For the Killing of Kings

by Howard Andrew Jones

  “I need weapons. Spears and arrows, I mean. And what about your saddle?”

  “It is kept there.” Lelanc pointed with her snout to a rack of spears, a cache of arrows, and an unstrung bow over by the signalman, as well as a large wooden chest.

  The signalman helped him remove the bulky saddle from the chest and lift it over the ko’aye. He and Rylin fastened it around Lelanc, who confirmed where certain straps were supposed to go, and notified them when one was too loose. Very soon, he was once more buckled in, and owing to anticipation, his hunger pangs had mostly vanished.

  Rylin pretended ease rather than betraying a hammering mix of excitement and fear. He scarcely had time to return the signalman’s salute before the feathered reptile was advancing on the battlement. Lelanc paused to rest front feet on the stones, and glanced back at Rylin.

  “Now we go.” As Lelanc faced forward once more, she unfolded her great russet wings with a snap of feathers, then pushed off back legs and hurtled out beyond the tower.

  This time he knew to grasp the horn, though it was hard to hold to it at the sudden jerk of their descent. Rylin’s stomach lurched, and he praised all the Gods for the strap that kept him from flying out of the saddle. Lelanc dropped fifty feet, caught a current, then banked right.

  After the ungainly exit, the astonishing rise was a pleasure. With the smallest of adjustments Lelanc changed their direction and soon they had soared far out over the countryside. To right and left Rylin saw countless winding valleys. The view was invigorating, despite the cold air that chilled his hands and face.

  It eventually proved worrying as well. Not because of the height, to which he became accustomed, but because there were so many Naor. Beyond a short column of horse troops there were two more long ones on foot, and more driving supply wagons. And behind them were blackened villages that sent smoke curling into the sky all along the great Yevlin River that threaded through and gave name to the realm’s central valley.

  He urged Lelanc to fly closer over the supply train, but spotted no siege engines among the men and horses. There were only small wagons, likely carrying tools and weapons. It made no sense. From the size of their force, the Naor were planning a long campaign, and they were marching on Alantris, the central city of the realm. How were they planning to overcome the city walls?

  He had to find answers. He leaned forward in his saddle and shouted up. “Lelanc, do you feel like hunting some Naor?”

  The creature let out a fierce, triumphant shriek and turned her head sideways. Her voice drifted back to him. “The Naor hunt my people, and carry their skulls on poles. It pleased me to hunt them even before they slew my sister.”

  “Let’s swing out in advance of the easternmost column. I spotted some long-range scouts. I want to capture one alive.”

  “Very well.” Lelanc beat her wings and sent them onward.

  From hundreds of feet in the air, the burned-out villages left a stain that haunted the loveliness in the view. Yet pain and loss and sorrow seemed much more remote from this vantage point. Rylin wondered if that’s how the Gods felt about such things.

  Soon they were ahead of the main force, and before long Lelanc bore down on the five scouts he’d seen, swinging in from the west so her shadow lay behind them. Rylin feathered the lead rider in the shoulder, then shot another as the man turned to see why his friend shouted.

  By then, the scouts were spreading out across the face of a hill, lifting their spears.

  The last thing Rylin wanted was to get Lelanc injured, so he reached through the inner world and sent tendrils of alarm at the minds of the horses. Two of them bucked and went wild before any of the Naor could launch weapons.

  Lelanc circled for another pass. Rylin called to the wind rider: “Get me close to the ground and I’ll leap clear.”

  “As you wish.”

  Lelanc dropped but didn’t slow her speed. Rylin conjured up energy already waning, undid the waist strap, and threw himself overside.

  This time he gauged the wind better so the gust slowed him at the perfect moment. He struck the ground first with his palms to help absorb the shock of impact, then rolled into a crouch, drew his sword, and stood.

  One of the Naor riders trotted forward, spear ready.

  Lelanc’s shadow set his beast shying, though, and Rylin closed quickly to drive his blade into the man’s side. The scout cried out and dropped from his saddle as his panicked horse galloped off.

  Two dehorsed Naor charged from the waist-high grass. Rylin laughed as they advanced, hoping he sounded as mad as Kyrkenall. He’d always wanted to try that.

  The Naor roared battle cries in return. So much for intimidating them. The one he’d struck in the shoulder trotted forward on his mount, smiling fiercely as he lifted his spear.

  Rylin paused, readying another slide into the inner world, then saw Lelanc glide in behind the Naor horseman and swat him with an extended tail. The warrior shouted in surprise as he was lifted from the saddle and smashed face-first into the ground. The attack startled his horse as well. It leapt over its stunned passenger. Lelanc banked then dropped like a great hawk, both claws aimed for the prone warrior.

  The last two Naor closed on Rylin.

  He ducked the first swing at his head, and thrust, but the redhead’s bronze cuirass absorbed the blow. The second enemy simultaneously lashed at his side, and he felt his wind leave him even though the khalat kept the blow from his skin. That was going to leave a deeper bruise.

  Rylin drove his sword up through the second man’s chin and kicked the dying man toward the last warrior.

  The remaining Naor jumped clear, shouted, and slashed wildly. Rylin parried once, twice, backstepped, then hit the man with a blast of untethered pain.

  That stopped him in his tracks, leaving him open enough for Rylin to smack the sword from the Naor’s shaking fingers. He kicked the fellow’s legs out from under him and then put sword to the warrior’s throat.

  His opponent, an older Naor with gray in his yellow beard, frowned up at him. “You unmanned me with your spell, boy lover.”

  “Boy lover?” Rylin repeated.

  “That’s right,” he drawled. “You rump-loving fairy boys always cheat.”

  Rylin didn’t know what to make of that. “Are those supposed to be insults?”

  The Naor just glared.

  “I mean, I love a shapely ass as much as anyone. Maybe more.”

  “Man ass.”

  What was wrong with him? Why did it matter to the Naor who he found attractive? And what sort of degenerate would think of sexual contact with children, even as an insult? “I think I just caught the world’s dumbest Naor,” he said aloud.

  The warrior glowered. “Who are you?”

  Rylin’s name was so poorly known it wouldn’t matter. Although … if he let the man live his own reputation might grow. While that was an attractive thought, he was seized by a strange whim. “I’m N’lahr the Grim, risen from the dead.”

  The effect upon the Naor was far greater than Rylin might have hoped, for his eyes bulged. Rylin had never thought so bold-faced a lie would be taken seriously.

  “I didn’t know you could use magic!” he said, openmouthed.

  “How do you think I brought myself back?”

  The whitening of the Naor’s weathered face was almost comical.

  Rylin stared as menacingly as he could manage, and thought again of the promise Cerai had held out, that hearthstones could boost magical stamina. One encounter and he was nearly out of power. No matter. He would use what little he had to get some answers.

  “How are you planning to get through the walls of Alantris?” he asked.

  The man’s mind flooded with images and Rylin began to sift them.

  24

  A Fresher Look

  High windows were thrown open in the meeting room so that dust motes danced in the wan gold light of morning. Birds called merrily, uncaring that the Naor would soon attack the walls they perched on.


  Rylin finished summarizing his scouting foray and paused to bring wine to his dry throat, his gaze roving over the assembled listeners. He wished he’d taken time to shave. Varama, silent and unreadable as ever, sat on his left. On his right was Alten Cerai, her long black hair a lustrous complement to her sophisticated charm.

  Across from him was the city guard officer, Toln, flinty blue eyes bright. He hadn’t bothered to remove his leather and ringmail cuirass, but his helm sat beside his chair. The acting governor, Feolia, elevated from the five-member city council, sat at the head, her round face pale and haggard, head wrapped in an embroidered silver scarf. The other councilors ranged solemnly to either side.

  Feolia looked perplexed. With good reason. The numbers he’d reported were impossibly vast; half the population of Alantris itself. Toln shifted uncomfortably. The Altenerai showed little reaction.

  “You’re sure the Naor are fielding that many?” Toln asked. “I don’t mean to doubt you, lad. I just hope you’re wrong.”

  Rylin swallowed the weak wine. He’d never been partial to vintages from The Fragments. As he sat the goblet down, he repeated the most alarming of his observations. “Yes. There are close to fifteen thousand warriors and three thousand support troops moving toward Alantris. They’ll be here within a couple of hours.” He didn’t add that he’d some experience counting in the field from the last war. “There’s another strange thing. I didn’t see any equipment for siege warfare. No towers or catapults of any kind. The scout I questioned had heard gossip that his kinsmen command ko’aye, but I saw none, and Lelanc tells me her kind would never ally with those who hunted them.”

  “She’s right,” Cerai asserted.

  “It’s a strange rumor, though, don’t you think?” Rylin asked. “The scout hadn’t seen the ko’aye, but he’d heard they were going to be used to open the city.”

  Varama seized upon a different concern. “The last time the Naor came for Alantris they had a good long look at the walls. They know how hard it is to get in. They’re planning something new.”

  “Maybe they expect to build siege engines when they get here,” one of the councilors suggested. Her voice was surprisingly mild.

  Varama shook her head. “There’s too little time for a siege before our reinforcements arrive and they know it. The Allied Realms will have troops here in less than five days at this point.”

  Rylin silently agreed. Word was sent to the border by signal tower, and horsed messengers would have surely galloped the length of Erymyr by now. The Kaneshi cavalry, always ready for action, would slaughter any Naor caught outside of fortifications. So they must think they could get behind walls, presumably the walls of Alantris, before then.

  “Surely,” Cerai acknowledged. “But remember that reinforcements will have to choose between us and Arappa since the Naor are apparently attacking both cities. Any reinforcements will be stretched thin.”

  Rylin thought that Feolia paled further, if that was possible, at this news.

  “We can hold out,” Toln asserted, patting the table. “There’s no way the Naor can breach all three rings of walls. Even one is a stretch in the time they have. We’ve arrows and spears sharpened and ready for them. We’ve a year’s worth of grain. The wells run deep. When the reinforcements turn up we’ll have Kaneshi cavalry. The Naor never had much that could counter them.”

  Denalia had said almost exactly the same thing.

  “That may be true,” Feolia agreed. “But they’ll lay waste to everything. Fields. Homes. Temples. They’ll kill and cook any animals they lay hands on. They’ll kill anyone brave enough to make a stand, and some of our scouts or signal corps along with them.”

  Toln acknowledged that with a grim nod. “I know their methods.”

  Another of the councilors, a ruddy middle-aged man, spoke up. “Isn’t it possible that this is just a very large raid and that it wasn’t planned very well?”

  Rylin recognized a note of impatience in Varama’s answer, probably because she had to repeat herself: “An operation this large took an immense amount of preparation. They wouldn’t just trust to chance. They’re planning something unusual.”

  Feolia fixed Rylin with a hard stare. “Didn’t Governor Aradel have some suggestion for a battle plan?”

  “She did,” Rylin answered. He hated to dash the new governor’s hopes even further. He’d talked over what Aradel had said with Varama and Cerai on the ride toward Alantris yesterday. “But we have to have larger numbers to carry it off. We can lure the bulk of their force to the killing ground but can’t ambush them successfully with only a few hundred soldiers of our own.”

  “Aradel might have managed something,” Cerai admitted reluctantly. “But we unfortunately don’t know what she had in mind.”

  The acting governor sighed quietly, visibly marshaled herself, then leaned forward. “Well? What do you advise?”

  Varama spoke first. “The defenses are in good condition. Aradel has well prepared the city for another attack. But it’s almost certain the Naor have had scouts in here disguised as merchants or travelers. You must assume they’ve gotten a good look at nearly everything important.”

  Judging from Feolia’s expression, she hadn’t considered that possibility.

  Varama continued. “Even an inept spy could find out about the grain silos, and the fields in the city, and they already knew about the deep wells. Yet they’ve come anyway.”

  Varama looked as though she meant to say more, but Cerai interrupted smoothly. “We have to concentrate on making adjustments the Naor won’t know about. There have to be weaker places in the walls, blind spots, things like that. We can fortify them. Magically if necessary.”

  Rylin saw Toln nodding at this suggestion.

  “Varama and I can spearhead those efforts. We need any extra spell casters you have on staff. Do you have hearthstones, Governor?”

  Feolia looked blankly at her, then licked her lips. Rylin doubted she knew what a hearthstone was until a thoughtful look came into her eyes. Of course. It had been Alantris, after all, where the things had last been deployed against the Naor, and when the enemy’s proximity to them had proved so dangerous. Probably some councilors knew exactly what hearthstones were. “We turned all of ours over to the crown. I thought they were too dangerous to use in battle.”

  Cerai nodded. “They are. But we’ll use the ones we have with us before the Naor arrive. If we gather the city’s most powerful mages we can definitely reinforce any vulnerable spots. We might even adjust the terrain a little, the way Rialla did.”

  “Bolstering our defenses is first priority,” Varama agreed. “I’ve designed a new catapult that will be of better use against aerial attacks, if the rumors of enemy ko’aye are true.” She looked over at Toln. “I’ll need your best carpenters and bowyers.”

  “Of course,” the officer replied. “Whatever you need.”

  “I’ve also been working on some other experiments that should prove useful. I’ll need to put my squires in charge of additional workmen.”

  “Their knowledge is welcome,” Feolia said.

  Varama had already enlisted Sansyra and some of her other favorite squires to deploy the city’s existing ballistae and catapults, for they’d learned a lot under her tutelage.

  Varama turned to Rylin. “What we lack is comprehensive intelligence. We’re going to need an officer, preferably someone high in their chain of command.”

  She didn’t ask much, he thought, but he nodded, as though it would be a simple thing to slip deeply behind enemy lines, infiltrate their camp, interrogate the right kind of officer, and return. He hoped his nonchalance sounded suitably Altenerai-like. “I’ll have better luck grabbing one at night.”

  “Of course.”

  They’d probably erect their camps surrounding the city, well outside bow or catapult range. He’d have to fly out on Lelanc, and it occurred to him he could use one of Varama’s semblance stones, but a lot would be left to opportunity and instinct.

&
nbsp; There was a rap on the door and it opened before the acting governor realized it was up to her to grant permission to enter. Denalia stepped through and bowed her head respectfully toward the table.

  She had very nice legs, Rylin decided, and they were hard to miss in that armored skirt, which struck just above her knees. Presumably she’d be donning boots and shin greaves for the battle, but skillfully tied sandals showcased her slim ankles and toned calves nicely. The rest of her more feminine assets were disguised by a leather cuirass, though there was no missing the clean, youthful lines of her face and her high cheekbones. He suddenly wanted to know, very much, what her hair looked like beneath that dark red head wrap. He would never have thought a scarf alluring until it kept him from seeing what he desired.

  “Your pardon, my Governor,” she said, bowing her head.

  “Of course,” Feolia replied. “Has something happened?”

  Denalia presented a stained piece of parchment. “The Naor have sent a message.” She gulped and steeled herself. “It was driven through a dead squire they had tied to a nag.”

  “What squire?” Varama asked. Once, Rylin might have thought her unfazed by the information. Now he recognized by the intensity of her gaze that she was as troubled as he.

  “I don’t know his name, Alten,” Denalia said. “He’s a fifth ranker.”

  Rylin knew a pang at the thought of any brave soldier treated so shabbily. It was hard to imagine a good reason for the squire to have been wandering by himself unless he were a messenger from Erymyr or Arappa. Or Denaven. At that thought, Rylin’s hands involuntarily tightened against the table’s edge.

  “Can we see the note?” Feolia asked.

  Denalia walked solemnly forward to present the rough scrap.

  The acting governor scanned the writing there, then passed it to Varama, who stared for a moment before reading aloud. “Open your gates before sunfall and we will let your women live. Otherwise all sit the pyres when we break your walls.”

  “Who signed it?” Cerai asked.