For the Killing of Kings

by Howard Andrew Jones

  Leonara’s voice grew waspish. “As that newer alten is a nonentity, this is all Varama. You assured me she was happy with her endless experiments.”

  He had thought she was. Her joy involved laboring for months or even years upon strange tasks that occasionally yielded brilliant discoveries. He’d long ago decided she was a mere craftsperson, albeit one worthy of respect, like a fine blacksmith or painter.

  And then he remembered her strange comment about Kyrkenall’s wine bottles, and her incisive question about the hearthstones. He cursed himself for dismissing both as typical Varama oddities. Something had interested her, and if interest had transformed into fascination there was no telling where her inquiries might lead.

  “What, you’ve no easy remedy? No smooth reassurance?” the queen jibed; then she grew fierce: “She stole the keystone!”

  Sheer willpower kept him from groaning. Naturally Varama would gather up Leonara’s new obsession. The queen had been blathering on about that peculiar hearthstone, which she thought crucial for her “Great Awakening,” since she’d first learned of its existence; she’d rarely slept since its long-heralded discovery.

  “Have the exalts been sent after the two traitors?”

  “I’m dealing with them.” She spoke with such chill finality that he involuntarily shuddered. Once, just once, he’d seen the depths of her magical strength, and it had ever after shaken him to extreme caution.

  Rather than imagine the hearthstone-enhanced horrors she’d be inflicting on his subordinates, he decided to redirect her anger to focus on his own aims. “Kyrkenall must have spoken to Varama when he was in Darassus. It’s the only answer. She bided her time until I was gone and everyone else was distracted. She’s clever, but her powers are barely a candle to your sun. She’s probably planning to meet him in The Fragments, but you’ll reach them long before then. And I’ll get Kyrkenall. Everything will be simpler with them gone in any case.”

  Leonara’s manner changed. While hardly warm, she at least was no longer openly confrontational. “It’s true that Varama and the other one amount to nothing in the long run. Their destruction is inconsequential. But I’m thoroughly unhappy that you’ve let this happen to N’lahr.”

  “I let nothing happen, Majesty. It is Kyrkenall—”

  She cut him off. “N’lahr was our greatest weapon against the Naor. I’d thought to attempt his revival if Mazakan broke the treaty before the Great Awakening. Now you’ve let Kyrkenall find him.”

  He thought she’d long since abandoned attempts to get at N’lahr. How could she possibly expect anything good for her to come from his release? “Majesty, N’lahr never supported your efforts with the hearthstones. He never truly supported you. He was a threat to your plans, at least indirectly, the moment he became commander, and he’s a worse one now. He surely knows you ordered him silenced before the peace treaty, and he’s had seven years to plan revenge.” Denaven had no way of knowing whether N’lahr had been conscious during his imprisonment, but it took no great leap of imagination to be certain the former commander would resent losing seven years of his life. “I mean no offense, but you can’t possibly expect he’d happily serve you again after so long.”

  He expected an immediate reaction. A frown, or a snarl, or further accusation that this had somehow been his fault. But she simply stared at him for a long moment. Blink, he thought, looking at those immobile green eyes, so fixed they might be stones. Blink and prove you’re human.

  She didn’t.

  “N’lahr was a shield for our people,” the queen said at last. “And Kyrkenall a lance with which I could attack our enemies. Thanks to you, now both of them must be eliminated. It occurs to me that you always disliked them and their removal benefits you beyond all others.”

  “That’s not entirely—”

  “You hated Kyrkenall because he stole the woman you loved. You envied N’lahr his success. And his sword. I know how much you want it.”

  He couldn’t refute her. He’d unwillingly shared those confidences when he’d shared her bed. Damn her insistence on linking.

  “Now you finally can eliminate them both, and play with his blade to your heart’s content.”

  She deliberately omitted his legitimate claim to the famed sword N’lahr carried. She was trying to bait him. “Majesty, if I’d wanted them dead I’d have devised a better plan than this, which risks my own position.”

  “I’m not an idiot, Denaven. You think I’m blind to your ultimate ambition?”

  He’d thought religious contemplation had blinded her to most of his actions. Apparently he’d misjudged her. How much did she guess? How much did she know?

  “I see the amount of time you spend with the councilors. I know you covet a seat among them. Or at their head.”

  He kept his expression neutral, though he felt like sighing in relief. He’d certainly spent an immense amount of time with the councilors, though it was because he wanted to establish rapport, not because he intended to join their ranks. There’d been no king in Darassus for generations, just an unbroken line of queens, and it might be Leonara was so tradition-bound she’d never imagine he could rise to her throne even when he pulled her down from it backed by the Mage Auxiliary. Leonara might think that the exalts were her answer to the problem of Altenerai independence from the throne, but they were really his bulwark should she ever decide to harness the full power of her mastered hearthstones—and he’d worked hard to win a large portion of their loyalty.

  He shook his head in honest denial. “I don’t want a seat with them. I’m only trying to see your will is done. For the good of the city, and the realms.”

  “Is that so?” She sounded skeptical. He feared that she was ready to make a new accusation.

  He retreated while deploying his best tactic, one he used only sparingly lest she grow conscious of his manipulation. “I swear that I’ve no interest in the council. I’ve merely stepped in for you so you have more time to ready the Great Awakening. I know how close it is, and want nothing to distract you.”

  She’d been promising the Great Awakening for at least three years. Something always delayed it, and Denaven rather expected something always would.

  Finally, she took the offered hook and swam on, at great speed. Her voice gained a distant, wistful air. “Of course, Denaven. And I’m grateful for that. Sometimes I forget how much you sacrifice for me.”

  “For you and your sacred duty, My Queen.”

  “Someday soon we will have no more need of warriors. Of any kind.” She was ready to waft away now into rapturous musings. “When the Goddess arrives, glories will shower from the heavens.”

  He nodded, as though the queen sounded perfectly rational. “I await her coming expectantly.”

  “As do we all. It pains me to keep this most awesome truth from the people, but they’re not equipped yet to understand.” She had repeated this last rationalization often, as if to convince herself.

  “No, Majesty.”

  “Very well, Denaven. You may go. I expect,” she continued, a note of remonstrance in her voice once more, “that you will report success when next we speak.”

  He bowed his head. “Majesty, you can depend upon me.”

  She bowed her head in the briefest of acknowledgments. And then her image winked out.

  He sat back and breathed a sigh of relief. That had been excruciatingly unpleasant. She hadn’t shown such frightening clarity in years. It was almost as though somewhere inside she remained the bright young woman who’d become so indispensable to her predecessor decades earlier. Then, Leonara had been far less narrowly focused, and far more forgiving and fond of him—and perhaps a little kinder overall.

  If she was capable of pulling out of her religious haze long enough to ask such searching questions, he might have to accelerate his plans.

  He brought his hands together, cracked his knuckles, and set fingers once more to the hearthstone. There was time yet for one more sending. At least he knew Belahn would be awak
e. Belahn was always awake.

  14

  Perfect Match

  The remote trackways she traveled with Kyrkenall and N’lahr as they crossed into The Fragments were little more than dirt paths skirting steep slopes, usually under a tunnel of tree canopy. Intermittent vistas opened on high waterfalls plunging hundreds of feet, conjuring thunder and spray that glistened on boulder moss and the petals of wildflowers blooming in a profusion of yellow and blue and purple. Rarely cliff sides showed a mix of brown and gray shales; most everywhere was covered in a great swathe of plant life on which plentiful wildlife subsisted. Horned elk and spotted deer, as well as rabbit and smaller creatures, were often visible, and Elenai wished they could stop to bring one down. She wearied of dried rations. But then she was bone weary of nearly everything. They’d been days on the road after the recovery of N’lahr, and if anything, they’d been pressing even harder than they had since they fled Darassus.

  Kyrkenall was ebullient, keeping up a running patter of reminiscences and clever commentary on the state of affairs that N’lahr encouraged with an occasional dry question or observation. When Kyrkenall proved unknowledgeable about current events in Darassus, N’lahr turned to her, and transformed their exhausting ride into a grueling endurance challenge as she feigned a ready alertness while answering incisive inquiries about political figures and training patterns she’d hardly considered before. She felt smaller and duller for the scrutiny. This wasn’t how she’d imagined interacting with her hero.

  They settled into a welcome silence, which somehow better matched the scenery as they passed through low mountains separating narrow river valleys. The Fragments had suffered more than any other realm during the war, and ruins dotted many places. She saw a particularly large collection of them late morning on their third day of travel through the realm, dozens of overgrown foundations near a crumbling stone bridge over a weed-choked rivulet. She guessed the vast surrounding meadow had once served as pasture or farmland.

  Kyrkenall slowed and put his hand to the haft of the recurved black bow holstered beside his saddle. N’lahr stopped beside him and both scanned the far riverbank near the bridge.

  Elenai drew to a stop behind them. “What is it?” she asked softly.

  The archer whispered an answer. “Kobalin. Up ahead, there.”

  Elenai searched the bushes to the left of the bridge. She saw and heard nothing of interest, apart from the burble of flowing water. She realized then that she should have been hearing birdcalls and frowned at herself for being distracted. How did those two stay functioning when they were so tired?

  They were used to it, she reminded herself, and probably sensing things through their rings. If she still hoped to earn a ring, she had to get used to it herself. No matter that she hadn’t had more than five hours of contiguous sleep in days.

  “Hang back,” N’lahr ordered, and with a click of his tongue urged his roan gelding ahead. Kyrkenall rode with him. A disappointed Elenai found herself left shepherding their small herd of spare mounts. The extra animals had enabled them to keep moving far longer than they might have, by switching between horses as they tired. Kyrkenall was the exception, for Lyria’s stamina was as pronounced as his own.

  Elenai watched as the pair advanced carefully. Fragrant bushes and sedges were thick around the swift-flowing stream. A little gray sapling thrust up beside a tumbled-down guardrail on the far side of the bridge and had dislodged a handful of deck stones. She saw no kobalin until N’lahr and Kyrkenall drew near the bridge. When the strange thick figure stepped out from behind the bush beside it, she thought her eyes played tricks upon her.

  She’d never seen a kobalin before. Some claimed that the creatures were the monstrous offspring of the betrayer, Sartain. Others that they were descended of outcasts and criminals, misshapen by the powerful strangeness of the deeps in the Shifting Lands where they’d taken refuge. At her father’s playhouse they were depicted with the most frightening shapes and outlandish colors, so Elenai had always loved assisting in the design and application of those crowd-pleasing costumes.

  But this one was so profoundly ugly no one would have enjoyed it on stage. It stood no taller than Kyrkenall, with legs thick as timber barrels and torso broad as a cart. It had no real neck, just a squat, lizard-like head and two muddy eyes, large around as her clenched fist. The thing grimaced toothily, then reached up with one scaly ochre hand to tap a black horn projecting above its left eyebrow.

  Elenai drew her sword, just in case, as Kyrkenall and N’lahr came to a stop. Her mount, catching the pungent scent of the kobalin, shifted nervously beneath her, and the others tossed their heads against the lead lines. She tightened her off-hand grip and frowned, wondering if poor Aron would have held himself without fidgeting.

  She could just make out N’lahr’s casual words to his friend. “You can take this one.”

  “Can it be?” the creature asked in a pleasant if startling bass. It grasped the club slung at its dirty loincloth. “Do I see Altenerai? By the deepest dark. You’re Kyrkenall the Eyeless, aren’t you?”

  “How observant you are,” Kyrkenall said. “Did the bow give it away, or was it my devastating good looks?” The creature didn’t answer, so Kyrkenall tried again. “What great intellect do I have the honor of addressing?”

  “I am Vorn, son of Vorag, and I have taken the heads of many who dared to pass this way without bearing gifts.” A rumbling grunt of self-satisfaction punctuated this pronouncement.

  “I’m sure you have, mighty seer.”

  “Have you come to challenge me?”

  “I’m just here to cross the bridge. I can’t say as I’m keen about you lopping heads, but you’ve found me in a forgiving mood. Why don’t you take all your heads and leave—live to share your wisdom with any of your kind who will listen.”

  “Hah!” The kobalin danced a maniacal jig on its tree-trunk legs. “I desire greater prizes, black one! I challenge you! Turn over your stones, or die!”

  “I’m afraid I need my stones, Vorn,” Kyrkenall commented dryly, then turned in his saddle to N’lahr. “I don’t know if he’s challenging me or flirting with me.” The commander responded with something Elenai couldn’t catch. Then Kyrkenall returned his attention to the kobalin. “Last chance, Vorn, son of Vorag. Stand aside, or die.”

  The creature hooted and brandished his club.

  The little archer dropped lightly from his saddle, his slim curved blade in his hand.

  N’lahr watched almost lazily, hands resting upon the saddle pommel. He hadn’t even drawn his sword!

  The kobalin showed sharp teeth in an enormous grin. “How could one so delicate be so deadly? I say that the tales about you are lies!”

  She watched in fascination. Kobalin were strange and chaotic, but reputably governed by some immutable beliefs, one being that a personal battle against a worthy foe couldn’t be waged before a ritual exchange of insults. According to legend, if a kobalin felt its challenger sufficiently clever, the challenger had right of first strike without defense.

  She didn’t have long to wonder how Kyrkenall would counter.

  “Travelers will point at twins on the grass—I’ll slice off your head to lay by your ass.”

  Against her own better sense, the crass couplet brought a laugh to her lips. She stifled it in her sleeve as both hands were full.

  “That is your poetry?” the kobalin roared. “Where is the soaring verse I’ve heard tell about? I say that you’re a fraud!”

  Kyrkenall idly twirled his sword and circled to a clear spot without taking eyes from the kobalin. “Shall I compare thee to a stinking cloud? Thou art more rancid and irrelevant. You boast of ghastly feats with manner proud; greater fame is surely due your scent.”

  The kobalin bellowed resentfully, “I am a worthy foe! I will meet you bravely and add your head to my collection!”

  “Worthy of shrouding and worthy of jests. Count those heads while you can for you’ll soon have one less!”

 
“That doesn’t even rhyme!” The kobalin bellowed indignantly. He charged at the same time as Kyrkenall.

  The kobalin swung powerfully at his chest, but Kyrkenall’s advance halted just shy of the strike. He lashed out with Lothrun as the club swung past, barely parting the scales of the creature’s forearm. Red blood blossomed in a line.

  The kobalin advanced surprisingly fast, as a second overhand strike shook the ground where Kyrkenall had been a heartbeat earlier. The archer drove the gleaming blade of Lothrun between Vorn’s shoulder and head.

  The wound spurted blood, and the monster gurgled, staggered, and swung his club wildly. Elenai saw Kyrkenall’s face as he dodged back. He looked not so much wary as annoyed; he cut wide a final time and sent the huge head rolling one direction while the body fell the other.

  He stepped well away to wipe his sword in the grass. The kobalin kicked as it died, but Kyrkenall didn’t turn back as he strode over to his horse.

  It was astonishing to see it over so quickly, even being aware of just how deadly the alten was. She put away her sword and rode up to N’lahr’s side with her charges.

  “Are there more kobalin?”

  “No.”

  Kyrkenall offered further explanation. “They would have come out to watch, and would be offering me part of him for a trophy. Don’t forget to use your ring.”

  When he’d stepped to his horse, Elenai assumed he meant to mount. Instead, he removed a wineskin and uncapped it. N’lahr slid down and the two men walked to the body.

  “What are you doing?” she called after.

  “Now we have to drink to him,” Kyrkenall answered.

  “To him?” Elenai asked.

  The archer shot her a dark look. “His allies weren’t here to honor him, so we must. Get down, and drink.”

  She obeyed, even if she didn’t understand, reluctantly trusting the horses to remain nearby now that the threat had passed.

  Kyrkenall raised the wineskin to the sun as Elenai joined them. “Here’s to Vorn, son of Vorag. He had more bluster than sense. Yet he met me bravely in battle. Let none name him coward.” He pulled a drink from the skin, then passed it to her. “Now,” he said, “you bear witness.”