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

by Kel Kade

  He watched as the woman scurried away like a mouse escaping the cupboard. Once she and her friend were gone, Farson turned on the younger Striker Shezar. “I have no desire to harm the girl. I am a striker, not a common criminal. Perhaps you slough the virtue of honor like you did the bonds of brotherhood. I hear you did not stand with them when they faced the enemy.”

  “That enemy is the rightful king, a truth they failed to acknowledge. From what I am told, though, you failed to stand with your brothers when facing the very same enemy. You ran while they died.”

  Inhaling deeply through his nose, Farson spat, “It was a battle that could not be won.”

  “There were fifteen of you!”

  “And fourteen of them died! It was my duty to escape in hopes that I could find a way to bring an end to the madness that was sure to ensue.”

  Shezar asked, “Is that what you are doing here, Farson? Are you trying to end it—to end him? Would you harm this young woman just to get at him?”

  “I would find no pleasure in taking an innocent captive or by harming her, but if I thought it could bring him to heel, I would, and so should you. I know the truth, though. He does not care for her any more than he cares for the rest of you. Taking her would only further soil my already sullied soul.”

  Farson’s attention was drown to a movement from a shadow beneath an eave so subtle it might have been his imagination. His instincts were honed by too many years of training Rezkin, though, and he knew they were being watched. He gestured to Shezar so that his warning could not have been seen by the intruder. Then, surprisingly, the shadowed figure fell from his perch—or rather, he was pushed from it. Another dark silhouette loomed in the vacated space, and this one, Farson knew better than any other.

  The displaced spy rolled as he struck the ground, then regained his feet with graceful ease. Farson recognized the man as Lus, Princess Ilanet’s guard. At least, that was what they were telling people.

  Rezkin followed Lus to the ground in a more controlled manner. He gave each of them a penetrating stare and then said, “Shezar, your presence is required in the war room. Bring Tam.”

  Saying nothing further, Rezkin turned and left the courtyard. No matter how hard he tried, Farson could not discern his former pupil’s motives. Rezkin had caught Lus spying and had surely heard at least some of the denigrating remarks Farson had made about him to Shezar, yet he said nothing—did nothing. Farson felt like the moment the shackles of Rule 258 had been released, Rezkin had sprinted away, his influence spreading like a plague, and his designs inconceivable to anyone but him.

  Shezar tore his eyes from Lus and looked to Farson. “Take care of this, Striker.”

  As Shezar left the courtyard, Farson turned his attention to the so-called guard. This was the first time in months that anyone had tasked him as a true striker. He did not know the younger striker, Shezar, but the man was a brother nonetheless.

  “Does Rez know who you really are?” Farson asked.

  Lus grinned unashamedly. Instead of answering, he asked, “Do you know who he really is?”

  “I trained him. I know what he is.”

  Lus’s face sobered. “Why would you do that?”

  Farson gritted his teeth. “So many times have I pondered that question. We were ordered to teach him everything we could. We did not expect him to learn it all. What do you care? You are in his kingdom now, and it is to your benefit to have a strong king.”

  Lus’s gaze hardened. “It is the same for you, yet you speak openly of your desire for his death. You would kill him if you could.”

  “Something tells me you would do the same.”

  Lus smirked. “That is between him and me. Nevertheless, I am bound to serve and protect him at any cost. Know that his strength has grown beyond the limits of his body. His spirit now possesses the blades of many.”

  Farson narrowed his eyes. “You do not look like a follower of the Temple yet you speak of spirits.”

  Lus grinned in a boyish manner that was contradictory to his otherwise predatory demeanor. “There are many kinds of spirits, as we all have seen since coming to this place.”

  Farson’s hackles rose. “I have doubts, for certain, but at least I know him. You and whatever agenda you harbor, I do not trust. I will not stand idly if you turn against him.”

  Lus grinned again. “Then we are in agreement.”

  Benni paused as he attempted to catch the breath stolen by the returning pain in his back. It had been coming and going ever since they had left the cells, and for the past several minutes, he had felt nothing—literally. His body was becoming numb and his head woozy, not unlike those moments before he lost consciousness prior to the arrival of the Raven, the times when he had suffered through the persistent ache of an empty belly. The pain was not in his stomach now, though. It was in his back, and it felt like he was being stabbed all over again. He wondered if it was a good sign or bad that he could feel again.

  He blinked away the sweat dripping into his eye, and then his body rocked with a violent shiver. At the end of the corridor, light streamed in through the doorway that was strangely tilted at an angle. Someone grabbed his arm and shoved him roughly against the wall. A man hovered in front of him. Benni blinked again. The man was saying something. He thought he should know the man’s name, but it eluded him.

  “W-what?” he mumbled.

  The man spoke again, but the sounds made no sense. Benni shook his head and wiped the sweat from his brow. He peered down the corridor again and was glad to see that the exit had righted itself. He inhaled deeply as the pain receded, and then he understood the man’s words.

  “Yes, Count Jebai. I’m okay. We’re goin’ through that doorway there. If all’s good to plan, the way’ll be clear. If not, we’ll have to fight.”

  “You do not appear in any condition to fight,” said the count.

  “No less than you,” Benni muttered.

  “Under different circumstances, I would have you flogged for that.”

  Benni wheezed a chuckle. “Under different circumstances, I’d have run off with that orb and lived a comfortable life.”

  The count shook his head. “Fair enough. Why did you not?”

  “Besides saving your lives?” Benni asked. The count gave him a dubious look. Benni shook his head, partly in answer and partially to clear the fog. “No one crosses the Raven.”

  A flag fluttered into view through the doorway. “There’s the signal. Don’t forget, someone’ll grab you. You gotta go with ’em. Each group’s goin’ somwhere else to be hid. No one knows where the other groups are goin’ so no one can give anyone up if they’re caught. Jebais’re with me.” The count gave him the same doubtful look, but Benni ignored it. “Let’s go.”

  The group shuffled along, most leaning on the wall or each other. Benni gripped his knives and hoped it would not come to a fight. His hopes were dashed the moment they entered the yard.

  A broken body fell to the ground, missing him by an inch. Two more sailed over the roof in a tussle, striking the hard-packed dirt with a stomach churning crunch. Only one of them regained his feet. Luckily, he was not wearing the uniform of a palace guard. It was the master assassin Briesh. Benni had never thought he would be so glad to encounter a slip. An alarm sounded from somewhere beyond the building, and then guards came dashing around each side. One came at him, and Benni’s first instinct was to throw his dagger to keep the man away, but Guildmaster Adsden had instructed him never to throw away his only weapons. Now that he could barely move, he wished he had a longer blade.

  A beam of light suddenly shot past Benni’s head and struck the guard in the forehead. When it ceased, he could see clear through the man’s skull to the guard behind him, and that man fell over dead as well. Benni glanced back to see one of the rescued mages collapse onto the ground. The other escapees helped him to his feet, and Benni motioned for everyone to move forward. He had to get the prisoners through the gate before they lost control of it. He ducked l
ow so the next guard’s sword swept over his head and then struck at the man’s side, only to score a glancing blow and wrench his injured back in the process. He sucked in a deep breath as he tried to stab again with his other dagger, but he was too slow. Just as the man’s blade would have taken his head, the sword was deflected, and a deep, bloody gash appeared across the guard’s torso just before he collapsed. At Benni’s side, Count Jebai leaned heavily on the sword he had procured from a dead soldier and then brought his blade back up to meet another attack.

  Benni regained his feet, but with the ground swaying around as it was, he was having difficulty determining which direction he should go. Two graceful figures danced into view. They spun and slashed and cut men down with ease. He recognized them. One he knew to be a sophisticated scholar dressed as a peasant and the other was a hideous priest. As the world grew dark around him, though, they were the most wondrous sight had seen. Benni blinked several times and noticed that many others loyal to the Raven had joined the fray, in addition to some of the prisoners. Bodies littered the ground, and not all of them wore uniforms. Some of the Raven’s men would not be escaping. As the light winked out, he suddenly realized he was one of them.

  Yserria rounded the corner and came up short. Minder Thoran was standing in the corridor as if he had been awaiting her arrival.

  “Greetings, Minder,” she said.

  “Greetings, young lady. Might I have a moment of your time?” the priest asked.

  “I am set to a task by the king,” she said, glancing at Ilanet who followed in her footsteps.

  Minder Thoran bowed and said, “Greetings, Princess. I am glad to see you well.”

  Ilanet glanced between them uncertainly. “Greetings, Minder. Is there some reason I might not be well?”

  The minder spread his hands and said, “Who can say? I heard a fifth has gone missing. I continue to pray, but I fear the Maker cannot hear us in this cursed place. If you do not mind, Princess, I wished to have a word with Knight Yserria.”

  Yserria said, “I have already visited the chapel once this week. I will do so again tomorrow.”

  “Yes, I am aware of your kind devotion. It is reassuring in this place to have some who dedicate themselves to the Maker, unlike your king.”

  Yserria shifted uncomfortably and noticed that Ilanet’s gaze had dropped to the floor. She said, “He may not recognize it, but he does the Maker’s work.”

  Thoran looked at her knowingly. “Tell me, child. What has this man done to gain such devotion? For certain he has proven himself to be a great warrior, but a great king?”

  Yserria lifted her chin and replied, “He gave me justice for my father’s murder. He did everything he promised he would. I neither expected nor wanted for anything more.”

  “Was it justice or vengeance?” Thoran asked.

  “What difference does it make? The result is the same, and for that he has my loyalty.”

  “I do not believe that vengeance is a sustainable foundation for loyalty, and neither is it a good reason to sacrifice your independence,” the priest replied.

  “What makes you think I’ve given up my independence?”

  “I understand you were born and raised in Ashai, but you seem to identify with the values of Lon Lerésh. No Leréshi woman would ever swear fealty to a man.”

  Yserria glanced at Ilanet, who still seemed satisfied to stay out of the conversation. She said, “You don’t seem to understand. My father wasn’t murdered by some street thief. It was a duke. He was powerful, untouchable. I never imagined that I would have the satisfaction of seeing his demise, much less the honor of carrying out the deed.”

  Thoran looked upon the young woman with sad eyes. “He has defeated many a foe. I have heard the tales. I am assured of their validity no matter how farfetched they sound. The battles in the arena and then later in your escape were far from his first, I am sure. He chooses to appear as a demon—a dark wraith, they call him. All I have heard of him involves destruction and death. These are not the actions of a good man. He draws to him the young and impressionable, the desperate and bitter, and encourages them to follow his lead. Would you ever have killed anyone if not for him?”

  “I might have if I'd had the chance,” Yserria replied with less conviction.

  “We will never know,” the priest mused.

  Yserria glanced at the emblem of the Maker hanging from the chain about the priest’s neck. “You’ve heard of what he can do. People say it’s impossible. I would’ve said the same if I hadn’t seen it for myself. How do you know he isn’t favored by the Maker?”

  Thoran tilted his head and said, “That is why I am here.”

  “What are we doing here?” Malcius exclaimed.

  Rezkin, Kai, and Shezar had been poring over a map spread upon the stone table that occupied one of the many chambers on the first level of the palace. They had designated this the war room. Tam and a couple of the other men who had skill with wood had whittled the rough figures that rested upon the broad length of vellum. The blue figures represented estimated troop numbers in the various forts and outposts of Ashai. Smaller figures stained red showed the last known stations of strikers in and out of the kingdom. The estimates were the combined knowledge of the strikers and the few military men who had escaped with them. Rezkin’s understanding of troop movements was the most recent and most extensive, leading the others to regard him with both skepticism and suspicion. He declined to explain how he had acquired the information. Rezkin and the strikers’ attention was not on Ashai at that moment, though.

  Tam and Tieran’s presence had been required, but Rezkin had indulged Malcius and Brandt’s curiosity. They had been watching quietly until Malcius’s abrupt outburst.

  “What is it, Malcius?” Rezkin asked as he and the two strikers regarded the young lord.

  “This!” he said, slapping his down on the table in frustration. “Ashai is falling, and you are talking about Gendishen. We should be fighting back! Why do we not return to Ashai now?”

  “And do what?” Kai asked. “What troops do we have? A few hundred refugees, a third of whom have no skills or talent with which to fight. Even if we made it past the navy, we would not make it to the first city.”

  “Why do we need troops?” Malcius asked. “You are strikers, and he is”—he motioned toward Rezkin—“well, whatever he is. You can just sneak into the palace and kill the king. Make it look like an accident or something. Rezkin shows his papers, the Council must accept him, and then he becomes king. The end. Done.”

  “Bah,” Kai scoffed. “You know it is not that simple. First, you must remember that Caydean is a mage, a very powerful one, and he has been secretive about it. We do not even know his affinities. He will not be so easily defeated. Second, he surrounds himself with supporters and has filled the military command with loyalists. Third, we have more immediate concerns.”

  Malcius’s eyes flashed with anger. “What could be more immediate than taking our home back and avenging Palis? What about our families? As far as we know, they could still be alive, rotting in the dungeons.”

  Rezkin intruded before Kai could respond. “Malcius, we will return to Ashai but not until we have the resources to succeed. We cannot even determine what those necessities are at this point. We need more information. We need supplies, and we need to contact our allies. None of that is our top priority, though. Right now, our biggest problem is not Ashai. It is everyone else.”

  “What do you mean?” Malcius said. He appeared suspicious and not yet ready to concede.

  Rezkin waved a hand over the map of Ashai and the surrounding kingdoms. “Everyone is angry. It is almost certain that every one of these kingdoms sees what happened at the tournament as an act of war. They will all want recompense and, in some cases, revenge. Sandea and Jerea have desired an excuse to invade for decades. Torrel has been essentially neutral regarding Ashai, and we have historically engaged in decent trade with them, but their long-standing feud with Channería has bee
n a point of contention. Channería is our closest ally, but even before the tournament, political and economic tensions were testing those bonds. As you know, trade with Verril collapsed months ago, and our relationships with the other kingdoms was also dependent on trade.”

  Shezar added, “Even during King Bordran’s reign, interkingdom relationships were tenuous at best. Organization of the King’s Tournament and enlisting the participation and cooperation of the other kingdoms was one of the greatest accomplishments in Ashaiian history, and it was destroyed by one act of unexplained savagery.”

  “One in which you were perfectly willing to participate,” Malcius said.

  Brandt jabbed him in the ribs with an elbow. In a forced whisper, he said, “Shut up, Malcius. You forget he is a striker!”

  “No, he has a right to be angry,” Shezar said. Capturing Malcius’s gaze, he added, “I did not know your brother, but from what I have heard, he was a good man and a talented swordsman. His death was a great loss for your family and to Ashai. For what it is worth, I never agreed with what happened at the tournament. I could not see any way to prevent it, however.” He glanced at Rezkin and then back to Malcius. “I took the first viable alternative that presented itself. Unfortunately, many of my brothers were not prepared to do the same.”

  Malcius was not appeased. As he opened his mouth to retort, Rezkin interrupted. “Back to your original question, Malcius. Look at the way the troops are arrayed.” He pointed to the clusters of wooden figures at various points across Ashai. “What do you notice about their positions?”

  Angrily tearing his gaze from the striker, Malcius studied the map. “The groups near the capital cities are small. The largest number is gathered here in the central hills.”

  “Exactly. So, who is protecting the borders?” Rezkin asked.