Silver Road (The Shifting Tides Book 2)

by James Maxwell

  ‘Hurry,’ Amos said. ‘We don’t have much time.’

  He waited until the bearers had left and then beckoned for Aristocles to follow. They skirted the boundary until they came to a place where the top of the wall had toppled, leaving a pile of rubble at the base. Amos lifted first one black stone away and then another, finally revealing their two packs. He handed one silently to Aristocles and then they continued to follow the wall until they came to a ladder.

  ‘Our horses are on the other side,’ Amos said.

  ‘How did you know?’

  Amos gave a wry smile. ‘I’m a military man. It pays to be prepared.’

  ‘But . . . Where do we go now?’

  ‘Koulis,’ Amos said.

  ‘Koulis?’ Aristocles spluttered. ‘I don’t know anyone there. There’s also the Waste between us.’

  Amos gave Aristocles a flat stare.

  ‘All right.’ Aristocles relented. He placed his hands on the ladder and muttered to himself. ‘Koulis it is.’

  26

  Creeping into the prince’s bedchamber, the assassin saw a grand room twice the size of any house in Lamara, complete with an opulent four-poster bed, silk curtains on the windows, and a separate washroom through an opening at the back.

  He moved silently, graceful as a dancer despite his size, for he wasn’t a small man. Taking a direct line for the huge bed, he stopped beside it and for a moment stared down at the sleeping occupant.

  The fat prince lay on his back, snoring blissfully, unaware that he was taking his last breaths. A swarthy noble in his late twenties, he had round cheeks, a square beard on his chin, and a clean-shaven upper lip. It was a warm night and the bedcovers didn’t quite cover his broad belly. His inhalations rasped like the scraping of a saw; when he exhaled, his breath whistled.

  The assassin slowly drew the slender dagger from the sheath he wore inside his open vest, moving in small increments to minimize the whisper of sliding steel. The bed’s occupant snorted as he twitched. Fearful that the prince would wake, the assassin now took action.

  Bending down, he clamped his free hand over the fat prince’s mouth, at the same time pulling his dagger out completely. Grim-faced and silent, with a strong thrust he plunged the sharp blade into the prince’s thick neck. The assassin withdrew as quickly as he could, careful to avoid the splash of blood. He would have preferred to stab for the heart – the throat was a messy place to strike – but his victim’s immense girth gave him no choice. The prince gurgled and his eyes shot open.

  The assassin grimaced; the sound was far too loud for his liking.

  Moving with urgency, he wiped his dagger on the bed linen and returned it to the sheath inside his vest. He then lifted a nearby cushion and shoved it hard over his victim’s face, pressing down with all of his weight. The prince’s shuddering subsided. The flaccid body stilled.

  Tossing the cushion, in the wan light provided by the open window, he now took a moment to gaze down at his victim. The dead man’s eyes were wide, staring at the ceiling.

  But the night’s work was not yet done.

  Continuing to move as silently as a shadow, the assassin exited the bedchamber and moved softly down the palace corridor until he came to another doorway barred by thick curtains. A small black mark on the right-hand side of the entrance told him he’d come to the right place. Drawing the curtain aside, he scanned the room’s interior.

  The bedchamber was much like the last one, but this time the sleeping prince was younger, perhaps in his early twenties. Wearing a loose silk robe, lying on his side, he had his arms around the naked body of a woman ten years his senior, with heavy breasts and a round belly. The assassin cursed inwardly; he’d expected this, but it didn’t make his task easier. He drew the dagger again and moved around the bed so that he was facing the young prince’s back. Choosing his place with care, he crouched and pointed the tip of the blade between his victim’s shoulder blades, taking a deep breath before he made his strike.

  He grunted as he thrust. The dagger pierced easily, penetrating the young man’s chest from behind, perfectly aimed to strike the heart. The prince shuddered. He died as swiftly as a man could.

  The assassin immediately checked on the woman. For a moment he thought she would remain sleeping, but then her eyelids fluttered. Turning her head and seeing the tall man leaning over her, dagger in hand, she opened her mouth.

  ‘Scream and you die,’ the assassin whispered.

  The first note of a shrill cry hit the back of her throat, stifled when the assassin’s strong hand clasped her neck, squeezing tightly enough to choke off her breath.

  ‘Foolish woman,’ he muttered.

  Her eyes nearly shot out of her head as she moaned, but the sound was quiet enough that the assassin didn’t feel the need for another cushion. She took time to go, clawing at the bed sheets and kicking her legs, but then it was done.

  He left her behind, along with the cousin who was her lover. Once more the assassin traveled the corridors of the sprawling palace.

  One final victim remained.

  The last bedchamber was located at the end of a carpeted hallway. As with the others, the assassin peeled the curtain aside and assessed the room. The sleeping form of Caran, eldest son of Solon and heir to the throne, lay silent and peaceful on the bed.

  Holding the dagger in front of him, the assassin stepped into the room. He crept toward the bed and then suddenly stopped.

  The long bundle on the bed was formed by cushions and linen.

  A spike of fear caused his heart to beat out of time. His intuition told him to swerve to the side.

  The sword speared the air where he’d been a moment before. Whirling to face the threat, dagger held between him and his enemy, the assassin saw the athletic prince standing bare-chested with a curved sword held out in front of him. His posture was angry rather than fearful. Like his two younger brothers, Caran had been trained from childhood in the use of weapons but, unlike them, he’d thrived under the tutelage of the sword masters.

  ‘Who are you?’ Caran panted.

  The assassin stayed silent. The prince was whipcord lean and held his sword with accustomed practice, but he was forced to look up to meet the assassin’s eyes; few men were as tall.

  The prince’s eyes narrowed. ‘I asked you a question.’

  The assassin attacked.

  He stepped forward as if making a considered approach and, as expected, Caran shifted to meet him, following the classic moves. But then the assassin did something he knew his opponent wouldn’t expect. He lunged with the dagger and the sword came up. He pulled back again as if reconsidering, and the sword point began to drop again.

  In the brief spell of time he’d bought himself, the assassin then shifted his grip on his weapon. Taking the point of the blade between thumb and forefinger, he whipped down his hand. He felt the steel glide out of his fingers as they snapped together.

  Caran gasped. With the dagger plunged to the hilt in his left shoulder, his knees trembled, but his sword arm was unaffected, and with an effort of will he brought the point up again.

  Now without a weapon, the assassin charged. The prince lunged; there was nothing to fault in his technique. But the assassin was the better warrior; he could predict every movement and simply wasn’t where his opponent expected him to be. He put his hand on Caran’s wrist and applied pressure.

  Now face to face, gripping both hands in his own, the assassin met Caran’s eyes with a grim stare. The prince tried to escape him, wrestling with his hold, but the assassin was far stronger. The sword tilted until it pointed at the center of the prince’s chest. The assassin then pulled the prince in as hard he could, feeling steel meet initial resistance and then slide in easily as the blade entered Caran’s chest.

  Caran’s cry was weak as the assassin let his body fall to the floor. The assassin retrieved his dagger and wiped it on the prince’s trousers, replacing it in its sheath. He watched the last of Solon’s three sons die before he gave
a final nod. He then took a garment of blue fabric from a pocket and draped it over the corpse.

  Leaving the bedchamber, the assassin retraced his footsteps. But on his way out his breath caught when he saw a patrolling palace guard blocking the corridor. Their eyes met and the guard blanched.

  The palace guard turned his back and moved away, pretending not to see.

  ‘Lord Kargan.’ The palace guard ushered him through the palace quickly, taking him directly to the audience chamber.

  ‘Eh?’ Kargan glared at the soldier. ‘What’s the rush?’

  ‘Lord Mydas will explain.’

  Herded along the corridor, Kargan stopped in surprise as he approached the cavernous throne room from the end.

  Facing the harbor, the space was vaulted, with white marble columns holding up the ceiling and tapestries lining the walls. A warm breeze ruffled the curtains of the wide rectangular windows on the right-hand side, bringing in the smells of the city and the faint taste of dust. The last time Kargan had spoken with Mydas on the terrace, the ebony throne he’d passed on the way had been symbolically empty.

  The throne now had an occupant.

  Mydas sat on the immense black chair. His bulk was big enough to fill the seat but, without Solon’s height, Mydas looked out of place, too short to be in proportion to the throne’s back. He wore no crown and his oily ringlets cascaded to his shoulders. Kargan found himself staring at the thick gold rings on Mydas’s knuckles as he impatiently tapped his fingers on the arm of the chair.

  The situation was strange enough to make him stand motionless, wondering how he should react. He glanced at the file of palace guards, framing the long rectangular space in front of the throne. But the man sitting on it wasn’t the king; with Solon having three sons, he wasn’t even in close succession.

  Finally his escort broke his reverie by prodding his back. ‘Lord Kargan?’ the guard murmured.

  Kargan shook himself and strode forward to stand half a dozen paces in front of the throne. ‘Lord Mydas,’ he said, giving a short bow, as between equals.

  ‘Grave news,’ Mydas said, staring at Kargan with his emotionless eyes. ‘This last night, a Phalesian assassin penetrated the palace.’ His next words made Kargan’s mouth drop open with shock. ‘The assassin murdered all three of Solon’s sons.’

  Kargan swallowed; he struggled to think it through. ‘Phalesian?’ His brow furrowed. ‘How do you know?’

  ‘One of the guards saw him before he fled. He was dressed in leather armor and carried a short sword with a wide blade. He was small, with pale skin . . .’

  ‘Still,’ Kargan began. ‘It could have been any—’

  ‘He left a blue cloak covering Caran’s corpse, an obvious message,’ Mydas interrupted. ‘There can be no doubt as to his origin.’

  ‘Where is this guard?’ Kargan looked around. ‘I’d like to speak with him.’

  ‘You are too late, I’m afraid. His failure to capture the assassin had to be punished. His body feeds the crocodiles as we speak.’

  ‘I . . .’ Kargan thought furiously. He bowed. ‘I’m shocked, to say the least.’

  ‘Yes,’ Mydas drawled. ‘We all are. As the next in the line of succession, I have no choice but to assume the throne, in the name of the empire and in defense of its future. The coronation must be swift, as I know was your wish, for we must now show a strong hand. I have consulted with the priests, tomorrow I will be crowned. In the meantime, I want you to prepare a plan. Vengeance must be had. You have the best knowledge of their defenses. Your men will follow where you lead. We must punish Phalesia for this crime.’

  ‘Lord . . .’ Kargan said. ‘Great king.’ He slowly lowered himself to the floor until he was on his knees. Leaning forward, he touched his forehead to the stone, as Mydas looked on dispassionately. He waited for Mydas to tell him to rise, but when the order didn’t come, he climbed back to his feet.

  Kargan took a deep breath. ‘I’m saddened, but pleased that the empire will be in strong hands.’ He tried to phrase his words carefully, cursing his tongue; diplomacy had never been his strong suit. Nonetheless, he had to do what was right for his men, and right for the empire.

  ‘Great King, let me try to sway you again. This isn’t the time to be concerning ourselves with military action across the sea. We’re in the midst of a crisis. My sources tell me Koulis has declared independence. Shadria will undoubtedly be next. Pirates plague our shipping – I’m sure you have heard of the Free Men. Meanwhile, our navy is in disarray, yet we have entire divisions of soldiers itching to see combat. I’ll lead them myself. I’ll show the dominions that our forces are as strong as they ever were.’

  Mydas’s thick fingers continued to tap the arm of the throne with a thrumming rhythm. ‘You agree, Lord Kargan, that we were humiliated in that battle? The battle in which you were in command?’

  Kargan scowled. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then you must prove yourself against the same foe. When I am crowned king of kings, will you swear fealty? Will you follow my strategy?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said hurriedly. ‘Of course.’

  ‘Then prepare a plan as I’ve asked. Thank you,’ Mydas said drily. ‘That will be all.’ He waved a finger, and soldiers came to escort Kargan out of the palace.

  27

  It was another night of killing.

  The assassin climbed the wall of stone, gripping the tough vines, pulling himself up and over the balcony. Stopping for a moment, he cocked his head and listened. He could hear heavy breathing; the sound of a big man sleeping. He nodded in satisfaction.

  Treading lightly, parting the thick curtains, he entered the bedchamber and saw the swarthy barrel-chested man asleep, lying on his back. Nostrils flared with every breath; air whistled out of his nose; a rumbling snore filled the room. The assassin crept to the bedside and slowly withdrew his dagger from the hidden sheath. Taking note of the mop of black hair and the curled beard, he made a decision on where to strike. The big man was tall and broad-shouldered, but his girth was the burly mass of muscle rather than fat.

  He stabbed into his victim’s chest.

  Missing the heart on the first strike and instead piercing the lungs, he stabbed a second time.

  Blood erupted from his victim’s mouth. With a choking scream the barrel-chested man sat up before falling back down again. He coughed and more blood sputtered from his lips. Crimson liquid welled from the deep wounds in his torso. The assassin hung back, watching and waiting.

  Then something happened that made the assassin realize he had made a mistake. It was going to be a costly mistake, the most costly he’d ever made. It was an error that would no doubt lead to his death.

  The assassin felt a razor-sharp sword blade touch the soft skin under his chin.

  A gravelly voice spoke. ‘Don’t move. Turn and face me. Hands where I can see them.’

  The assassin complied, slowly turning to see the large frame of his intended victim step forward out of the shadowed corner of the room.

  He sighed.

  ‘Move closer to the light. Let me get a look at you.’

  The assassin did as instructed, and Kargan kept the point of the blade firmly on the man’s throat as he inspected him.

  Tall enough to stand out in any crowd, the assassin had a wide mouth, thick lips, and fierce, dark eyes. He wore an open vest and loose trousers, and his bristly black hair was tied behind his head with a thong.

  The assassin’s eyes flickered to the dead man in the bed. ‘Who is he?’

  ‘A slave I bought in the market today,’ Kargan said. He glanced at the body for a moment before looking at the assassin once more. ‘I don’t remember his name.’

  ‘You made me kill an innocent.’ The huge man’s eyes blazed.

  Kargan barked a laugh. ‘What would you have me do? You’re the assassin. If you hadn’t come he’d still be alive.’

  ‘Well?’ the assassin asked, lifting his chin. ‘What are you waiting for? Kill me.’

  ‘I want to
speak with you first,’ Kargan said. He gave a slight smile. ‘Are you in a hurry?’

  The assassin stepped forward, forcing Kargan to step back in order to keep his sword point on his throat. ‘I don’t care what you want.’

  ‘You killed Solon’s three sons?’ Kargan asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And it was Mydas who paid you?’

  The assassin shook his head. ‘No. I received no payment.’

  Kargan frowned. ‘You’re the kind who enjoys killing for pleasure?’

  As the assassin scowled, lifting his chin, Kargan decided that he was a man whose honor was easily insulted. ‘Mydas wanted them dead, but he did not pay me. I was working in the stables when he came to me. He knew of me from my time fighting in the arena. He offered me a chance at vengeance.’

  Kargan raised an eyebrow. ‘Go on.’

  ‘Solon killed my brother. He whipped him, cut him, and impaled him.’ The assassin’s voice broke at the end. ‘But Solon died, killed by some Phalesian I would give much to thank.’

  Appraising the tall warrior, Kargan began to put the pieces together. ‘I think I understand. What is your name?’

  ‘Javid.’

  Kargan met his eyes. ‘Your brother’s name . . . I believe it was Tomarys?’

  Javid nodded.

  ‘Javid, my guess is that Mydas told you I was involved with your brother’s death.’ Kargan spoke clearly. ‘I wasn’t. I heard the tale secondhand, that he was tortured and the Phalesian girl ended his suffering.’ He shrugged. ‘I was at the harbor at the time. I can take you to any number of my men who will confirm it.’

  Javid tilted his head. ‘You were not involved?’

  Kargan spoke flatly. ‘No.’

  Javid looked away, considering. ‘So Mydas is a liar.’

  Kargan snorted. ‘He’s a lot more than that. And now he’s the king of Ilea.’

  ‘When he came to me, I said I would gladly end the line of the man who killed my brother. I asked only one thing. That Mydas would rule with honesty, justice, and law. That he would not be the king that Solon was.’