“Raz i’Syul Arro,” he said by way of greeting, though his voice sounded equal parts displeased and strained as he struggled to push himself to his feet. “You have the great honor of being the first of your kind to ever set foot in the halls of my predecessors.”
“An honor, is it?” Raz growled in sarcastic reply, glaring up at the old man. “I hope you’ll forgive my lack of enthusiasm, Your Highness. I believe my friends and I may see this event far differently.”
“Your Greatness,” the nervous man in grey robes corrected him with a snap as Raz and Syrah reached the halfway point between the door and the dais. “And mind your tongue, beast. It is far below the honor of the Tash to speak to the likes of you, free or not.”
“How kind of him.” It was Syrah’s turn to simper mockingly. “One can only imagine the burden such a difficulty must place on His Greatness’ tired shoulders.”
The Hand who’d spoken scowled at the woman, and looked about ready to retort when his master cut him off with an angry look.
“I hope you’ll excuse Naizer,” the Tash said, not taking his eyes off the man. “My Second has never known how to play this sort of game well, I’m afraid.”
“No games today,” Raz said coolly, fixing the Tash with a fiery look. “I imagine you’re well aware of the reasons we are here.”
“Yes, yes,” the Tash said with an impatient wave of his hand. “There aren’t too many outcomes one can deduce, given the circumstances.” He frowned down at Raz. “That being said, if you truly think taking my head will be as simple a thing as it was to butcher the Mahsadën of Miropa, then you have sorely underestimated the influence of Karesh Syl, Monster.”
Raz sneered, he and Syrah stopping when they were about fifteen feet from the line of guards, all of whom were watching the pair of them with equal parts determination and apprehension.
“I don’t think you can fairly accuse me of underestimation, Your Greatness.” He twisted the title snidely, making sure the man knew what he thought of it as he scanned the line of soldiers. “I admit, Syrah and I might break a sweat disposing of your men before dealing with you, but we’ll manage.”
It was a lie, of course. Raz had technically faced worse odds, it was true, and alone even. But on that occasion, he’d managed to limit his opponents to a single avenue of attack, had nearly burned alive in the escape, then almost broken his neck, then been shot in the side with a crossbow bolt.
It was not a situation he wanted to repeat.
Still, this time, Syrah stood at his side.
“Ah, yes…” the Tash said slowly, eyes turning to the Priestess, like he was reading Raz’s mind. “The sorceress. Don’t think I’d forgotten about you, Priestess Brahnt, White Witch of the North.”
The name shivered over Raz and Syrah, and he heard her hiss under her breath in either shock or anger. At the same time, that feeling of disquiet returned once again, but he brushed it aside without issue this time. Syrah’s name was known far and wide throughout the Northern realm, and the mountain clans of the Saragrias had been calling her ‘the Witch’ for years before that. It wasn’t hard to believe whatever spies Karesh Syl likely had spread across the world had provided the Tash with such information when he’d gone looking for it.
“If you think me a witch, Your Greatness,” Syrah seethed, her staff thunking against the stone beneath the carpet as she set its point against the ground, “then you can understand why it would seem common sense that only a fool would deliberately seek to goad me.”
That got a rise out of the Tash and his Hands. The man on his left—Naizer, he had said, his Second—leapt to his feet with a shriek of outrage. On his right, the other—who must have been the First—lost his composure for a moment, stiffening at Syrah insult.
“Mind yourself, woman,” he said evenly, his voice full of menace. “An offense against His Greatness will not be taken lightly here…”
The man settled back into his throne, though, as the Tash raised both hands to silence his Hands.
“A far as ‘fools’ go,” the Tash hissed, his features calm but his eyes boring into Syrah with such vivid irritation Raz thought it might have been the first time in the old man’s life anyone had seen fit to openly mock him, “I can think of none greater than you, at the moment. My Hands and I have already drawn first blood in this battle, and you don’t even realize it. We’ve stripped you of what few advantages you once had, and you are yet unaware of it.” He pointed a bent, crooked finger at the Priestess. “It is unwise to scorn the victor in a fight you don’t even know you’ve lost.”
This time, Raz couldn’t ignore the feeling as it welled up inside him, his eyes flying over the courtroom around them, looking for the trick, seeking the trap. He cursed himself, peering into the shadows of the far walls, studying the Tash and his Hands, the odd clay pots, the soldiers before them, even the rug beneath their feet. They were too calm, too ready. There was something not right, in this place…
“Syrah,” he warned the woman quietly. “Watch your back. They’ve got something up their sleeves.”
Syrah, though, didn’t seem to hear him.
“You arrogant shit,” she snarled at the Tash, taking a step forward as magic flared unbidden about the hand not holding her staff, rippling and guttering to match her anger. “You insufferable, pathetic, bent little bastard. You hold yourself in such high esteem, hold yourself above all others in your twisted little world, and yet you don’t care in the least that you only stand so tall because you have climbed atop a mountain of corpses and chained men and women who you’ve stripped of any ability to pull you down.” The magic billowed, engulfing her fingers in a glove of seething fire. “You don’t see that you would be nothing, not a speck of importance on the face of this world, had you not spent your life dining on the labors and sweat of those beneath you. You are vile. You are weak. You are—”
At that moment, though, the Tash appeared to run out of patience, his wizened face twisting into a mask of pale, pure rage. “Weak?” he snarled, interrupting Syrah. “You dare? Enough. Enough! It is time to put an end to this madness. You may have sparked rebellion in my city, but we will crush the dissenters as quickly as they stand. Then, when it is done—” he raised a threatening hand “—I will see to it that what shadows remain visit your home atop that mountain in the North, Priestess, as they intended to in the first place.”
Shadows, the animal snarled in Raz mind, realizing all at once what he meant. Shadows!
But too late. The Tash snapped his fingers once, the sound ringing in an echo through the chambers, and at once a number of fearfully familiar figures, nearly ten in all, stepped out from where they’d been lurking behind the pillars on either side of them to surround Raz and Syrah. Their faces and bodies were swathed in loose, dark wraps, their grey eyes still and dead on the pair of them as their smoke-blackened blades, drawn in gloved hands, shone in the arcane fire dancing about Syrah’s fingers.
Shadows! the animal shrieked as the assassins made themselves known. SHADOWS!
Raz, though, wasn’t looking at the men around them, didn’t care that he and Syrah were suddenly trapped. His own eyes were yet fixed on the top of the dais, held fast by the figure who’d stepped out from behind the Tash’s own throne. Bedecked in his familiar black leathers, the Percian gazed down at Raz like he was some pest he intended to rid himself of, his white teeth cutting a leer across his dark face, one hand grasped casually about the black leather hilt of the curved saber at his side. He hadn't changed in the year since they’d last met, facing off as Raz dragged Quin Tern through the carnage of the Arena.
Unbidden, the roar built in Raz’s throat. Like a memory transposed on the scene around him, he saw a black-haired little girl staring at him with wide, horrified green eyes. He saw the curved steel blade that had been pressed to her throat, met the uncaring gaze of the man who’d held it. Like a ripple from the past, Lueski Koyt’s last words reverberated in his ears.
I’ll miss you.
> “KOROOOOO!”
Raz’s howling scream was so sown with rage, it sent a ripple of terror over the faces of the Tash’s soldiers like a shockwave. Before he could stop himself, Raz was already moving, charging the short distance left between him and the wall of shields and blades, the animal rising to consume all sense of anything else.
“Raz! Wait!”
Syrah’s cry ripped him back into the world, color returning to the scene as he realized his vision had begun to fade into shades of red and black. He stumbled to a halt, talons tearing at the carpet, to stand mere feet away from the soldiers' swords, so close they might have braved striking out at him had they not all recoiled in fear at his sudden rush. Pulled back to his senses, his heart hammering with unbridled hate as he continued to stare up at the figure above, Raz took a single, slow step back, fighting to gain control of himself.
For his part, Azzeki Koro, former Captain-Commander of Azbar’s brutal city guard, managed a twisted sneer, like he was disappointed Raz hadn't hurtled head-first into the waiting blades of the sentries.
“I wish I could say it was a pleasure to see you again, Monster,” the man said, stepping by the Tash and descending the first few steps toward the courtroom floor as he spoke. “I admit, when I heard you would likely be visiting our great city, I was less than thrilled.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Raz said through grinding teeth, watching the man continue to approach. “I don’t know why I’m surprised to find you here, Koro. Of all places, you fit best in a nest of vipers and filth.”
Koro shrugged off the insult, stopping three or four steps from the floor so that he still stood well over Raz, twenty feet away. His eyes swept across the scene, taking in Syrah and the assassins she’d spun about to face. “My last employer met an unfortunate end, as you well know. Azbar was not so inclined to maintain its… uh… hospitality after Alyssa Rhen took control of the council.”
“Quin Tern died a less miserable death than he deserved.” Raz spat the man’s name out like it was a foul piece of meat. “If Rhen had been sensible, she would have ensured the same fate for you.”
“Oh, she might have,” Koro said with a smug little nod, drawing his saber slowly from his side. “I was gone long before she could have me snatched up. It was a long journey south, I can tell you. Still, there are some benefits.” He swept the sword at the nine men that surrounded them on three sides. “You have more enemies on this end of the world than I thought possible, Monster. The Mahsadën alone are so desperate to have your head, they paid us just for the right to have these fine gentlemen wait on you to come for His Greatness’ life…” He smirked in hard amusement. “You can’t imagine what help they’ve been, planning for this day.”
A knot formed in Raz’s throat, and he couldn’t help but glance briefly around at the Southerners, still and silent while they waited for the signal to lunge. He took another step backward, then another, until he felt Syrah’s back against his.
“They knew we’d be coming,” he muttered under his breath to the woman, watching as Koro followed his retreat, taking the last few steps to the courtroom floor, where the soldiers split momentarily to let him through. “They knew. Syrah… I’m so sorry.”
He felt her press herself against him momentarily.
“All your old enemies in one place,” she said with a half-hearted laugh. “We should take this as a compliment, I think.”
Raz took a deep breath, drawing comfort from her cheer, as forced as it was.
“Just wait,” he muttered jokingly as Koro stopped half-a-dozen feet away, blade held by his side. “Any moment now the corpse of Gûlraht Baoill will come rushing in.”
He didn’t see it, but he knew the jest had made her smile.
“So…” Raz addressed Koro now. “Only the ten of you?” He scanned the assassins, double-checking his count. “I didn’t think you were that much of a fool, Koro.”
The Percian smiled, tapping the blade of his saber against his thigh like he was considering Raz’s words.
“That depends on many things, doesn't it, Monster?” he asked pensively, like they were carrying on a pleasant philosophical discussion. “I’m not mad enough to think I can beat you single-handedly, don’t worry, but I’ve always thought we’d make for a good match overall. Perhaps you’ll be surprised by what ten can do, given a little help.”
A little help? Raz repeated to himself worriedly.
Before he could form a question to try and figure out what the man meant, though, a voice called down from above.
“Koro!” the Tash cut in impatiently. “Enough of your banter. I want this finished. Now!”
Koro, to Raz’s amazement, turned completely away from him, bowing low to his sovereign as he replied with an “Of course, Your Greatness.” In that brief instant, Raz thought to lunge forward, to strike the Percian down when his back was turned. He hesitated only for a moment, fearing that the deliberate disinterest in keeping his enemies in view was another one of Koro’s ploys.
Instantly, though, Raz regretted his uncertainty, because a second later his reflexes were all that kept him from being skewered through the belly by the man’s curved blade.
CHAPTER 54
Azzeki Koro struck with such blinding speed, it took Raz’s breath away. He had never seen a human move so fast. Not Ergoin Sass, not Gûlraht Baoill, not even the shades of the Southern assassins now converging on them in the wake of Koro’s attack. The Percian was a black streak from where he’d been standing five feet away, his blade nothing more than a flicker. Unable to get his gladius up in time to deflect the blow, Raz jerked back, shoving Syrah with him so that he heard her yelp and almost fall, and even then he felt the ripping burn of the steel catch him a glancing blow across his midriff. In the next second Koro retreated and attacked again, and this time Raz managed to deflect the slash, though only barely. They exchanged a flurry of rapid sword blows, Ahna too heavy and cumbersome in his dominant hand to be of use. As Koro nicked him again, this time across the forearm, Raz made a hard choice.
Dropping the dviassegai, he drew the sagaris from his belt and put the axe to rapid work.
As they fought—Raz occasionally having to block and deflect a blow from the side as the assassins got around Syrah behind him—he was reminded of a realization he’d made almost a year ago now, the first time he had met Azzeki Koro. He remembered the bitter cold of the night, kept at bay by the blazing trough of burning wood the Azbar council had been sitting around. He remembered noting the figure clad all in black at the back of the Chairman’s box, looking out over the Arena. He remembered thinking little of the man as Quin Tern had introduced him.
And he remembered reevaluating that judgment when Koro had drawn his blade at the first opportunity, even then nothing more than a subtle shift of darkness and steel in the light of the fire.
Now, Raz saw he had been correct to think the man was more than a common sellsword.
Their blades moved in patterned unison, Koro dislodging and reengaging his saber as quickly as Raz could pull it away from the fight with his axe or parry it with the gladius. Raz could tell that he might have had the upper hand on even footing, but the Southerners kept pressing him from either side, and he couldn’t move without leaving Syrah’s back exposed. Koro, on the other hand, seemed able to work his sword like the blade was an extension of his own arm, and he took full advantage of his mobility, dodging back and forth and sideways as he struck, sometimes even ducking away to rest a moment as Raz was forced to engage with the Mahsadën’s men.
All the while, Raz could hear the ringing of steel behind him and the whoosh and crack of magic as Syrah took on the rest of the group.
Soon, the world around them was ablaze. White flames snapped over the columns and floor, catching in the fabric of the rug beneath their feet and the banners fluttering overhead in the heat of the spellwork. The room brightened and dimmed all at once, the space around the fight illuminated as Syrah’s magic spread while the shadows
along the walls beyond the pillars deepened and twisted. Raz heard the awed gasps of the soldiers—and likely the Tash and his Hands—as he and Koro traded blows once more, and he imagined what the scene must have looked like. He and Syrah, back to back in the center of a broiling battlefield, fending off the dark shapes that were Koro and the Southerners. At one point he heard the shouts of Akelo and the others as well, along with the sound of approaching boots, and he roared for them to get back, to guard the door with their lives.
He couldn’t make out the group through the smoke and fire, but knew they had followed his orders when no one interfered with the fight.
Steel rang against steel as gladius and axe and staff met the curved blades of Koro and his men. Syrah’s spells snapped and roared, and occasionally Raz would see flashes against the columns that rose up around him, or catch a glimpse of a fiery lash streaking across the field, keeping the assassins at bay. As they turned in a slow circle, Raz saw the Priestess had claimed the first of their victories, noting the unconscious form lying sprawled at the edge of the ring, blade fallen from his hands, the fires that snaked over his body eating at his dark swaths.
As Iron Falls (The Wings of War Book 4) Page 57
