The enemy slammed into Hoffan’s force. For a moment, the two groups of cavalry—one small and wedge-shaped, the other twenty deep and twenty across—shuddered and held position. Then Hoffan’s men ripped apart like a sheet of paper torn in two. The enemy galloped straight through them, leaving a fissure of dead and dying men and animals falling on the road.
They ignored the supply caravans and raced straight toward the castle where Whelan and his men were directing the battle.
Chapter Twenty-one
“This way, quickly,” Lassitius pleaded with Chantmer. “It is my master—he is dying. The sultan insists that you come at once.”
Chantmer sprang up so quickly from the bed of nails that he gouged his bare skin. The young mage who had been tattooing his skin fell back with a scowl.
“Hurry, I beg of you,” Lassitus said as Chantmer pulled on his robe.
The eunuch rubbed his hands and muttered in a worried tone as he led Chantmer from the hall out through the courtyard. Roghan stood in one corner of the gardens, already watching through narrowed eyes. He rubbed the chain around his neck. Tattoos completely covered his body, all the way up his neck to his chin. Chantmer gestured for him to follow. Roghan snapped his fingers in turn at two of his most trusted apprentices, and the three of them fell in behind Chantmer and Lassitus.
“Who is dying?” Chantmer asked, confused by what Lassitus had said. “It isn’t—it’s not the sultan, is it?”
He could hardly dare to hope. And yet it was too soon. He wasn’t ready, and he had not yet tested Roghan’s loyalties.
“No, it’s not Mufashe. Please, more quickly.”
Ah, then it was Faalam.
Chantmer had recovered his wits and was loath to come stumbling into the throne room out of breath and flustered. So he ignored the eunuch’s pleas and slowed his pace. The man rushed ahead into the room, with Chantmer and the three mages following.
Faalam lay on the floor inside. He was on his back and had torn at his robes and his chest, as if trying to rip the poison out of his flesh. His eyes rolled back in his head, and his breath came in short, shallow gasps. A silvery metallic spittle oozed from the corner of his mouth.
“My wizards!” Mufashe cried, rushing over. The sultan looked distraught, his jeweled turban askew and his eyes bugging out. “Some evil spell, some curse or poison—you must remove it. Please, I beg of you. He must not die.”
So much begging. Such language from Lassitus was one thing, but how unseemly for the sultan to be so distraught at the loss of what was only a slave, after all.
Yes, but this slave runs the palace, controls the taxes, regulates the viziers and the regional sheiks.
Chantmer bent over Faalam and took his hand. He glanced at the others in the throne room: concubines and wives watching curiously from their pillowed nests in the corners, a dozen bare-chested, muscular palace guards, household servants, a minister with a half-unraveled scroll, the mages who had followed him in. If he’d discovered Faalam lying ill in his own chambers, Chantmer could have emptied the rest of the silver bite into his mouth and destroyed him at once.
This, however, was not dying. The metallic spittle was similar to what Chantmer himself had coughed up when he’d been forming a tolerance to small quantities of silver bite. That was the sign of one who was fighting off the poison. Faalam, far from dying, would soon recover. Then Chantmer would either have to deliver a stronger, more obvious dose of the poison, or search out some other means to dispose of the eunuch.
And if the necessity of doing so hadn’t already been obvious, the sultan’s desperation at losing his chief minister was evidence enough of the eunuch’s importance.
“You are the strongest wizard in the palace,” Mufashe said. “They all say the same. You must have magic you can use.”
“I can try,” Chantmer said gravely. “But I’m afraid the eunuch is under a powerful spell.”
“Tell us about this spell,” Roghan said. There was a dryness to his tone that the sultan would surely notice. The mage had been the one to procure the silver bite for Chantmer. He could not help but guess what the other wizard intended to do now.
“Some enemy has done this. The spell is terrible and deadly—it has attacked Faalam’s very soul. The Harvester hunts for him now. I will do what I can, but . . . ” His voice trailed off helplessly.
Chantmer dropped to one knee. His body was wrapped in tattoos—runes, serpents, choking vines, the shape of an obelisk, words in the old tongue—but none of these would do. He reached into his memory to search for the spell he desired. He put his hand on Faalam’s chest and clenched his left fist above his head. The flesh of that hand began to burn as he called for the words.
Cor auferan.
His left hand withered in pain, as if cast into a fire, but his right hand seemed as though it were sinking through Faalam’s chest. He could see it still resting atop the eunuch’s breast, but he could feel it passing through fat, muscle, and bone, until it rested upon the man’s heart. The heart throbbed rapidly, desperately trying to force the poison out and away. Chantmer curled his spiritual fingers around it. It beat faster, like a frightened bird fluttering its wings.
“No,” Faalam whispered. Only the whites of his eyes showed, but somewhere deep inside he must know, must feel the hand around his still-beating heart.
Chantmer squeezed.
The heart leaped about, straining and struggling against the tightening grip. Chantmer held fast, crushing, squeezing as the heart fought on. Blood burst free, leaking through the wizard’s knuckles. Faalam’s hands twitched, his feet beat against the stone floor. The struggle continued for several seconds, and then the heart fell still. Chantmer withdrew his spiritual hand, and though his actual hand atop Faalam’s chest looked dry and unchanged, he swore it felt wet and warm and sticky. The impression lasted for several seconds.
When he stood, all eyes were on his withered hand, not the one that had been on Faalam’s chest. He drew it within his sleeve, looked down at the dead man, and gave a sad shake of the head.
“It was beyond my skill, my lord,” he told the sultan.
Mufashe cursed and tore at his beard. He looked so distraught that for a moment Chantmer thought perhaps the man had felt true affection for his slave. One of his concubines came over from her pillows, trying to comfort him, but the sultan snarled and turned on her. He struck her with his hand, and she went flying to the ground with a cry. She backed away with a frightened look.
Roghan and his mages were looking at the sultan with barely concealed disgust.
Now is your chance. Seize it!
“Who?” Mufashe demanded of Chantmer. “I must know who the killer is. This wizard, this assassin. Who? By the Brothers, I swear I will drink his blood. Who, Chantmer? You must tell me. One of the mages?”
“None of your mages. They are innocent.”
“Balsalom! Treacherous, perfidious Balsalom. Bring me the vizier, the deposed king, the princess.”
“No. Balsalom is innocent. This is the work of the dark wizard. King Toth himself is behind this atrocity.”
The sultan’s eyes widened, and he shook his head. Fear and horror swept across his features. He sank back onto the throne and stared down at his dead eunuch.
“Oh, Faalam. My own sons conspire against me, and now the dark wizard can send his spies into my very palace. Why have you left me? Why did you not protect me from this evil?”
“You must choose a new minister, my lord,” Chantmer said. He stood taller. “Someone wise, a man who can carry Faalam’s work forward. A guiding hand to see Marrabat through these troubled times. Quickly, before your enemy strikes again.”
“Yes, yes.” Mufashe’s eyes darted around the room, first to Roghan, then to Chantmer. But just as quickly, they flickered over to Faalam’s servant, young Lassitus. The eunuch paled.
“Someone with wisdom and power,” Chantmer said quickly, before the sultan could make a proclamation that would be hard to recall.
&nb
sp; Mufashe cast his gaze upon Roghan and the other two mages. He looked to Chantmer, and his eyes narrowed.
“A sorcerer. Of course that is who you would suggest. Perhaps you? Would you advise me as you advised the high king of Eriscoba? King Daniel was forced to abdicate his throne in favor of his brother, and you were driven in disgrace from your order. You must think me an idiot.” He turned back to Lassitus. “I trusted Faalam, and Faalam trusted you. You will be my vizier. The rest of you will depart from my throne room. When Lassitus has told me who has killed my servant, then perhaps you shall be allowed back in my presence. Guards, see them out.”
The armed men at the doors began to move toward the center of the room. Roghan gave Chantmer a resigned look and turned to obey the sultan’s command. Chantmer glanced back at the sultan, who stared at him with a smirk.
“Be gone, Betrayer,” Mufashe said.
Rage washed over Chantmer. He drew back his sleeve and called up one of the tattoos inked into his skin. It was a long, black hand. The words came to his mouth before he could reconsider.
“Celarita percutere pugno.”
The black hand tattoo glowed, burning. His righteous anger swelled and gave power to his spell, and he directed all his will toward the sultan. The man’s eyes widened, and his mouth hung in terror as he scrambled back in his throne with a cry.
The air shimmered in front of Chantmer, turning first to water, then to ink as it pulled light from the suddenly flickering and sputtering oil lamps around the room. A hammer of twisting, curling shadow formed in the air. It hurled end over end at the sultan. Mufashe screamed and tried to leap clear.
The shadow hammer smashed into him like a giant’s maul crushing a crumbling mud wall. The throne shattered, splinters of wood and twisting shards of gold and precious stones exploding through the air. The hammer slammed the sultan through the throne and crushed him into the wall behind with such force that the stone cracked. The sultan fell face forward, his head and chest caved in.
Women were screaming. Lassitus staggered back, seemingly stunned from the shock of air that had rippled past him from the shadow hammer. The guards stopped, gaping in horror.
Lassitus regained his balance. He pointed at Chantmer, his eyes wide and terrified. “It was the wizard all along. Kill him!”
The guards renewed their charge. Shouts sounded from the passageways beyond the throne room.
Roghan and his two apprentices stood near the door with the tattoos on their skin glowing. The head mage pointed his hands toward Chantmer, and the wizard knew at that moment that if Roghan decided he was the enemy he would die. He might be able to hold off the guards, but with the mages against him, he would sure to be destroyed. If only he’d had another month, a little more time to regain his power.
Chantmer braced himself, calling up other spells. He wouldn’t die without exacting a terrible cost.
The first spell burst from Roghan’s hands. It came slithering through the air like a snaking rope of light. Chantmer readied a counter spell, but the rope hadn’t been cast toward him. It slid through the legs of the first charging guard and sent him sprawling to the ground. Then it whipped around, lashing back and forth, driving back and tripping up the other guards. One man came through, but the rope curled around his scimitar and yanked it from his grasp.
Chantmer cast a spell to shut and bar the door, then helped Roghan and his two mages subdue the remaining guards. Soon, they had the men and Lassitus bound with cords and strips of cloth taken from around the throne room. The harem girls, the minister, and the household servants they left cowering in the corner.
When they were done, Chantmer and the mages stood breathing heavily. More guards had arrived outside and were assaulting the door, which boomed and rocked on its hinges with every attack. Chantmer’s spell would hold it for a few minutes.
Roghan glanced at Lassitus, who whimpered on the ground as if expecting to be killed, then at the guards, some of whom were unconscious, the others glaring with their hands bound.
“I hope you know what you are doing,” Roghan said.
“Against such weak minds as these, I can improvise,” Chantmer said.
He was still pitching about desperately for a way out of the ugly situation in which he’d found himself. Damn the sultan, he shouldn’t have taunted. He should have done the sensible thing and anointed Chantmer as his new vizier.
“We are wizards,” Roghan said. “Every law ever written prevents us from ruling this city or any other kingdom.”
“But nothing stops us from being ministers, the ones who stand behind the throne. It is a time of war and chaos—it is only right that we make the difficult decisions. Remember what you told me? Who should rule, the shepherd or the sheep?”
Roghan paced across the floor, past the dead bodies of Faalam and Mufashe. “The sultan’s sons now have claim to the throne of Marrabat. Have you forgotten that they quit the city to raise armies and struggle for the right to marry Princess Marialla?”
Ah yes, Marialla. The scheming, cynical sister of the khalifa of Balsalom. An idea stirred.
“By leaving the city and raising armies in treason, they have abandoned their claim to the throne,” Chantmer said. “We must find a regent. Someone the sultan would have trusted. Someone of royal blood, surrounded by trusted slaves, ministers, and viziers. Lassitus, rise.”
The eunuch struggled to his feet, his hands bound. He looked confused and terrified.
“You will be the sultana’s head eunuch and master of the palace slaves.”
“Sultana? You will raise one of Mufashe’s daughters to the throne?”
“No,” Chantmer said. “They are married to rivals or allied with their treacherous brothers.” Chantmer had no idea if this were true or not, but it didn’t matter. “The sultana will be Mufashe’s most trusted and clever wife. A woman with important foreign alliances who will help us fight against the dark wizard, the enemy who reached across the desert to assassinate our beloved Sultan Mufashe and his chief eunuch.”
He glanced at Roghan, who gave a sharp-edged, understanding smile. Never mind that Marialla and Mufashe hadn’t actually wed yet, or that she was a foreigner, or even that everyone in the room now knew that Chantmer was responsible not only for the sultan’s death, but likely the eunuch’s as well. Marialla had royal blood, and Chantmer and Roghan would enforce her rule. Lassitus would ensure compliance within the palace itself.
The eunuch seemed to recognize this reality at the same time, that if he complied he would be given great honors and responsibilities, but if he did not, he would be killed, perhaps instantly. He inclined his head in acquiescence.
The door boomed again. Shortly, Chantmer’s spell would give way, and they would have to deal with the guards now trying to batter their way into the throne room, where they would see their dead ruler and seek vengeance.
“As for the princess,” Roghan said. “Will she take what you offer her?”
“Marialla is intelligent and beautiful and given to luxury. She has long been diminished in the shadow of her sister Kallia. We are offering her the throne of a rich and decadent kingdom.” Chantmer smiled. “She will accept without hesitation.”
Chapter Twenty-two
“No!” Abudallah cried as Darik prepared to fight. “You must fly!”
Darik stared at the horsemen pounding up the road from the town on their swift desert ponies. Against them, the camel riders were outnumbered and too slow to escape.
“Take the girl,” the Kratian said. “One camel. Cross the highway. Find the hills. Meet us at the red spire. We will meet you there.”
“How will I find it?”
“There is a watering hole.”
This was even less help than the command to seek the red spire, but it was all Abudallah would give him. The man turned and shouted at his men in Kratian. They formed two groups, dividing the riderless camels with them. One group of nomads circled around as if coming in to harry the men pounding up from al-Sabba, while the
other fled north. The camels kicked up a cloud of dirt, and Darik now saw that it was a screen for him and Sofiana to escape.
And he also saw why Abudallah wanted him to take Sofiana on a single camel. The girl dug her heels into her camel as if she wanted to join the Kratians in giving fight to the enemy.
Darik came up beside her and grabbed her arm to drag her onto his own animal. She wrapped her arms around her camel’s neck.
He struggled to break her grip. “Let go! This isn’t a game. You have to come with me.”
“I can ride,” she insisted. “Get me a sword, and I can fight too.”
“You’ll do no such thing.” He pried loose her fingers and dragged her from her camel. She bit his hand, and he let out a hiss of pain, but didn’t let go. He forced her to lay flat against the camel and held her down with his forearm.
He turned his camel and slapped his riding stick on its haunches, and they pounded away, leaving Sofiana’s camel to stagger off with a dazed expression. Sofiana kept fighting him in the saddle, but she wasn’t strong enough to break free and jump to the ground.
Darik cast a glance behind his shoulder. The gates of the town had swung shut, but not before a second company of riders had come out. They whipped their horses, joining the pursuit. After kicking up a cloud of dust, the Kratians had scattered in different directions, each man leading a handful of riderless camels.
The sun was setting slowly behind the eastern mountains in a fiery blaze of red and orange. The shadows already stretched out from the foothills, leaving dark nooks among the boulders strewn about their bases. If they could delay capture for an hour or more, they might escape in the night when the Marrabatti soldiers would fear ambush.
Darik obeyed Abudallah’s command and rode for the hills in great, loping strides. It wasn’t nearly as fast as the galloping horses, but if he could keep his distance, the camel could run like this for long stretches, as the horses tired and fell by the wayside.
“Let me up,” Sofiana said. “This is humiliating.”
The Warrior King (Book 4) Page 17
