The Throne of Amenkor

by Joshua Palmatier

  My people.

  Then, the ground shuddered.

  I frowned, reached out to steady myself against the edge of the porch. But the trembling had already subsided.

  Down on the beach, the people near the boats and in the shallows had halted their activities, were now staring inland, their hands raised to shade their eyes as they looked up.

  I turned, shaded my own eyes against the glare of the sun, and stared up beyond my summer palace.

  The land rose in a gentle slope beyond the palace, to the base of a huge peaked mountain, the sides of the mountain covered in dense jungle, the peak itself conical.

  The mountain had been silent for almost fifty years, but now . . .

  Now, a thin column of smoke rose from its crater.

  * * *

  Back in the marketplace, I frowned, then concentrated, shifted the focus of the throne, filtered through the Ochean’s memories.

  * * *

  And found myself back in the summer palace, in one of the interior rooms, seated on a throne built of the thick reeds, draped with cloth in greens and golds and purples and skeins of shells. Chorl warriors stood to either side of the throne, wearing breeches of dark blue filmy cloth, their chests bare and covered with tattoos in circular patterns. A figure knelt before me, bowed down, head pressed into the floor. He was dressed in yellow breeches, the tattoos on his chest curved crescents, like sickles, and black instead of dark blue.

  The kneeling man raised his head.

  “Ochean, the prophecy says—”

  I hissed, cut him off. “I don’t care what the prophecy says, Haqtl!”

  The Chorl warriors around me shifted uncomfortably, and I sensed their anger. This man was a priest, communed with the gods.

  And the warriors were pledged to the gods, not to me.

  I clenched my jaw, forced my irritation and impatience down.

  In a grudging voice, laced with undertones of scorn, I said, “Continue.”

  Haqtl, his expression darkening, began again. “The prophecy says the mountain will destroy us. It was sung ages ago, and now the time has come.”

  I shoved myself up out of the throne, began pacing before it. “You know this for certain? The gods have spoken?”

  “The gods have spoken. They forewarned us ages ago, and there have been signs. The land rumbles. Poison gases boil from the ocean, killing the fish. And then came the Fire of Heaven from the west.”

  I spat a curse, heard the warriors shift again. I stifled a growl, suppressed the urge to slap Haqtl, to beat him. I knew the gods had not spoken, that there were no gods, that the priests were opposing me to gain more power, as usual. They were seizing upon the now constant rumbling from the mountain and using it against me. And the sea always boiled before the mountain erupted. It had done so before.

  But the Fire of Heaven . . .

  I shuddered as I recalled it sweeping in from the ocean, falling on the islands of the Chorl. It had covered the evening harvest in a pall of fear, the weak-souled villagers in their ships screaming as it approached, trying to make it back to shore.

  For all the good it did them. There had been no escape. The Fire had touched everyone.

  And the power! The raw energy! I didn’t know where the Fire had come from, but I wanted it, needed it if I was to continue to rule the Chorl.

  I could not deny the priest the Fire of Heaven, no matter how much it galled me.

  The anger seethed beneath my skin, forced my hands into balled fists. This should not be happening. Not during my reign, not now. I’d crushed the priests, had regained the power of my family, power that had been stolen from my father.

  This should not be happening!

  I spun toward the warriors, saw them frowning at me darkly, their expressions troubled, rebellious.

  My gaze fell on the captain of the warriors, on Atlatik, on his half-missing ear and the tattoos that riddled his face.

  The warriors would side with Haqtl, with the priests, with the gods. I could see it in Atlatik’s eyes, in his stance. He would do anything to thwart me, no matter what he felt about the gods, about the priests and their manipulations.

  I emitted a strangled sound of frustration, the urge to lash out, to wipe the doubting looks from his and the warriors’ faces, almost overwhelming.

  But I needed them. I couldn’t control the islands without them.

  I moved to stand before the priest, glared down at him imperiously, almost reached out to strangle him when he glanced up, his eyes victorious.

  “What,” I spat, then tempered my voice, gritting my teeth. “What is it that the gods expect us to do?”

  Shifting position, Haqtl’s expression became serious. “We must abandon the islands. We must take to the ocean and attack the lands to the east, as we did once before.”

  I recoiled from Haqtl in shock, fell back into the throne, the shells of my necklace and those on the throne clattering together.

  Even the warriors seemed stunned.

  “What do you mean?” I said, voice weak.

  Haqtl stood slowly, gathered himself together, and said calmly, “I mean that the mountain will destroy the entire island when it erupts. If we stay, we will all die.

  “We must find another place to live. And the only other place to live is the coastlands to the east.”

  * * *

  I shuddered, drew back from the Ochean’s memory, my stomach sick with anger, with hatred.

  Then I shifted the focus again.

  * * *

  The ground jolted, seemed to fall away beneath my feet. I screamed in the darkness, warriors reaching out to catch me before I fell, and then we continued running, fleeing, following a line of torches through the trees to the port, men and women and children shrieking into the night as they picked themselves up off the ground where they had fallen.

  Behind, hidden by the jungle, something hideous, something horrendous, roared. A bellowing sound, like a thousand claps of thunder, that slammed into the air around me, that drowned out the screams of all of the people running to the port. My heart pounded in my chest, thudded in my ears, and I gasped, felt my escort tearing down the path around me, heard them shouting commands, shoving stragglers aside.

  The ground lurched again as we crested the rise and stumbled down the slope to the beachhead, following the torches to the docks on the bay where the ships waited. Men, women, and children crowded onto decks, others scrambling up the planks.

  My ship was docked at the end of the pier.

  The mountain roared again, the wood of the dock shuddering, then we reached the plank and sprinted up onto the deck. As soon as I was aboard, the ship cast off, edging out into the water.

  I turned, chest heaving, arms trembling with terror that was slowly beginning to calm.

  Behind, on the dock, people were screaming as they tried to find room on the ships. Some had already cast off, as we had, were pulling away from the island as quickly as possible, their decks packed with panicked men and women. As I watched, some tumbled overboard.

  Then the air seemed to shudder, another booming thunderclap resounded, and I jerked my attention upward.

  The mountain had exploded. Thick jets of magma leaped into the sky from the crater, throwing up spumes of ash and steam and gas in a thick roiling column as black as the night. Lava flows were already streaming down the mountain’s sides, rushing to the ocean.

  Another thunderclap. A shuddering of the air. And what seemed like the entire western side of the mountain trembled, then slid slowly, horrifyingly, into the water.

  I stared at the destruction in shock, the tremors of panic fading as the ship drew farther away from the island. But they were replaced with tremors of fear, with a hollow feeling of hopelessness, of disbelief.

  The priests had been right. The mountain was tearing the island apart. There were
other islands in the chain, other places to flee to, but none large enough to support the Chorl for long. If the mountain continued to erupt, the Chorl would die.

  The only option was the coastland to the east. We’d attacked them once before, been repelled after five vicious years of fighting. But we’d grown since then, learned much.

  A cold sensation filled the hollowness. My brow creased in thought, with purpose. I could use this. I could use this against the priests, against Haqtl. I could turn his own gods against him.

  A smile touched my lips.

  Perhaps the gods were correct.

  Perhaps it was time to cross the ocean.

  * * *

  I shivered at the cold calculation of the Ochean’s mind, skimmed farther ahead in her memories, saw the Chorl fleet gather and head east under the Ochean’s and the priests’ direction, watched them attack a group of islands—the Boreaite Isles—and overrun the ports. They began raiding the trading lanes, seizing entire ships and taking them back to the isles, converting them into fighting ships to expand their fleet. I watched, sickened, as they slaughtered entire crews.

  And then they’d attacked The Maiden.

  * * *

  “What do we do with him?” Atlatik asked, voice rough with contempt.

  I glared down at the crumpled form of the guardsman on the deck of the ship we’d just conquered. All of the other crew had been killed, and Atlatik’s warriors were tethering the ship to our own so it could be towed back to the isles, the fires being put out by the Chosen.

  Before I could answer, my mind spinning—he had part of the Fire of Heaven inside him! I could taste it!—someone approached from behind, Atlatik stepping to one side.

  Only one other person could force Atlatik to move.

  “Haqtl,” I said, trying to swallow the bitterness that flooded my mouth at his name.

  “Another victory,” he said. “We must thank the gods.”

  I almost snorted, but pursed my lips instead. “The gods have favored us today.”

  “In what way?” Suspicious, wary. As he should be.

  I smiled.

  “This man has the Fire of Heaven inside him. I can feel it.”

  Atlatik gasped, glanced down at the man who lay unconscious on the deck, his hand moving unconsciously to the tattoos on his neck, stroking them as he uttered an inaudible prayer. He’d almost killed the man, before I’d even gotten to the ship.

  Haqtl knelt down next to the bloody body, spread one hand over the man’s head and closed his eyes. I felt the Elements shudder as he probed, searching.

  Then even Haqtl gasped, standing quickly, as if he’d been jerked upright. He turned to me, eyes blazing with fervor. “We have to heal him, find out where he came from, find out everything we can about him.”

  Interesting. I could see how I’d gain control of Atlatik and the warriors, could see how I could get even the priests to follow me. This man was the key. This man, and the piece of the Fire of Heaven he carried inside him. He could lead me to the Fire itself, Haqtl would drag the Chorl there even against my wishes. I could see the intent in his eyes, could feel his body trembling with it.

  But of course I wanted the Fire as much as Haqtl, wanted it even more.

  I broke Haqtl’s gaze, glanced down at the warrior’s body. Such strange pale brown skin. And no tattoos. It made me shudder.

  “Oh, I intend to find out where he came from,” I said. “And when we finally begin attacking the coastline in earnest, we’ll attack there first.”

  Haqtl breathed a sigh of relief.

  Neither Haqtl nor Atlatik saw the underlying twist in my smile.

  * * *

  I withdrew from the Ochean’s memories, stared hard into her face as my hand dropped to my side. I’d relived her memories in a matter of heartbeats, her expression still locked in shock as she recognized me.

  Then it twisted into bitter hatred.

  She lashed out with her sword, but the blade passed through air as Cerrin yanked me back into the crowd. The mob closed in around us instantly.

  “What did you find out?” Cerrin asked.

  “Why they’re here, why they attacked us. Why they returned.” I caught his gaze. “They had to come. The island they were living on has been destroyed. They didn’t have any other place to go to.”

  Cerrin grunted, then swore, glancing around at the turmoil of the throne.

  “What?” I asked. I could sense a change in the mob, a subtle shift.

  The voices were beginning to panic.

  “She’s beginning to win,” Cerrin answered. Overhead, the sunlit sky above the marketplace began to darken, clouds roiling in. Cerrin glanced toward them, then back down at me. “I don’t think we can defeat her.”

  His voice had changed. The melancholy air had returned. The hatred that had enlivened it had bled away, replaced with resignation.

  Around us, the jostling had eased. There didn’t seem to be as many people anymore.

  “We can’t let her have the throne,” I said, and desperation tinged my voice.

  “She’s too powerful,” Cerrin said, and now his voice seemed dead.

  The clouds had completely blanketed the sky now. The crowd had thinned to half its original number, the people that remained milling about in uncertainty, most with expressions of defeat on their faces.

  Liviann suddenly appeared at my side, trailing Atreus and Garus and the rest of the Seven. “Do something! You can’t let her win! She’ll destroy everything!”

  “I tried!” I spat. “I thought the throne would destroy her, as it did Alendor, as it almost did me!”

  Liviann scowled. She turned to Cerrin. “What else can we do?”

  He shook his head. “Nothing.”

  “We can’t let her take the throne,” Liviann hissed. “We can’t. Not the Chorl. We defeated them once already. We can’t have them back. Remember what they did. Remember the death. Remember your wife, your children, for the gods’ sakes!”

  “I know!” Cerrin spat, his face strangely enraged and vulnerable at the same time. “I know! They killed them, slaughtered the people of Venitte, decimated the entire southern coastline! Do you think I don’t remember?”

  “Then do something!” Liviann screamed.

  “What?” he spat. “What can we do?”

  Liviann fell into bitter silence, glanced toward me.

  “Can we destroy the throne?” I asked quietly. I was thinking of their attack on Venitte, of the fires, of Cerrin’s daughters. Of Erick and Laurren’s sacrifice. It would all have been for nothing if the Chorl claimed the throne.

  Liviann harrumphed.

  But Cerrin stilled.

  “What?” Liviann asked.

  He stared at her in silence for a long moment, then said quietly, “We can.”

  Liviann frowned.

  Around us, the crowd had been reduced to no more than a hundred people.

  Garus shoved himself forward. “You know we can, Liviann. And it might be the only way.”

  “Would you rather have the Chorl take control of the throne?” Alleryn spat. “I don’t like it any better than you do, but considering the consequences. . . .”

  The rest of the Seven nodded in agreement.

  “We’ll die,” Liviann said, but her voice was quiet.

  “We’re already dead,” Cerrin said. “We’ve been dead for far too long.”

  Liviann shot him a glare, then focused on me.

  There were only fifty people left in the square now.

  “Here,” she said, taking Cerrin’s hand, “we’ll show you how.”

  When she touched my hand, I gasped.

  * * *

  The clouds over the marketplace had darkened, rushed past so close to the ground I thought I could reach up and touch them. The buildings at the edge of the marketplace
were gone, had blackened and vanished. There was no one left on the plaza anymore, no more voices, no more bodies, except for me.

  And the Ochean.

  She stood ten paces away, her blue dress sweaty, torn in a few places. Her chest heaved as she breathed in deeply, almost panting, but her expression was hard, determined. She still held the curved sword in one hand.

  Reaching down, I drew the dagger from my belt, the blade dull in the half-light of the plaza.

  “I can’t let you have the throne,” I said.

  The Ochean hesitated, then grinned.

  She settled into an open stance, her sword steady.

  I slid into a crouch, dagger held before me.

  We held each other’s gazes a long moment.

  And then the Ochean lurched forward, brought the sword down in a diagonal strike.

  I dodged, not even attempting to parry, knowing that my dagger wouldn’t last long. This was a distraction, nothing more. A ruse. But I’d try to hurt her as much as I could nonetheless, using everything Westen and Erick had taught me. As I moved, I hissed, cut upward under her guard, but she was too quick, spinning back and out of reach as she brought the sword around, slashing across my midsection. I leaped back, felt the blade slice through my shirt, felt a stinging line of fire across my stomach, felt blood. But it was only a scratch.

  I settled instantly into another crouch, the Ochean doing the same. I tried to ignore the cut, but I felt my shirt sticking to the wound.

  In my peripheral vision, I noticed that the marketplace had shrunk. The clouds were lower still, the darkness on the sides pulling inward as the Ochean solidified her control of the throne.

  The Ochean smirked as she saw the blood staining my shirt. Anger rose, but before I could use it or suppress it, she attacked.

  Her blade flashed as she cut and I dodged, stroke, counterstroke. I ducked under her guard, nicked her on the arm, and she cursed, thrust out hard. Sidestepping, I tried for another mark, but she twisted, turned her own blade inward, the edge slicing down along my thigh. I screamed, backpedaling fast to get out of reach.

  I glanced down at my leg, the scent of blood sharp. This cut was deeper and burned with a white-hot intensity. I sucked in a breath through clenched teeth, blew it out through my nose. Sweat dripped from my forehead, from my hair, from my chin.