by L. L. McNeil
Kylos huffed and looked to Aetos and Voulhrik.
‘When have I let you down before?’ Lathri asked.
‘I just think your claim to the throne is better than some half-breed who could leave us in the same situation as Sapora. Or worse!’ Kylos said, getting up to walk to Lathri’s balcony.
Lathri sighed.
She’d had this conversation with Kylos too many times, and it still hurt. The memories were still too fresh: the beautiful food, music, and gowns of the winter ball.
And the dancing, of course.
Oh, the dancing had been wonderful.
She’d watched her mother take her seat at the council table between the two leaders, Keros the Treasurer, and Elafion the War Chief.
Lathri had been so thrilled to see all six of the Council together after such a turbulent year with Arillians and devastation—supported by prince and princess.
The swan, Eala, with her jewels and trinkets, had been well into her cups before the dancing had begun. And the old vixen, Tring, looked more regal than usual in her flowing silks, the pattern typical of the south, somewhere near Gur Bano, perhaps.
But despite the exotic fabrics, the jewellery, gold, and gemstones, her mother had looked the most radiant by far in a gown of red and gold. As head of Laws for Val Sharis, Drutia was always away at this city or that country, and rarely spent time in the capital. Lathri could go months without seeing her and couldn’t even send messages because her movements were too erratic.
Watching her from across the packed ballroom, the chandeliers casting beautiful gold light over the tables, was the most she’d seen of her in the whole year.
She couldn’t wait to catch up after the ball, to learn of where she’d been and what stories she had to tell.
After they’d eaten, Lathri had only glimpsed her mother and the others through swirls of fabric and dresses as the music summoned them all to the floor. She’d waved, and Drutia had smiled and waved back, her gold earrings catching the chandelier’s light.
Lathri had danced with many people. Ten, twelve partners, perhaps, all spinning and losing themselves in the vibrant colour and music.
She’d laughed and sang along, and when she realised she’d torn the edge of her skirts in her movements, Lathri excused herself to repair it.
Ten minutes had passed. If that.
Koraki had raced down the passageway from the ballroom, sweating and whimpering, and she’d had to press herself flat against the wall to let him through.
He’d always been a worrier, but his behaviour that night—his raw fear—set her heart fluttering.
She’d returned to the ballroom to witness Sapora’s Varkain form coiled underneath the swaying chandelier.
The music had stopped, replaced by screams and feet slipping on the bloodied marble floor in their haste to escape.
And on the Council table at the far end of the room, five bodies lay sprawled in their finery, crimson splashed across their stomachs.
Lathri had kicked her shoes off and raced across the ballroom when Sapora transformed back and left the clean-up to his servants. She’d run faster than she’d ever thought she could, her feet hardly touching the floor.
Tears blurred her vision as she’d grabbed her mother. She’d flooded her body with healing magic, sealed up the wounds, and cried silently, desperately hoping her sorrow didn’t alert Sapora to her presence.
But she’d been too late. They’d all perished.
Perhaps if Sapora had only poisoned them, she’d have had a chance to save Drutia. At least his fangs had given them a swift end.
Shaking, Lathri had darted from person to person, reviving those who still clung to life, healing those whose wounds would have killed them, otherwise. When she’d finally been forced to flee from the Imperial Guard, all her energy spent, her fingers had been caked in red.
No. She had no desire to rule or hold power of any sort.
She simply wanted her country to be one of peace, where they were ruled by their own, by one who cared about the Ittallan.
Isa would be that one.
‘I have faith in Isa. You should, too. Else why risk so much against Sapora?’ Lathri said, hoping that she’d not been lost in thought for too long. ‘We have to be patient. Isa will come around, you’ll see. Sapora may be her brother, but he’s more Varkain than she, and Val Sharis is the country of the Ittallan.’
‘When I grabbed the princess, I saw Mateli heading towards Feoras Sol,’ Aetos said. ‘He may have picked up Palom’s tracks, or he may be going there first, in the knowledge it’s his old home.’
Lathri sighed. She didn’t want to lose him, too.
‘I can go after him? Bring him down?’ Voulhrik offered.
‘It’s too dangerous. All our strength combined might not be enough to take on Mateli.’ She shook her head. ‘Thank you for offering, but no. It’s too great a risk. You’re needed at the palace anyway, to keep your eyes on our princess. We don’t want Sapora becoming suspicious of you, too.’
Voulhrik snorted his frustration. ‘If only we had Palom with us. Isa would probably have listened more…’
‘Probably,’ Lathri admitted, and refused to speak more about her old flame. ‘How is recruiting?’
‘Slow.’ Kylos called from the balcony. ‘Too many Ittallan are afraid of Sapora. They won’t say anything against him. Won’t risk Tacio’s Cerastes after them. I tell you, it’s not going to be long before someone gives up our names or location.’
Suspicion was always healthy. Lathri found Kylos to be a little too suspicious, sometimes.
‘Once word gets around of Mateli’s release, I think you’ll find more Ittallan are interested in our cause. But…Perhaps we ought to spread our wings a little further…’ Lathri said.
‘We came from Tum Metsa! How much further do you want to fly?’ Aetos laughed.
‘I’m thinking about finding allies in Corhaven. Kings aren’t overthrown so easily. We have to find out what Sapora’s plans are and disrupt them. Isa will need to be ready to seize power when the time comes. We have a new landmark in our city. A crystal, the only thing that’s left of Moroda. Think to her, and what she stood for.’
Lathri would see peace restored to Val Sharis, whatever the cost.
Chapter Fifteen
The stench of blood filled the air. Palom’s nose curled at it. He was no stranger to death, to battles, but the slaughtering of innocent people made his stomach turn.
Though the wind had stilled, and the silence of night was thick, the reek of death touched everything.
As did the unmistakable stink of stagnant water.
He thought he’d never smell that again.
The fear that stench created made Palom think of nothing else but survival against Mateli. Even his Valta Forinja, ever at the forefront of his mind, paled to insignificance as Palom left the road and approached the Waterside Inn from the trees.
When the building came into his sights, Palom crouched beside a particularly wide tree trunk, nettles brushing against his arms where he rested them on his thighs. Hardly aware of their stings, he surveyed the scene. What little moonlight broke through the canopy bathed the inn and river in silver-white light, lengthening the shadows.
He didn’t need to see the blood to know it was there.
A dozen or so corpses were sprawled in front of the inn.
Palom sucked in a breath.
He’d hoped to never experience this again.
But where was Mateli?
For a long while, he watched and waited, listening for any movement over the river water and the leaves rustling in the trees.
He waited so long that by the time he dared move, his joints had stiffened, and his knees cracked.
Mateli’s stench covered everything.
Whether he was still here or not, Palom couldn’t tell, but he assumed so. Better to expect the worst and stay safe than to let your guard down and suffer for it.
When it came to Mateli, suffering for it wou
ld be the last thing he ever did.
Palom made his way down the slope to the back of the Waterside Inn, moving with as much stealth as he could muster. If Mateli didn’t know he was there, he’d at least have the element of surprise.
The kitchen door had been left ajar, and he slipped inside, taking another moment to gather his thoughts.
So many dead.
Regular Ittallan who were going about their lives.
Palom grimaced and made his way through the kitchens to the large dining area, to find overturned tables and chairs, curtains ripped, and glasses smashed. A gouge had been taken out of the wooden floor, and blood pooled in one of the room’s corners.
And everywhere, on every surface, Palom smelled Mateli.
‘Chyro…’ He said, shaking his head that one so young as the captain had managed to escape the attack. Palom wanted to move the bodies, get them away from the site, but he couldn’t do it alone—not quickly, anyway—and couldn’t risk leaving for Taban Yul. He had to sort out Mateli first and put an end to this senseless violence.
Like he should have done years ago.
Making his way through the dining room, Palom exited the inn from the front door and went back outside. Mateli had to be nearby, still. Had to be.
Already, Palom had counted nine dead, and hoped the crowd he’d seen that morning had already left the inn and wasn’t part of a body pile Mateli had might put together in some sickening display of brutality.
Palom had never been great at tracking. That had always been Anahrik’s speciality. Working alone had never been one of his strengths, and the fear of failure began to niggle at him.
What if…Mateli had already left?
Was already heading to Feoras Sol?
Was already in Feoras Sol?
He wandered along the path, looking out into the trees, but they yielded no secrets, no movements save their own leaves.
Palom breathed through his nose again.
Stagnant water.
He had to be here. Somewhere.
Running his hands over his face, Palom sighed.
Or was he being paranoid again? Had Mateli already moved on now there was no-one left here to kill?
Mateli had always derived a sickening pleasure from seeing others fall apart. Palom had first been drawn to his strength, his confidence, and his utter righteousness in everything he did.
As a weak-minded, grieving sixteen-year-old in a big city with no friends, Palom had immediately gravitated towards Mateli’s group of wannabe fighters. He’d had a seat on the Val Sharis Council as War Chief back then, and he took no prisoners.
Palom wanted to prove himself after losing his brother, after running away from home, and joined the ranks of Mateli’s unofficial troupe.
When he turned eighteen, Palom’s meraki gave him the strength he’d been so desperate to achieve, and Mateli had taken real notice of him.
Palom finally had the recognition he’d craved, the realisation he wasn’t useless, wasn’t a failure.
That he could be worth something.
Mateli’s unorthodox ways of working and ultra-strict punishments had never sat well with Palom, but as long as he could keep up with Mateli’s training and didn’t step out of line and earn himself a punishment, he didn’t think too much about it.
When he met Anahrik, and later Lathri, he opened his eyes to the truth of Mateli’s violence and realised what he was becoming.
The friendship—if it could be called that—turned into a terrible rivalry, which evolved into a vendetta that left most of Palom’s associates dead or severely injured.
Lathri had managed to pull some strings to have those in power happen upon Mateli’s latest slaughter, which Palom helped set up with Anahrik’s help. With the eye-witness account, the Council imprisoned Mateli for life, and Palom hoped he would die in prison.
He never thought he’d see him alive and free.
Water splashed from the river and Palom whirled around, on high alert. When nothing happened, he relaxed.
There were plenty of fish and frogs in the water.
Anything could make a splash like that, and he doubted Mateli would give away his position in such a rookie mistake.
He backed away, facing the river.
Far too paranoid...
Rolling his shoulders to loosen his joints, Palom turned back to the inn. He’d give it one final look over, try and see if he could figure out where Mateli had gone—decide whether or not he needed to get back to Sol.
If the village had locked itself down, at least Mateli wouldn’t catch them unawares. His ambush attacks had been what killed the majority of his targets. If someone knew he was coming, they had much more of a fighting chance.
Sol wouldn’t be an easy target—too many of them, many of whom were excellent fighters—surely Mateli would stick to those he could pick off easily and not bother himself with a tougher opponent.
Satisfied, Palom made his way to the inn’s side, circling it as he looked for any clues as to Mateli’s location.
As he rounded the corner, he felt—rather than heard—a deep hiss that haunted his dreams.
Mateli was on him before Palom even realised what was happening, before he even heard the movement, wrestling him to the floor, hands scrabbling for his throat and mouth.
Palom could only grunt in response, bringing his arms up to block Mateli’s, and push the bigger man away from him. Mateli had gravity on his side, and he shoved an elbow against Palom’s temple, pushing him to the ground as his other hand swung punch after punch.
‘I’m so happy Sapora sent me ta kill ya. Should’ve left his snakes alone!’
Palom could hardly react to the words before he felt his skin break, caught by a couple of the blows. He kicked out—using his knees and boots to push against Mateli and give him room to move and breathe.
Mateli laughed as he swung, drawing his hand back and extending claws from the tips of his fingers. Palom pushed back with as much force as he could, throwing Mateli back before he had a chance to rake his claws over his face.
Palom leapt up in the same movement, light engulfing him as he shifted into his true form, his Valta Forinja forgotten. He extended his own claws and pounced after Mateli, who rolled out of reach just as Palom landed.
Snarling, the tiger leapt again, unwilling to let Mateli get any ground, and swiped at the Ittallan with massive paws.
Mateli grinned, hissing as he got to his feet and met the tiger’s next pounce head on.
Palom’s front legs wrapped around Mateli’s upper body, the force of his jump nearly knocking him over. Ears flat, Palom bared his canines and bit down on Mateli’s head and neck.
But where he’d expected to pierce flesh and taste blood, his teeth scraped against the armoured hide of Mateli’s transformed body. Scrabbling his claws and teeth against the crocodile, Palom slipped back and stepped away from the enormous reptile.
At twenty-seven feet from nose to tip, the crocodile was nine feet longer than he was—though much of the extra was Mateli’s tail—but his thick skin made him practically invulnerable. Mateli opened his mouth and bellowed, the low noise echoing through the trees.
Palom hesitated, tail lashing. He knew if Mateli managed to grab hold of him, it’d be over.
Mateli jerked his head towards Palom, and took several steps towards him, the ground shaking under his bulk.
With a defiant roar, Palom charged forwards, darting out of range of Mateli’s huge jaws and leaping onto his back. His claws struggled to find purchase, and pulled a few of his scales loose, before Mateli whipped round, tail thrashing as he threw Palom off.
Teeth snapped the air where Palom’s head had been as Mateli immediately went on the offensive, and Palom had to avoid teeth and tail blows while he tried to find some weak spot in Mateli’s armour.
Both sets of fangs lunged at another, and Palom gripped Mateli’s lower jaw, biting down as hard as he could, while his front legs scraped along Mateli’s throat and belly.
Mateli’s top jaw clamped down on Palom’s face and nose, teeth piercing his fur as it gripped.
Growling, Palom shook his head, trying to inflict as much damage as he could, but when he released his grip to back away, Mateli’s jaw had him locked in place.
He pulled back again, pushing his claws deep into Mateli’s belly, tearing at the soft scales and drawing blood, but still the crocodile did not let go.
Mateli took a step backwards and pulled Palom with him, then another, then another.
Palom dug his back legs into the ground, holding himself rigid, but the crocodile’s strength overwhelmed him, and Palom couldn’t pull free from Mateli’s vice-like grip.
Palom heard the river and realised in a flood of panic that Mateli was dragging him to the water. He redoubled his efforts; pulling back and lashing out, trying to tear himself out of the crocodile’s grip however he could.
Mateli jerked his head a few times, no doubt trying to speed his victory, but Palom made himself as hard as possible to drag along. Every breath was a snarl, every kick of his legs had claws drawn, until Mateli’s blood stained the ground.
Palom heard the splash of water as Mateli’s tail touched the river, shortly followed by his back legs.
In a last-ditch attempt to get away before they reached the water, Palom slammed his head to one side, the violent movement ripping a couple of Mateli’s teeth off and sending them flying.
Palom continued the movement, rolling onto his back in an imitation of what Mateli did to drown his targets, twisting himself in Mateli’s grasp and threatening to pull more teeth out.
Still the crocodile did not release him.
Bringing his back legs up, Palom slashed at Mateli’s face with his hind claws, digging into the flesh around his face and—though sheer luck—slashed across his eyes.
Mateli released him and then immediately snapped to grab hold again. Palom was already back on his feet and out of range, and the two growled at one another. He bared his teeth and Mateli backed down, retreating back into the river and disappearing into the murky water.
Palom stood where he was for a long time, watching the river, looking for bubbles or movement, waiting for Mateli to resurface.
