkness and bit into the deck where he’d been, then he was up and balanced, sword drawn with a hissing snick of metal.

  The blue-skinned Chorl spat what could only be a curse, face twisted in a grimace as he jerked his blade free from the deck and turned to confront the captain. Beyond the Chorl, beyond the stunted mast of the sleek ship, I could see the watchtowers retreating. The patrol boats hadn’t even slowed the ships down. They were still streaking toward the wharf, toward the docks and the city.

  I spat my own curse.

  Where were the trading ships?

  Then the Chorl struck, the guardsman parrying on instinct, my attention drawn back to the fighting that was spreading quickly across the Chorl’s deck. More and more guardsmen had breached the railing, had pushed the Chorl back so that others could join the fight from the patrol boat below. I watched the interplay, settled into the flow, ready to intercede if the captain needed it. I could feel the instincts Erick and Westen had trained into me screaming to be let free, but I held back. The captain was competent, and Eryn’s warning still rang in my head. I’d exhaust myself faster if I seized control of the captain’s body.

  The Chorl overextended himself, and the captain took advantage, his blade snaking in, punching through the Chorl’s silky clothing and armor at the midsection. The blue-skinned man gasped, red blood spurting from his mouth, his hand gripping the sword slid into his belly.

  The captain withdrew the blade and the Chorl fell to the side with a low, gurgling growl.

  As he turned, I caught sight of movement at the aft of the ship. A woman, dressed in filmy clothing, the glint of gold at her ear.

  I also caught sight of another Amenkor guardsman from the patrol boat, fending off two Chorl not three paces away.

  To hells with Eryn and her warning.

  I claimed the captain, took two paces forward and with coldly calculated movements used his sword to kill the Chorl the other guardsman faced. I felt the captain’s surprise as he lost control of his own body, but shrugged it aside.

  Captain! I said. Kill the woman! She’s one of the Chorl Servants!

  “What?” he gasped. The guardsman he’d just saved clutched at a wound along his side, bewildered. “What are you talking about?”

  This is the Mistress! I shouted, letting anger bite through his confusion. Kill the woman! She’s vulnerable right now, but I don’t know how long she’ll stay that way!

  Then I spun, the captain’s sword flicking out, slicing through the neck of the Chorl that had been coming up from behind, blood flying in a wide arc.

  The guardsman stared in shock, eyes widening as I turned back, letting the captain take control of his own body again, retreating back into the White Fire. He shuddered as he regained control, but then stiffened with resolve, shaking his head.

  “Kill the woman!” he growled, motioning toward the Chorl Servant with his bloody sword. “Pass the word that we’re to focus on getting to the woman! We’ll try to flank her on both sides!”

  The guardsman I’d saved hesitated, then nodded and moved to the left. The captain watched him go, then turned, saw another group of guardsmen fighting heatedly to the right, and charged into the fray.

  I surged up out of the captain’s body, up above the ship, its sails, rigging, and mast rushing past beneath me as I scanned the battle in the harbor. There were twenty-five of the Chorl vessels, seven of them crawling with Amenkor guardsmen, patrol boats latched onto their sides like leeches. In their wake, four other patrol boats had been crushed, guardsmen flailing in the waters of the harbor among the debris. A few other patrol boats were cutting through the waves, picking up the survivors. There was nothing else they could do. There was no chance the patrol boats could catch up to the Chorl ships already past them.

  The Chorl hadn’t even been slowed.

  Then, as I watched, one of the Chorl ships began to swerve, cutting sharply to the right, the men on deck toppling over as the ship tilted. Amenkor guardsmen were at the helm, steering the ship hard and fast toward a second Chorl ship, one not yet boarded. The Chorl on the deck of that ship began shouting, pointing at the spit of the other ship as it bore down on them. The ship began to veer away, the Chorl shrieking—

  But it was too late.

  The two ships collided with a reverberating crunch, wood splintering as the spit punched through the side of the second Chorl ship, chunks of wood planks flying. A shudder passed through the river, a shock wave of force that pushed me back, and everyone on both ships crashed to the deck and rolled, men from Amenkor as well as the Chorl tipping over the rails to the ocean below. The second ship listed, its sails falling limp as part of the mainmast snapped, rigging falling down onto the deck, into the water. The two ships slowed, began drifting off to the right, into the path of a third Chorl vessel, but it had time to swerve, the movements of the Chorl on its deck frantic, laced with sweat and terror. It cut left, its deck tilting harshly, skimmed past the aft section of the two stricken ships, then began to veer back onto course—

  And suddenly Amenkor’s trading ships slid into the fray.

  Lines of flaming arrows pierced the night, cutting up and out from the decks of the trading ships, then turning and plummeting down onto the Chorl ships’ decks and sails. As they struck, pouches of pitch tied to the arrows burst and caught fire.

  Within moments, three of the Chorl ships’ sails were aflame and fires were spreading across many of their decks. The trading ships and the Chorl attackers met, the harbor degenerating into a flurry of sails, rigging, ships, and screams
. The Chorl ships were sleeker, faster, easier to maneuver than the trading ships, but the trading ships could sustain more damage, could take a more direct hit.

  In the chaos, twelve of the Chorl ships broke free, two still fighting fires in the rigging or on the decks. They headed directly toward the wharf.

  I spat a curse, felt the river roiling around me as the battle continued, then noticed three more of the White Fire beacons in the battle below.

  I dove down quickly, stayed long enough with each person to seize control and pass the word about targeting the Chorl Servants.

  Then I sped back to the palace, drew in a gasping breath and focused on the people in the throne room.

  “What’s happened?” Keven asked. He was surrounded by other guardsmen. They’d encircled the dais, were standing ready with swords drawn, facing outward. A page boy waited at Keven’s side, eyes expectant, as if Keven had just been about to issue him an order.

  “They’re almost to the wharf,” I said. “Twelve ships made it past the patrols and trading ships. The rest are battling it out in the harbor.”

  Keven nodded. “Based on the reports I’ve heard from the men watching on the walls, that’s only half their fleet.”

  “I know,” I said, frowning. “I expected more ships, expected more of a fight.”

  “Maybe this is all they have,” Keven said, but I could tell he didn’t believe that, even without the throne, without the voices of all of the previous Mistresses murmuring warily. I could hear it in his voice. “We’d only seen four of their ships before this, after all.”

  I shook my head. “No. They’re planning something else.” I stared down at the throne room floor a long moment, thinking, then glanced back up. “Keep watch on the harbor. I’m going to check out the wharf.”

  Keven nodded, then turned back to the page boy as I closed my eyes and sped up and out of the palace.

  As I swooped over the walls surrounding the palace, I saw guardsmen lining the battlements, packed in tight, arms pointing toward the fiery conflagration on the waters of the harbor. Situated on the top of a low hill, the walls like tiers, they could see the battle as it progressed, could see the mass of ships as they wove in and out among each other, flaming arrows arching up into the night in all directions, a few ships dead in the water, listing as they burned, their masts black skeletons in the reaching flames. And they could see the sleek Chorl ships that had escaped the patrol boats and the trading ships and were racing toward the docks, their shapes silhouetted by the fires of the battle behind.

  I skimmed over the rooftops of the city, the streets below packed with people, men and boys fighting through the crowds of women and children heading toward the outermost wall of the palace, guardsmen hurrying the people along. Terror drifted up from the streets like smoke, the guardsmen at the gates funneling the people through as quickly as possible, shouting and bellowing orders. The crowds thinned as I passed down into the lower city, the streets now filled with men manning the barricades we’d spent the last few days erecting, others streaming toward the wharf, where the first Chorl ships would land.

  As I neared the docks, the black Chorl ships rushing in fast, I spotted a flare of White Fire behind a hastily constructed barricade, recognized Borund in the torchlight a moment before I slid into the Fire at the core of his soul.

  “Here they come,” Borund said, and his voice was steady even though his hands shook. He held a short sword awkwardly in one hand, the other on the edge of the barricade of crab traps, netting, empty crates, and furniture that had been hastily thrown together. He glared out over the top of the barricade, down the length of a dock.

  Out on the water, the twelve Chorl ships had separated, each angling for a different point on the wharf, spread out like a fan.

  One of the ships was heading directly for Borund’s position.

  He glanced to either side. I felt a frisson of fear as I realized William stood to his right, his hair more tousled than usual, his eyes widened in fright. To either side, a mix of sailors, guardsmen, and tradesmen watched the approaching ships, crouched behind the barrier. Most had a look of disbelief on their faces, as if this couldn’t possibly be happening, as if they expected any moment to be woken from the dream.

  “Ready!” someone shouted, and Borund flinched, swallowed hard, and turned toward the man standing on top of the barricade. A captain of the guard I didn’t know, his face tight with hatred, with confidence. “I said, ready!”

  A shout went up all along the barricade, swords raised, or daggers, a few knives and spears, even a fishhook.

  The captain turned toward the advancing ships, and in a deep voice that carried all along the barricade, bellowed, “Amenkor!” dragging out the last syllable into a battle cry.

  All along the wharf, men raised their weapons to the night and took up the cry, a roar of pure defiance.

  On the river, the frayed tension I’d felt earlier, the terror, settled into a sense of purpose as the broken battle cry formed into a chant.

  Borund stared around at the men in fear, his hands shaking even more. He licked his lips, tightened his grip on the unfamiliar short sword. His palms were sweaty.

  I frowned. I could hear his heart thudding in his chest, could feel the tremors running down his arms, could taste the sourness in his mouth.

  Borund was close to panic.

  “They haven’t slowed,” William said abruptly.

  Borund jumped, startled, his head snapping around to William. “What?”

  William nodded toward the ships. The fear had left his face, had faded from his eyes, a consequence of the chanting; it seemed to have bolstered him. “They haven’t slowed,” he repeated. Then he swore. “They don’t intend to slow,” he said, and pushed back from his position at the barricade, began shouting toward the captain still standing on the barricade. “Get down! Get down! They aren’t going to slow down! They’re going to ram the docks!”

  The battle chant faltered.

  And then the first Chorl ship slammed into the docks, its bow plowing through the planking, wood splintering, cracking with sharp retorts and flying up into the air. Tremors shuddered through the wharf, juddering up through Borund’s legs and shivering in his teeth as he clenched them tight, ducking his head as shrapnel from the docks was flung up over the barricades. More ships plowed into the docks to either side, wood shrieking, the battle cry lost in the rending of wood against wood, in screams as flying debris cut into flesh, as terror overcame resolve and a few men began to flee. Borund gasped as something cut into his shoulder, the wound like fire, and then he slammed flat onto the wharf behind the barricade, reached up and grabbed the back of William’s shirt and hauled him down to safety. The sound escalated, the Chorl ship grinding its way closer, and Borund squeezed his eyes shut, gasped as the sound intensified, as it crashed around him until it seemed to fill the world, reverberating in his chest, in his heart. He suddenly realized the Chorl ship wasn’t going to stop, that it was going to crush him as it plowed through the dock and hit the wharf—

  And then the roar of splintered wood retreated, dying down into the distance as the other Chorl ships ground to a halt.

  Silence settled, broken only by moans and the clatter of the last of the debris as it fell from the sky. People began to pick themselves up, brushing splinters of wood from their hair, their shoulders, coughing at the dust. Someone close panted loudly and whimpered, the sound wet and painful.

  Borund let out an explosive breath, his heart still racing at triple the speed. His shoulder burned.

  “Holy shit!” William swore. Blood leaked from a small gash above his left eye.

  Wood slapped onto wood, a sound Borund recognized instantly. “They’ve lowered planks!” he hissed, his voice no longer steady. “They’re disembarking!”

  And they both jerked as someone down the length of the barricade screamed, a bloodcurdling scream
that sent cold shivers into Borund’s blood.

  “Amenkor!” the captain bellowed again, and Borund saw him standing up twenty paces away, dragging men up off of the wharf as he began making his way down the barricade. “Get up, you bloody bastards! For Amenkor! For the Mistress!”

  At his side, William suddenly stilled. Borund saw something kindle deep inside William’s eyes, something deep that burned through the last of his fear.

  “For the Mistress,” William said softly, almost to himself.

  Then he leaped up, his own sword brandished high, and he screamed, “For the Mistress! For the Skewed Throne!”

  And he began a charge over the barricade. Men on all sides who’d wavered, who’d acted as if they were stunned and shocked, suddenly gripped their swords tighter, roared with hatred and released terror and tension, and tore over the barricade after him.

  Borund heaved in a deep breath in surprise, held it, then lurched to his feet with a shouted, “William!” He reached the barricade in time to see the rush of men led by William encounter the first of the blue-skinned Chorl. William’s blade struck out, unwieldy and unfamiliar in his grip, but it sliced into the first startled Chorl’s arm, cut through the cloth at the elbow, blood splattering—

  And then the crowd of people overtook William and he was lost from Borund’s sight.

  Borund gasped as he saw the end of the dock—or what remained of the dock; the Chorl ship having smashed through its upper half—degenerating into a melee of swords and screams and blood.

  “This can’t be happening,” Borund murmured. He took a step back from the barricade, scanned up and down the wharf, saw men fighting on the docks, on the wharf, on the barricade itself in the torchlight. He took another step back, shook his head. “This—”

  Someone lurched up onto the barricade directly in front of him and Borund cried out, the sailor stumbling on the uneven footing. He was splattered with blood, his face strangely open with shock. In that frozen moment, Borund felt as if he could see into the young man’s soul, as if the sailor’s entire life had been exposed.