All-in-all, Shel’wai had picked good ground on which to make his last stand.
“So, how do we do this, Highness?” Tharn asked, looking to his soldiers.
“First, I try to reason with the old bastard, see if I can’t get him to come out of his own volition. If that doesn’t work, I have one more thing I can try short of a frontal assault.”
He edged towards the entrance to the bolt hole, nearly knocking over several bottles of wine in the process. Some of the soldiers openly gasped as their Emperor actually walked into the mouth of the opening. Ytan hoped he remembered the placement of the arrow slits correctly, the blind spots where you could stand unmolested, and those where you could not.
He took a shaky breath and held his ground. Nothing. In all likelihood, the Highlanders couldn’t even see him.
“Shel’wai!” he shouted into the darkness. His words echoed strangely off the stone within, making his voice sound as if it was coming from a dozen places at once.
“Ytan,” came a voice from inside. It was old and raspy—Shel’wai had always had a penchant for tobacco—but strong, with no shake. So he was still confident, even when completely surrounded. Either that, or he was putting up a strong front. Still, it shook Ytan’s confidence slightly. A cornered mouse shouldn’t have had so much fire.
“I almost didn’t believe it was you,” the man continued. “Emperor…” He paused for a moment. “Even when I saw you at the front of your army, I thought there must be some mistake.”
“Do you believe me now?” Ytan asked. “I wear the ring. Hadan’s opposite. It opened on the day he died. Told me I was Emperor.”
“I can see that.”
Bastard. Ytan threw himself to the side, getting out of the opening before the Highlanders could riddle him with bolts. But there was no clatter of catches releasing, no whisper as shafts flew through the air. Only a cackling laugh, rising in the dead silence.
“So we’re down to petty jabs, Shel’wai?” Ytan asked, trying to calm himself. Dammit! He’d trained for this kind of thing. Simple tricks like that weren’t supposed to work on warriors of his caliber.
“It’s the only satisfaction I’ll get in all of this, boy,” Shel’wai said. He laughed again, this time with less mirth.
Ytan gritted his teeth and tried to ignore the sound. “I’ll give you one chance, Shel’wai. Come out of here, unarmed, and you and your men will be spared the gallows.”
“Spared the gallows, so what, we can rot in cells? I’m old, Ytan. I have a decade, maybe less, as it is. Do you think I want to spend that time sleeping on a rock and eating rancid bread?”
“What about your men? Most of them have nice long lives ahead of them. Would you take that away?”
“They’re Highlanders. They swore their lives to the Emperor when they signed on the dotted line.”
“The Emperor?” Ytan asked. “If that was true, I could order them to saunter out of that tunnel with your head on a platter.”
“Other than the fact that we appear to be running short on dining ware, there’s a problem with your assertion: you’re not Emperor, boy.” Once again, the condescension. But there was something else in the man’s voice. A hint of an old accent, from his home in Herana. So, the old Archon was starting to get nervous. Too long dwelling on one’s own death could begin to crack even the strongest will.
“Tell that to their brothers and sisters out here, the Highlanders who joined with their rightful Emperor.” None of them were present—they were still scouring the palace above, looking for anyone who might have slipped past the regular soldiers—but Shel’wai must have seen them in Ytan retinue as they had approached the city walls.
“I don’t know what poisoned words you whispered in Hadan’s ear, before you stuck in the knife, but it doesn’t make you Emperor. You don’t have a drop of the man’s blood. For the love of Tirrak, you’re Toashani!”
“Did Hadan ever say he would pick one of his descendants for the throne?” He let the question sit for a moment, waiting for a response.
Shel’wai didn’t give him one. “Renna and Loen and the others. They’ll return with an army at their backs and grind you into the dust. Then, they’ll set someone worthy of the title ‘Emperor’ on the throne.”
“I see,” Ytan said, stepping away from the bolt hole and heading to where Onir and Iara stood. He raised his voice so it would carry to where the Archon was sequestered. “If only you had taken me up on my offer, you might be here to see it happen!”
“What’s the plan?” Iara asked in a low voice as he came to stand at her side.
“A frontal assault won’t work,” Ytan told her. “You couldn’t take that hole with a thousand men.”
“I could try and clear out those arrow slits. I’d like to see those Highlanders try to shoot with a few ounces of burning steel in their faces.” Iara smiled in that dangerous way she always did before a fight.
“Come on Ytan,” Onir said. The boy almost sounded excited. “Let me take a little detour like we talked about upstairs. The fuckers won’t expect us to come in from behind them!”
He’s talking about going straight through the bedrock, Ytan realized. By the Stars, to flank around, he would have to blast through a hundred feet of the stuff. He knew the boy was powerful, but this was something else entirely.
“Do it,” he said, trying to sound the part of the confident monarch. “If you need food-”
“Already thought of that,” Iara said, going to a pack she had left leaning against one of the wine racks. She pulled out half-a-dozen cloth wrapped parcels. They were filled with fine meats, cheeses, breads, fruits—nothing like the fair from the baggage train. She must have looted the palace kitchens earlier in the assault.
Onir ate with vigor, shoveling down great mouthfuls of food, eating like the shepherd he had been only a few short years ago. Despite being one of the most powerful Delvers in the world, the boy had never quite been able to leave behind the rocky plateaus where Ytan had found him tending to his father’s flock.
Iara ate almost as greedily as the Prete. She would be needed once the stone was breached. Ytan had seen her flaming arrowheads strike down a hundred men. She had only failed him once, just outside of Saleno, where she had been bested by a pair of powerful Enforcers guarding the High Lord of Selivia.
She had come away from that failure, determined, reforged, stronger than ever. No one, not even Highlanders, could stand before her now.
When they were ready, Onir rose to his feet and walked to one of the wine racks, perhaps thirty paces to the left of the bolt hole. He closed his eyes and placed a hand on the shelving. “If any of this shit’s valuable, tell me now, because it’s not going to be worth piss in a moment.”
“Just do it,” Ytan told him. He had already torn the Palace apart taking it. It was a little late to start caring about the a few bottles of wine.
Onir whipped his hand to the right and the rack jerked forward and to the side, following the path of his open palm. Bottles clattered to the stones and bounced, cracking and filling the cellar with a strong musty scent. Oh, how Hadan’s old sommeliers would weep.
Several of the soldiers gasped and even Tharn looked to be in state of shock. It wasn’t every day you saw someone lift a wine rack with only a gesture of the hand. But Ytan knew this was only a taster. The real test of Onir’s power was still to come.
Onir let the rack fall to the ground and turned, stepping up to the bare stone beneath and placing a hand on its surface. He brushed his fingers along the pebbled surface, clearing away century’s worth of cobwebs. “This palace is built on top of sedimentary rock.” He closed his eyes. “Limestone, I think.”
“Will it stop you from getting through?” Ytan asked. Limestone was soft, wasn’t it? That should have made it easier to break through. But oftentimes, Onir’s powers flew in the face of common logic or reason.
“Shou
ld help, actually. You see, sedimentary rock is just sand when you get right down to it. Granite or basalt now, that’s made from lava. Hard to break down.” Onir had stopped moving his hand. He had settled on one spot on the wall. Ytan wasn’t sure, but he thought he could make out an imperfection in the stone, a seam that ran from the ceiling all the way to the floor.
“This stuff though…” Onir continued. “With just a bit… of… prodding.”
Ytan could feel the hair stand up on his neck and took a reflexive step back from the Prete.
“You might want to cover your nose with something. It’s about to get dusty.” Ytan hardly had time to pull the collar of his jacket over his mouth before a loud crack split the air inside the cellar. There was a rush of wind and a detonation as the wall ahead seemed to… fall apart.
Dust filled the room, blinding him. It got into his hair, filled his nose and mouth. He tried to draw his collar closer around his face but it had little effect. Stars Above, had Onir really done it?
“It’s open!” The boy shouted, seemingly unaffected by the dust. “Bloody Tirrak! It worked! It actually fucking worked!”
Ytan tried to respond, but the moment he opened his mouth, it filled with dust. Dammit! How long would it take for this stuff to clear? They needed to move, and quickly if they were to catch Shel’wai unawares.
“I’m going ahead! Send your boys in after me as soon as this shit clears!”
Ytan tried to shout for Onir to stop, but the air was still too thick with dust. It was like being stuck in a Kelil sandstorm. At least then he’d been dressed for the occasion, with a silk scarf that would stop you from choaking.
When the dust finally started to settle, Ytan pulled his jacket collar away and opened his eyes. The air was still thick with particulates, casting everything in a strangely yellow light, but at least he could see and speak. “Tharn!” he called to the general. “Gather your men at the breach! Iara, you’re with me.”
The hole Onir had created could have been carved by masons. It was straight and perfectly round, like something made by the passing of an enormous earthworm. Ytan could see firelight at the other end, flickering perhaps a hundred feet away, and a figure, standing alone. With the dust and poor light he couldn’t tell if it was Onir, or one of Shel’wai’s Highlanders.
Against his better judgement, Ytan took up the front of the formation. The opening in the stone was wide enough to allow two men to walk abreast. He and Iara would be the first through the breach, the first to meet the enemy. I just hope Onir has cleared us a path, he thought as they took their first steps into the tunnel.
There were sounds of fighting up ahead. Good, that meant the dumb bastard was still alive. He didn’t want to lose his best Delver in the first battle of his reign.
It was a long march down the tunnel. The fear of a volley of crossbow bolts coming their way was an ever present concern, but one that Ytan managed to quash. He had faced worse, even in his training at El’kabal. He would not fear these Highlanders. They were nothing compared to him.
He stepped through the other side of the tunnel into a dusty mess. Bodies littered the floor, twisted into grotesque forms in the candlelight. Some had had their heads dashed against the walls of the bolt hole, while others looked to have had their breastplates caved in by some immense force. They hadn’t stood a chance, not against Onir. The boy had gone through them like a plague through a market town, leaving a scattering of corpses in his wake.
This end of the bolt hole was built wide, giving space for half-a-dozen men or so to man the arrow slits covering the entrance. The Highlanders that had been left behind to cover Shel’wai’s escape were all dead. It was perhaps thirty men in all.
“I got ‘em for you, Ytan,” Came a weak voice from behind him. Onir lay with his back against the wall. He was covered in blood, but none of it looked to be his own.
“Are you hurt?” he asked, passing the boy and checking the long tunnel that would eventually lead to the city docks.
“Not a scratch,” he said proudly. “Just tired.” He shifted to a sitting position. It was clearly a struggle just to move. “You don’t happen to have any food?”
Iara shook her head. “You’ll just have to wait here. Don’t worry, we’ll take care of the rest.”
Onir nodded. “Give that Shel’wai a stab in his yellow belly, will you? For me!”
Ytan nodded. “I’ll stick the blade in myself, if I get the chance.”
* * *
The tunnel descended down, deep beneath Akiv. If he listened closely, Ytan thought he could hear the sound of water to his right. They were running parallel to the sewers then. That meant they were getting close. The docks were just ahead.
Ytan had had troops stationed at the bolt hole’s exit just for this reason, but would it be enough? Shel’wai still had dozens of Highlanders at his disposal. I shouldn’t have sent a company to stop them, but a battalion.
Iara had quickly gone through most of their flammable material and had been force to start using glowing arrowheads to light their way. It wasn’t much, but still enough to jog Ytan’s memory of these darkened tunnels.
Eventually, the sound of the sewers was replaced by another. The call of birds and the slightest tickle of wind. It was quickly drowned out by the echoes of battle, the clash of steel on steel, and the shouts of the dying.
Ytan quickened his pace as he saw light ahead. So, Shelwai had broken out onto the docks. Dammit! If he could reach a ship, all this would have been for nothing. Ytan would have Akiv, but not the true prize, the whole reason he had come to this city in the first place.
Iara matched his pace, grabbing handfuls of arrowheads from inside the pockets of her cloak as she ran. They began to glow in her grip. He smiled. They would give the Highlanders one hell of a surprise when they exited the tunnel.
Ytan and Iara came into daylight behind a group of the red hair warriors completely unprepared to be hit from behind. Stars! Maybe he’d overestimated the Emperor’s bodyguards. They hadn’t even thought to post a rearguard at the exit.
Iara threw out her hands, releasing a torrent of arrowheads. The shards of flaming metal slashed through men and women with ease, cutting down a full half of the Highlanders. The Ignean’s aim was true. Not a single one of Ytan’s own soldiers fell to the bombardment.
The newly crowned Emperor drew his sabre from his belt and tore into the remaining Highlanders. He cut them down easily. Even the most skilled were slow, sluggish when compared to his own careful movements. Hadan’s protectors were all bark and no bite, it seemed. When Ytan commissioned his own force of bodyguards, he would make sure they could at least hold their own in a fight.
Regardless, they were still more than a match for Ytan’s regulars. A squad of the Highlanders had cut through the company of men he had posted and were heading towards a waiting ship at the end of the docks. A small group of old men and women sat at their center. And yes, amongst them Ytan could make out Shel’wai’s dark skin.
“Iara!” Ytan shouted over the sound of battle. He couldn’t see her amongst the melee, but he knew that with her enhanced senses, she would hear his order. “Burn that ship!”
Shel’wai was already halfway to the small cog. He couldn’t be allowed to escape.
A single burning projectile arced through clear skies. A sword, glowing bright as the sun. It slashed into the cog’s sails, setting the canvas ablaze as its hilt caught in the fabric. Flames soon spread to the lines and then down onto the deck. By the time Shel’wai’s group reached the gangplank, the ship was little more than a burning hulk.
The old Heranan stepped out of his protective cordon and glanced around, looking for another ship, but finding the pier empty. He turned on his heel one last time before looking to Ytan. Shel’wai’s eyes were like bits of obsidian, boring into him. If hate could kill, Ytan imagined he would look much the same as the burning cog.
Ytan waited for the fighting around him to die down. The last of the Highlanders were killed or routed from the docks and into the streets and alleys beyond. That surprised him. It seemed even Hadan’s invincible soldiers could be overcome by fear.
With barked orders, Ytan reorganized his soldiers. Tharn issued commands, forming them into a column wide enough to block off the peer. Iara came up beside him, breathing heavily. She leaned her lithe body against his. “It was a good fight,” she said.
“It’s not over yet,” he replied. “We still have a few loose ends left to cut.” Ytan stepped onto the pier, helping Iara along with his left hand, his sword in his right. The mirror-like steel was smeared with blood. If he got his way, it would taste more before the day was out
“It was a good show, Archon,” he told Shel’wai as they closed. No more than twenty paces separated him from the old man now. “You almost made it. If only you’d had a few Delvers on your side.”
“And now both of yours are spent,” the old man said. Up close, Ytan could see Shel’wai was thin, with a slight paunch around his middle, and had taken on the affectations of an Akivian in his dress. His fine suit and breeches were testament to his love of this particular corner of the world, as was his hair, cut short and slicked back from his face with heavy oils. The effect was ruined by the sweat. It covered his face and bled through his clothing, staining the fine fabric.
“My Highlanders will cut through your sorry excuse for soldiers,” Shel’wai continued. “We’ll find another ship, another way.”
Ytan wouldn’t have marked Shel’wai as the self-deluding type. He had always thought of the man as a realist. But the strain of battle could do strange things, especially to those who had never felt its cold grip on their mind.
“I would offer you a chance to surrender,” Ytan said. “But you took my last offer and spit on it.”
He motioned for his soldiers to attack. But it was Iara who struck the final blow. Her armor exploded from her body, glowing hot, striking the Highlanders, soundlessly killing each with a glowing scale to the face or neck.
The Argument of Empires (The Corrossan Trilogy Book 1) Page 46
