Legends of Ahn (King's Dark Tidings Book 3)

by Kel Kade

  Wesson said, “Questioning the king in this way is close to treason, Striker.”

  Shezar gritted his teeth and argued, “I spent years serving a mad king. By the Grace of the Maker, I have been given a second chance, and I will not allow some dead elves to corrupt Rezkin’s mind!”

  Wesson, Tam, and Waylen glanced at each other and then nodded in acceptance. They all hurried up the path to catch up with the king, and much to their frustration, he was nowhere to be found.

  Chapter 16

  The guards crossed paths before Adsden’s eyes. “Mark,” he said.

  Fierdon made a note in the log. “That was twelve and fourteen, yes?”

  “Correct.”

  “Can you see him?” Fierdon asked.

  “Not yet.”

  A few minutes passed, and Adsden caught sight of a flash of light in an otherwise dark shadow cast by the tower’s stubborn stand against the early afternoon sun.

  “There,” he said. “He is in position.”

  “Are you sure it was a good idea to trust the boy with this?”

  “Benni is young, but he follows orders well.”

  Fierdon tisked. “His fighting skills are abysmal. If he is caught …”

  “He is a good sneak, better than most of my men. If no one sees him, he will not have to engage anyone. The other positions will almost definitely require combat. I would have preferred to do this one myself, but you know it is not an option.”

  “I know, I know. The strongest mages in the palace will be present. They would detect your talent.”

  “Miniscule as it is,” Adsden muttered.

  “Even so, it seems to have served you well. The fact that you have so little power demonstrates just how efficient you have become. You are capable of far more than I would have expected.”

  “You flatter me,” Adsden said as he watched the next set of guards round the structure. “Mark—thirteen and fifteen.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, why?”

  Fierdon held the parchment up so that Adsden could see the map and watch the rotations at the same time.

  “Here,” he said, tapping the map over one section of the wall with his quill. “There is a gap in the patrol. Six and twelve should have crossed over here at station nine, but instead thirteen and fifteen crossed at eight. That leaves four open until the next rotation.”

  “Where are six and twelve, then?” Adsden mused.

  Lowering the parchment, Fierdon pondered the puzzle. “Maybe they were pulled out for some reason.”

  “Or took a break,” Adsden said. “Watch the wall for a moment. Let me see the map.”

  He examined the log of the patrol rounds for the past several hours. Finally, he said, “No. Every four circuits, the guards from station nine fail to show. They reappear during the next circuit over here at station ten. I think we are missing a station, perhaps inside. Maybe they are patrolling the transfer corridor.”

  “Wait, they reappear at ten?” Fierdon said. “Corridor C would be the most direct return route, which leaves corridor A clear.” He paused, handing Adsden the quill. “Mark—seven and four.”

  Adsden made the note in the log and then checked the time dial they had managed to procure from a records office. It had been Fierdon’s first acquisition of worth since joining the thieves. Although he was not a member of any specific guild, he now wore the Raven’s mark with pride.

  “Are you sure that is the corridor they would use?”

  “Yes, I told you, when I was young … before this”—he motioned to his face—“I was fostered for two winters at the palace. It was cold and dreary outside, so we spent most of our time exploring and playing in the corridors.”

  “You said these particular corridors lead to the dungeon. Why would you go there?”

  “Mostly we hid from Caydean. Tieran Nirius was there as well. He and Thresson were of similar age, and Caydean made fun of me for spending time with the younger boys. I did not care for his forms of entertainment, though. Hespion, on the other hand, idolized Caydean. He followed him around like a puppy.” Fierdon absently rubbed at the twisted flesh along one side of his face. “Perhaps I should have done more to prevent it, but Caydean was the prince. What was I to do? I never considered he would go this far.”

  “It is best to leave the past behind when there is nothing you can do about it,” Adsden said. “You have a new family now, and your knowledge of the palace grounds and operations has been invaluable.”

  “Yes, I am sure that was the Raven’s intent when he extended his invitation.”

  Adsden looked at him sideways. “It does not bother you, then—to be used like this?”

  Fierdon grinned in his lopsided way. “Everyone gets used. It is how you are repaid that is important.” He met Adsden’s gaze and said, “Since joining you, I have been treated as a person, not the spawn of evil that my household seems to think I am.”

  Adsden chuckled. “I do not think you an evil man—wise and cunning but not evil.”

  “And what kind of man are you, Guildmaster Adsden?”

  Adsden turned back to watch the guard rotation. “Mark, two and three.” As Fierdon took the parchment to make the note, Adsden said, “I am a selfish man. I take what I want when I can.” He turned and, as his eyes trailed the melted flesh of Fierdon’s face, he said, “I would never do something so cruel and meaningless.”

  Fierdon huffed. “It was not meaningless to Hespion. He became heir to Atressian.”

  “Perhaps, but it would have been just as easy to kill you.” He glanced at Fierdon. “Some might have thought it kinder.”

  “What makes you think he was not trying to kill me? It would have been smarter, not kinder. The fact that I am alive means I have a chance for justice—or vengeance. I am broken, but alive is better than dead. I walk a longer road to success, but still I walk.”

  Adsden’s gaze traced the path of a hooded man crossing the street to where he stopped within the shadow of the building they had been surveilling.

  “You are not broken, Fierdon,” he said absently. “Only hidden behind an ugly mask.” As his words echoed in his mind, he realized his error. Turning to the man beside him, he said, “Pardon me, Lord Fierdon …”

  “No,” Fierdon said raising a hand, “kinder words have not been spoken. Please, just call me Fierdon.”

  Adsden nodded and then glanced back to the window just as the man from the shadow slipped around the corner of the building. “You are not concerned about turning your back on your family—possibly betraying them?”

  “My brother betrayed our family long ago. Father will not be able to hold off the king’s army indefinitely. Caydean has already bled our lands dry of workers and resources. We must join forces with the other dukes if we are to have a chance at survival, but Hespion does not see reason. He is no general. Without me to guide him, he will be lost. It is in his best interest for Father to live a long life, but Hespion is so eager to claim the title of Duke for himself.

  “My betrayal may be the only hope House Mulnak has. It seems to me the Raven is more powerful and vicious than any of the dukes, and the fact that he supports the claim of this True King lends me hope that the kingdom may survive until the reign of a legitimate ruler once again. Perhaps if this True King hears of my loyalty, he will preserve House Mulnak in the new era.”

  Adsden shook his head. “You place much faith in a criminal overlord and unnamed claimant to the throne.”

  “You have faith in him—real faith. I have seen it in your eyes and in the eyes of the others, those who have met him—Attica, Rom, even Benni. A man does not garner that kind of loyalty through fear alone.”

  Adsden sighted the flash of light from the hooded man who had just reached his station atop the balustrade. “Blue two is in position.” A couple of minutes passed, and he said, “It is difficult to explain. I do not fear many men, but I fear him. It is more than that, though. I am intrigued, enthralled, even drawn to him. He is sophis
ticated, eloquent, harsh, and deadly—like a master sword, a Sheyalin even—a piece of art. His plans—those he shares with me—are far-reaching and thorough. It would be easy to dismiss many of them as nonsensical or wasteful, and yet I know they are not. His every move is a thread in a tapestry so intricately woven and vast that I cannot fathom the pattern.”

  “But, to him, you are just a pawn.”

  “True, but a pawn personally chosen by the Maker is a pawn blessed. He cannot win the gambit without them.”

  “The Maker? You speak of him as if he were a god.”

  Adsden chuckled. “No, nothing so magnificent, although the slips seem to think so. I merely admire a brilliant player.”

  “Is that all you admire of him?” Fierdon asked.

  With a sideways glance, Adsden grinned. “He has a presence.”

  Fierdon met his gaze and said, “One could dream of having such a following.” He quickly glanced away and nodded toward the window. “Blue three has just arrived.”

  Adsden wondered if he had misjudged Fierdon. The man had spent as much time with Attica over the past couple of weeks, and he had thought for certain he was besotted. Fierdon had to be referring to the Raven’s infamy and power, he thought. Surely he had not meant the words how they sounded to Adsden’s ears. He shook his head to clear his thoughts, then rolled the parchment and placed it in the leather wrap.

  “It is time to go. We will deliver the log to red and then take our positions in yellow.”

  The two men had been holed up on the top floor of a merchant house across from the palace grounds. From four stories up, they could see the top of most of the palace wall, the grand courtyard, the eastern tower, and the roof of the southeastern wing, below which the dungeon dwelled. The executions were to be held over the next several days in the grand courtyard itself. It was the first time in history that blood was to be spilled in this way in the palace courtyard. Previous executions had been carried out in the public square. Attica had suggested the king might have been concerned with security since those to be executed still held influence, but Adsden thought it more than that. It was a semipublic event, and attendance was not optional. All members of the new king’s council and representatives from every major noble house were to be present. It was for this reason alone that the executions had been delayed for so long. People had been given time to travel so that they could watch their friends and former comrades die.

  The Serpents and Diamond Claws of Justain were not the only guilds called upon to serve. The guilds of Kaibain were also involved, which included a second branch of the Diamond Claws, led by the half-Pruari named Groa; the Razor Edges, led by a man named Breck; and a few members of the Black Hall. Only one of the slips had provided a name, and Adsden was not sure it was his name in truth. A man named Briesh represented the assassins in the Raven’s Council, the name they had bestowed upon themselves as the guildmasters and assassin who were charged with constructing and implementing the plan. There had been much dissent in the beginning, but all agreed on one thing—they had to succeed. Briesh had made the point that it would be better to die in the attempt than to live with failure. They had all met the Raven, and no one disagreed.

  Adsden and Fierdon slinked across the street and slipped through the open gateway into the passage within the palace wall. The guards charged with watching the gate had been replaced by a slip and one of Groa’s men. The corridor was dark, intermittently lit with torches and mage lamps, and was silent save for the patter of their footsteps. When they reached the exit that would release them into the courtyard, they discovered that their next man, Cobb, was not where he should have been. Adsden squinted as his eyes readjusted to the sunlight and then noticed a worn boot behind a stack of barrels and burlap sacks. He tugged one of the sacks to cover the evidence of Cobb’s passing and then scanned the yard hoping to find him. A couple of minutes passed before Adsden caught sight of the man rounding the tower lugging two heavy pails. Cobb met Adsden’s glare but pretended not to notice as one of the real palace guards began hollering.

  “Do you have that water yet? What’s taking you so long, damn it? You’ll be back in training tomorrow if those buckets aren’t in the courtyard before I need to scratch my arse!”

  Adsden hoped, for Cobb’s sake, that the guard had decent hygiene. Once Cobb and the guard had passed, Adsden and Fierdon began walking casually across the yard so as not to alert the sentries on the wall. The two intruders talked and laughed, seemingly without a care, but maintained a safe enough distance from anyone to avoid being called out. All kinds of workers were going about the palace grounds preparing for the bloody spectacle the king desired. Adsden and Fierdon trusted that if they stuck to their roles, they could avoid suspicion. Fierdon wore the robes of a priest of the Maker and hid his face beneath a wide-brimmed hat commonly worn by members of the priesthood, while Adsden was dressed to fill any number of laborious positions. He had smudged a bit of soot on his face, dirtied his hands, and also lugged a sack of tools over one shoulder.

  When they reached the entrance to the southeastern wing, Fierdon turned and whispered, “What do we do? Cobb was not at his station.”

  “We will have to give it directly to Benni,” Adsden said.

  “Benni does not have the mind to put it together.”

  “Then write it down for him.”

  “Can he read?” Fierdon asked.

  Adsden paused. He glanced around to see if Cobb had returned and then said, “I have been teaching him. Use small words.”

  Fierdon tisked. “You are going to entrust this with a boy who cannot read?”

  “What choice do we have?” Adsden asked. “Neither you nor I can take his place because of our talent, and everyone else is already in position.”

  “Fine,” Fierdon said as he took the quill out of the pouch that hung at his side. As a wind mage with a secondary affinity for water, he had a way with liquids. It had been no problem to force the ink into the feather so that they would not have to carry around an ink well. “Turn around,” he said. He unrolled the parchment over Adsden’s back and carefully scrawled a brief note that he hoped Benni would be able to read.

  “How is he with his numbers,” Fierdon asked.

  “Good, he does not care to write them down but figures them well enough in his head.”

  “He is able to read them, though?”

  “Yes, it will not be a problem. Can you get it to him?” Adsden asked.

  “I believe so, but it will be more difficult since I cannot see him. Do we know where the guards are in their rounds?”

  Adsden checked the time dial. “The way should be clear in about fifteen seconds. We will have to wait for the next rotation. That gives us almost eight minutes.”

  Fierdon finished his message, blew on the ink, and then cast a spell to make the stiff material more pliable. He then folded the parchment to resemble a bird, carefully placing the folds so that the tiny golem would be able to move.

  “That is impressive,” Adsden said. “How did you learn to do such a thing?”

  “Most of my time was spent alone,” Fierdon said in explanation. Then, returning to the task, he said, “There are wards around the perimeter. Wards are not one of my strengths, and this will require nearly all my attention. You said you are capable of manipulating them?”

  Adsden stepped away from the building to examine the ward along the roofline. Now that they were closer, he could see how it had been constructed. It was weak, not designed to prevent passage, but it would alert the sentries if breached. Benni was hidden between a cistern and a structure the mages called a wind turbine, both of which were located approximately six paces from the edge of the roof. On the other side of the cistern was a trap door that opened to a stairwell leading into the building. The guards were stationed all over the palace roofs, most of them rotating in a well-timed circuit. Their attention was given to watching the courtyards and building entrances.

  Adsden ducked back into the shadow of the
building and said, “I am not strong enough to tear it, but I can bend the ward inward toward Benni. If you drop the parchment before the ward snaps back, your vimara will not be detected, and Benni can retrieve the note.”

  “Assuming he sees it,” Fierdon said.

  “He will be watching for the signal from Cobb. Surely he will notice a little bird made of parchment flying over the roof.”

  “Then let us hope he is quick. Once I release my vimara, it could be swept away by the wind.”

  Fierdon placed the bird on the ground and then began to wave his hands in the air. Adsden had never seen anyone performing magic in such a way. It was fluid and elegant, like the wind itself. The bird twitched and then twitched again. A wing flapped, and then it craned its neck as if to look at them. Fierdon muttered something under his breath, and the bird began flapping its wings in earnest. It took to the air as steadily as a natural-born chick on its first flight, but within seconds, its path became smooth and graceful.

  “Okay, now,” Fierdon said, but his attention was wholly on the bird.

  Adsden checked the time dial and then began manipulating the ward along the perimeter of the roof. The bird fluttered upward, and he could barely see it as it swept over the edge. Adsden would have preferred to see what he was doing as he bent the ward, and he was certain Fierdon would have liked to watch the bird’s path. For all they knew, they could have sent the golem straight into a guard’s head.

  “All right. I think it has gone far enough. I am going to drop it,” Fierdon said.

  Fierdon sighed and leaned heavily on the wall after releasing the fledgling’s flight. The ward bounded back to its original position a little more quickly than Adsden would have preferred, but since they did not hear any shouts or tromping boots, he had to assume his transgression had gone undetected.

  Fierdon was still composing himself when Adsden asked, “Was it really so taxing?”

  “Normally, not so much. The closer in nature a material is to its desired use, the easier it is to animate. If the bird had been made of feathers, for example, it would have been quite easy. Parchment is made of reeds or wood, neither of which were meant to fly. More importantly, though, was the control. I had to keep it contained in the shadows as much as possible as I directed it to a specific location. Even paper birds wish to fly free.”