by R. J. Larson
Kien chose his target and caught one Atean’s shoulder over the edge of the man’s shield. The Atean reeled against the closed side of the gate, but didn’t drop into the pit. Kien slapped another arrow into his bowstring and aimed for a third assassin. Akabe’s arrow slammed into the Atean instead, felling him against the closed gate’s central metal-clad edge.
Fine. Kien focused on the fourth man, who maneuvered his shield astutely, guarding his way as he edged along the pit. It would take time for him to step across the wounded men sprawled against the gate, and then he must cross the central yard before he became an immediate threat. Three more men rounded the gate—easier marks with their attentions fixated on the pit. Kien released his arrow, striking one in the side as Akabe struck his nearest comrade just below the ear with his last arrow. Both fell in the open gateway. The third stepped over them, adroitly shielding himself as he edged along the grave-like pit.
By now, the astute one had reached the broad central yard. Kien abandoned his last arrow and swiftly hefted Akabe’s shield, holding it as the king slid his hands through its straps. Some distance away, the attacker shifted his own shield and looked from Kien to Akabe, his eyes narrowed. Followed by his comrade, he moved toward Akabe, who waited, sword readied.
Depending on Scythe’s looming presence for protection, Kien crouched, gripped his own shield’s heavy straps, then stood and unsheathed the Azurnite blade. Its glistening blue-gray sheen drew attention from both rebel swordsmen, briefly stilling them. Akabe seized this advantage and lunged, snarling at his potential killer.
Infinite! Kien advanced on the second aggressor, aware of the man tracking the Azurnite blade. Right of the Atean to be wary, but the best sword meant nothing if its owner became overconfident.
Seeming to take courage, the Atean roared and brought his sword in a downward arc, targeting Kien’s head. Kien swung his shield up, received the blow, then retaliated, slashing the Azurnite blade at his foe. The man stepped back, curving his shield toward Kien. The Azurnite slammed against the shield’s surface and sent a layered chunk of the inferior metal and wood flying. The Atean’s eyes widened in obvious shock. Behind Kien, Scythe grunted.
Two more exchanges of metal ringing against metal and wood left the rebel’s shield dangling in pieces from his now-bleeding arm.
In apparent desperation, Kien’s opponent dropped the splintered shield and swung his weapon at Kien’s neck. Kien countered the blow with all his strength. The Azurnite snapped the Atean’s blade and sent its upper half flying.
At Akabe’s attacker.
The man yelped as the blade cut into his upraised arm, giving Akabe the chance to finish him. Kien’s foe stepped back again, blinked at his broken sword, then cast it aside and reached for his dagger. Fearing the man would throw it Akabe-style, Kien lunged and pierced the Atean’s chest. The rebel gasped thickly and fell beside his dead comrade in the trampled yard.
Feeble moans of the wounded lifted from the pit. Beyond that, silence reigned, heavy and blood-scented.
Akabe shook his head at Kien. “Surely there are more.”
They waited. Nothing moved in the big central yard except one of the wounded men stirring at the foot of the gate’s unbroken door. Akabe flicked a glance at the wounded Ateans. “Do we tend the fallen and risk being attacked? Or do we leave them in the pit?”
Remembering Fightmaster Lorteus, Kien quoted, “‘Even now, fatally wounded, they can kill.’”
“Well-enough. We leave them in the pit. If our reinforcements arrive in time, we’ll drag up the Ateans and tend them—unless they kill themselves first.”
Riddig crept onto the wall walk now, huddled over, as if hiding from someone. Kien motioned to Akabe, then pointed his sword at their guardsman. Riddig pantomimed his concern, prompting Kien to whisper, “One man remains outside beyond the gate. Do we go after him?”
“Might be a trap.”
“Can we afford survivors?”
As they spoke, a bird fluttered over the gatehouse, then sped high above the yard, gray and slightly plump, its crimson talons bound with . . .
Chilled, Kien hissed, “A message! They’re sending for reinforcements!”
“Infinite!” Akabe growled his frustrated plea. “Help us endure another onslaught!” To Kien, he said, “This leaves us with no choice.” Shifting his shield and sword, Akabe stalked toward the gate.
Kien followed, sword readied. He should have known the Ateans would plan some sort of counterattack. At least he hadn’t celebrated his survival prematurely. Seething, he helped Akabe lift the nearest wounded man—unconscious—from beneath the gate. At Akabe’s nod, they dropped the Atean into the pit, provoking an outcry and meager curses from below.
The second wounded insurgent glared up at them, ashen, Kien’s arrow in his side, his eyes cold with unrelenting hatred. He lurched to his knees and produced a sword. Kien thrust the Azurnite blade at him, delivering a final blow.
In silent agreement, Kien and Akabe tossed the man into the pit.
Riddig had descended from the wall and now emerged from the stairwell, his expression tightly composed. Lifting his third-to-last arrow from his quiver, he set its nock in his bowstring, then backed himself against the gate’s closed door, keeping the pit in view as he crept toward the open area where the two dead Ateans lay. At the gate’s edge, Riddig swung around, took aim at a target directly behind the gate, and released his arrow, just as his target’s arrow missed him.
Something thudded against the door. Riddig backed away, then sighed, penitent. “He was already wounded. I blame myself that he released the courier bird, Majesty. Forgive me.”
“Are any of us perfect?” Akabe demanded. “No. Riddig, you’ve done more than I required of you, so forgive yourself.”
They lifted the swords from beneath the gate and opened it. A man slumped over at their feet, lifeless. They dragged the body away from the gate and Kien released Scythe to inspect the castle’s perimeter.
Five bodies lay strewn amid the skulls outside. Two with two arrows each. Studying his comrades, Kien said, “We’ve three arrows remaining, the pit is filled, and there’s no way to know how many more Ateans will arrive—or when.”
Akabe grimaced. “You sound so cheerful.”
“I ought to be. We’ve lived longer than I expected.”
“Indeed we have. Blessed be the Infinite’s Name.” Akabe stared down at the bodies. “After we drop these into the pit and Scythe returns, we’ll close the gate as best we can. Then I’ll go write my letters.”
Kien glanced around, heard Scythe’s distant huff, and allowed himself to relax a bit.
Riddig nodded toward the five bodies. “What about them, Majesty? They won’t all fit in the trap—not with that horse fallen inside.”
“With the exception of the two in the gate, we’ll leave them where they lie.”
While Akabe checked the bodies, Kien sheathed his sword and helped Riddig drag the bodies from the gate toward the pit. By the fallen horse’s stillness, Kien realized the poor beast was dead, like the Ateans around and beneath it.
Just as they dropped the second corpse into the near-brimming pit, fire stabbed into Kien’s calf where it wasn’t protected by his greave. Jolted, he looked down into the face of the Atean he’d wounded twice. Deathly pale, the man was standing on the bodies of his comrades, even now ready to kill.
The ground shook with the thunder of destroyer hooves as Kien whipped out the Azurnite blade. He landed it against the rebel’s exposed neck just as the man slashed a sword upward. Kien twisted away, but not quickly enough. Riddig yelled, “My lord!”
A thin burning pain tore along Kien’s lower abdomen just beneath his boiled leather vest.
Scythe’s agonized groan rumbled through Kien as the Atean slumped back into the pit. Kien sat, holding his bloodied lower right side. Afraid to look. Something had given way, and it was him.
Looming over Kien now, Scythe exhaled into his hair and groaned again. Not good.
/>
This, then, was how he, Kien Lantec, would die. Rotting in a broken fortress, digesting stinking Bannulk cheese while a destroyer mourned over him, breathing down his neck.
Infinite, let me die quickly!
31
Lying in the yard, trying to subdue his anxiety, Kien held his bloodied abdomen, stared up at the sky, and waited. Scythe nuzzled him again, destroyer-panic evident in his repeated vocalizations of distress. Despite his own fears, Kien smoothed the monster warhorse’s big face with his free hand. “Calm yourself. Deafening me with your noise and drowning me in slobber will only defeat your hopes.” And Kien’s. Was this wound truly his death sentence?
Finished securing the gate as much as possible, Akabe and Riddig kneeled beside him, their faces as distressed as Scythe’s. They unbuckled Kien’s boiled leather vest and the padding beneath, then lifted it away. Gripping his dagger, Riddig ordered Kien, “Remove your hand from the wound, my lord.”
Sickened by the wound’s bulging slipperiness, Kien obeyed. “Do I want to see this?”
Riddig slit open the fabric above the wound. “No, my lord.”
Akabe eyed the wound and winced. “Riddig, what do you need?”
“The pot of water I set to heat above the hearth—as soon as it steams—with a cup and some of that stinking cheese Lord Aeyrievale fed us earlier, please, Majesty.”
The Bannulk cheese? Mistrustful, Kien asked, “Why?”
Ignoring him, Riddig called after Akabe, “Wash your hands, sir! Blood of the dead must not taint blood of the living!”
“Meaning what?” Kien demanded. “Are you giving me up for dead?”
“Not yet, my lord. Did you save any of that foul cheese?”
“Perhaps. Why do you need it?”
“To determine the extent of your injuries. Not for a jest.” When Kien hesitated, Riddig turned a bit testy. “My lord, hand over the cheese.”
Grudging every syllable, Kien said, “It’s inside my tunic.”
“Well,” Riddig observed, “it ought to be ripened strong enough to serve its purpose.” He slit Kien’s tunic and snatched the contested packet. “You need to eat this, my lord. Every cube.”
All? Kien eyed the warm sludge-brown cubes. He could stomach two or three without puking. More would be debatable. Torture, actually. “This is your revenge for my joke, isn’t it?”
The field surgeon smirked, his silvery beard bristling. “I enjoy knowing there’s a bit of retribution in your treatment. Now, eat, my lord.”
“Fine.” Kien chewed cube after rank brown cube. The stink set Scythe’s nostrils a-twitch. Moaning, the beast backed off. Kien muttered, “Coward!” As he bit into the last cube his stomach clenched painfully, threatening revolt.
Evidently noticing Kien’s squeamishness, Riddig said, “Whatever you do, my lord, you must not vomit. Remain still. I’m going to wash my hands.”
Kien swallowed and willed his stomach to settle. His eyes watered with the effort. He should be written into a Siphran epic for such a feat. Infinite . . .
Akabe returned with a small kettle of steaming water, a mug, and a respectably clean white tunic. “Here’s the water. I’ll prepare some bandages.” He knelt beside Kien, then froze. “Augh! What is that stench?”
“Lord Aeyrievale’s medicine, Majesty.” Hands now clean, Riddig unfurled a leather roll, revealing a gleaming array of small, vicious-looking tools. Grim-faced, he poured some of the steaming water into the cup and offered it to Kien. “Drink, my lord. If your guts are pierced and fluids are draining from your stomach, we’ll smell that cheese through your wound.”
“And what if you don’t smell it?”
Unnervingly quiet, Riddig said, “If we don’t smell it, then there’s a chance you’ll live.”
A chance. Kien drank the steaming water, then settled down. As they waited, Riddig Tyne unfastened Kien’s greave and inspected his leg wound, muttering as if reciting lessons. “Now the actions of healing are these . . . purge, anoint, stitch, and bind.” Almost ceremonially, he poured some of the heated water over his clean hands, then some over Kien’s leg.
Kien gasped at the liquid’s sting. “How will a scalding cure me?”
Riddig ignored him, opened a vial, and drizzled a dark honey-like substance over the gash. “Remain still, my lord. I’ll be stitching a tube within your wound.”
Gritting his teeth against the repeated stabs, Kien held still. But Scythe paced, twitched, and groaned throughout the procedure. While the field surgeon bound his wound, the warhorse breathed moisture on Kien’s face. Kien reached for the destroyer’s halter. “Easy, monster.”
Kien hesitated. What would become of Scythe if he died and Ela didn’t return from Belaal? And if the next mob of Ateans descended on them while Kien was downed with his wounds, how could Akabe and Riddig defend themselves alone? Decision made, Kien beckoned Akabe, who tore another bandage from the clean formerly royal tunic. “Majesty, look Scythe in the eye.”
One eyebrow lifted in his wearied, rough-bearded face, Akabe complied. But he asked, “Why the destroyer-staring contest, my friend? Aren’t you too afflicted for pranks?”
“This is no prank, sir.” Kien tightened his grip on the destroyer’s halter. “Scythe. . . . Obey! Do you hear me? Obey the king!”
Scythe huffed, then growled and shut his eyes, clearly in a sulk.
“Good monster-horse.” The best. Sighing, Kien shifted his Azurnite sword in its scabbard, pushing it toward Akabe. “Guard this. With Scythe. If I don’t recover . . . turn them against your enemies.”
The king’s expression set into stubborn lines exaggerated by his beard. “I’ll guard them until you recover.” A rueful smile lit his face. “I’m praying your guts won’t stink. That would be a miracle from the Infinite!”
Kien grimaced and shut his eyes. No doubt if he survived, he would laugh about this later. “Majesty, I ate all the Bannulk cheese. One way or another, my guts will stink.”
Ela lowered her comb. Why was she fretting so for Kien? Fears had invaded her sleep, stirring her to pray before she’d even opened her eyes. “Infinite? What is—?”
Frantic tapping sounded from the base of the chamber door, with the now-familiar voice of Mari, the young slave woman. “Prophet? You are summoned at once!”
Smoothing her hair and robes, Ela hurried to the door. She flung it open. “Yes, Mari?”
Mari quavered, “The k-king is in the Women’s Palace. Come out at once!”
“I’m surprised he didn’t arrive sooner. I’ll hurry.” Ela whisked through the chamber to snatch the branch and then to lean into the garden and warn the still-splotchy Caitria, “Majesty, the king is in the Women’s Palace—I’m called for, but don’t worry. I’ll return soon.”
“Just don’t bring him with you!” Caitria scowled. “Ela, can’t you simply roast him?”
“I think not.” Outside, Ela scurried through a labyrinth of elegant corridors to keep up with the frightened slave. Mari led Ela to Lady Dasarai’s rooms, knelt, and rapped on the door. Bel-Tygeon himself answered, no longer crowned, but still clad in his golden robes. Instantly he grabbed Ela’s arm, dragged her inside his sister’s apartments, and slammed the door in the frightened slave’s face. His voice dangerously quiet, the king said, “If you expect to live, Prophet, you will repair the damage you’ve caused to our throne room!”
Repair the damage? She’d never considered it. And wouldn’t, unless . . . Infinite?
Tomorrow. At the same hour it was shattered, and before the same witnesses, the floor will be repaired according to My plan.
All right. Ela repeated her beloved Creator’s words. Bel-Tygeon slammed a fist against the door beside them, making Ela jump. “His plan! What is that supposed to mean?”
“I don’t know, sir. The Infinite hasn’t revealed it to me—I’m only His servant.”
The young king’s proud face tightened. “Only His servant? After that performance? You mock me!”
“I’ve warned you, s
ir!” Ela retorted. “Furthermore, my actions were no performance! Unless you change, your reign will destroy this nation and you with it, to the everlasting agony of your soul. The Infinite calls you, Bel-Tygeon! Despite your pride, He is present to you—to everyone! He loves you. Turn to Him and live!”
His peculiar remote expression returned, slipping over his smooth, handsome face like a mask. “I intend to live—and exactly as I please. I’ll worry about everlasting agony if it arrives.”
Ela’s entire being stilled. “You would not speak of eternal torment so lightly if you’d experienced it, sir.”
A quirk of humor broke his composed facade. “Are you about to tell me that you have experienced eternal torment?”
“Yes!” Shuddering, Ela recalled that brief fragment of time, the absolute soul-searing torment. She gazed at the darkness, forcing words past her lips. “I was trapped inside everlasting fire. I could not die, though I begged for death! The agony of being wholly separated from the Infinite was so intense—I wish it on no one! Ever!”
When Ela drew her thoughts into the present, she found Bel-Tygeon studying her. He smiled and whispered, “Excellent! I almost believed you. Now . . .” He grabbed Ela’s arm and pulled her close, as if preparing to embrace her, but without tenderness. “You will do as I command. If you possess the means to ruin my palace, then you possess the means to restore it. Don’t defy me, or I will destroy Siphra’s queen. Do you understand?”
A bluff. This had to be a bluff. He wouldn’t dare risk a full-blown war with Siphra by destroying the queen, she was almost certain. Almost. Surely his demand that she declare his future victories meant that this proud god-king feared another humiliating defeat such as the one he’d suffered in Parne.
Gathering her courage, Ela said, “You needn’t threaten me or Siphra’s queen. The Infinite has declared He will restore Belaal’s throne room tomorrow. His word is always true. Fear Him, sir! Seek His heart before you suffer calamity.”
“The calamity will be your own if you defy me.” Bel-Tygeon released Ela and strode from the room as if he could endure her no longer. Soft rustling alerted Ela to the Lady Dasarai’s presence. Ela cast the woman a pleading look. “Lady Rethae, beg your brother to consider the Infinite’s warnings! I’ve no wish to see him or Belaal suffer for his pride.”
