The Ippos King: Wraith Kings Book Three

by Draven, Grace

  Not so ugly this morning, the inner voice mocked.

  “Shut up,” she said aloud and tossed off the blanket to stand and stretch. Klanek waved to her from his place by the fire pit. He'd taken the previous watch and now stoked the fire in preparation for an early breakfast.

  Serovek neither looked nor acted any differently than he had days or months before, yet that day Anhuset found it difficult not to stare at him. Maybe it was seeing him surrounded by ghosts and holding silent conversations with spectral queens or hearing him recall his wife and daughter with a far-away voice of affectionate memory.

  He hadn't changed, but something profound in her had. She'd once thought him a brave but shallow man, arrogant at times, with a peculiar gift of annoying her like no one else could. Except for his courage and her annoyance, she'd been so very wrong about him.

  She took up her usual spot as rear guard of their small caravan, with Erostis riding beside her. They weren't long on the road when Serovek trotted back to them and bade Erostis to trade places with him.

  “I have a question for you,” he said as Magas settled into a leisurely walk that matched her mount's.

  Her alarm bells sounded. He'd knocked her sideways on the ghostly bridge when he asked up front if she'd lost her magic. She hadn't lied when she confirmed his suspicions with a single word, but she would do so if he wanted to know more. That Brishen had stripped all but the youngest of the Kai of their birthright wasn't her secret to tell, but it was hers to protect, no matter the cost. “I don't promise to answer it,” she replied.

  Fortunately, he chose not to pursue the subject. “You say you haven't married because you're gameza, but the purity of a blood line is typically only important to noble families scrabbling for power and status. Their offspring are pawns. Even as gameza, you hold a great deal of influence with the Khaskem. You're his sha, even more trusted than his closest counselors. Was there no lover who tempted you into a permanent bonding?”

  She nearly wilted in the saddle from relief. An easy question with an easy answer and no need for lies. “No, not a single one,” she said cheerfully. “I can barely stand their company after a few nights, much less years or a lifetime. I'd make a terrible wife.”

  He laughed. “You say that with such passion.”

  “It's the truth.” One truth, at least. No Kai had ever remotely tempted her to make such a commitment. Her heart remained her own, her devotion reserved for Brishen, and through him, his human wife and the child queen regnant. “I make a better sha than a wife.”

  “Brishen is fortunate to have you as his sha, especially now. Saggara is much changed since it's become the new capital.”

  He didn't know the half of it. “It was once the old one,” she said. “Before the monarchy moved it to Haradis. Saggara wasn't prepared for the return to its original role.”

  Saggara's population had exploded overnight with the galla invasion, straining resources, space, and tempers. A goodly portion of the refugees displaced from Haradis had dispersed to other towns and villages once the galla were defeated, but the redoubt's permanent population was still twice the size it was before Haradis's destruction, with fewer Kai leaving and more coming in now that the queen regnant was in residence.

  “He'd benefit from having several shas,” she said. “I spend more time breaking up fights over who gets what parcel of land or grain ration than I do riding patrol.”

  “It'll calm down in time,” Serovek assured her. “Especially under Brishen's regency. He would have made an exceptional monarch. He'll make an exceptional regent for young Tarawin.” He studied her as he always did before asking questions that made her squirm. “Do you miss things the way they were before the galla?”

  Her magic had never been much to speak of, but it was an essential part of her, and now it was gone forever, leaving behind a wound that would never heal. “We all do. The galla changed everything.” She attempted to turn the topic back on him. “And you? When did your dreams of Megiddo start?”

  The narrow-eyed look he gave her told her she'd been less than subtle. “Not long after I left him with his brother. At first, I thought it was simply guilt. Even when you know the decision made—the sacrifice given—was the only choice, your soul will still shout down your mind.”

  He'd given her insight into the guilt burdening him over Megiddo's fate, a burden that seemed to grow heavier every day. Unwarranted, unfair, especially with such bent reasoning. “Megiddo wasn't given. He was taken. And he was the one who severed the Gauri exile's hand to free himself. If anyone gave the monk to the galla, it was the monk.” She answered his silent questioning gaze. “Brishen told me and the hercegesé what happened.”

  Serovek sighed, turning his face up to the sun with closed eyes. “So many lives lost and still no one knows what brought the demon horde down upon the world. I suppose we'll never know.” He glanced at her, as if sensing the weight of her consideration. “What?”

  Layer upon layer, this man. Like the forging of a blade under a swordsmith's hammer. Folded steel and the fire of suffering. He was strong inside and out, with the ability to bend and not break, draw blood, and still gleam in the light. “I don't think I've ever seen you truly melancholy until now. Cheerful, ruthless, cold-blooded, horrified even. But not this.”

  “Didn't you? These days I find myself more maudlin than I like.” This time his smile was wry. “An unfortunate weakness arising with my advancing age.”

  She huffed. “You can't use the excuse of dotage. You're a man in his prime. Besides, it isn't a weakness to feel sadness. Whoever boasts they haven't been touched by sorrow or tragedy is lying. We grieve because we still remember what it is to feel.” And why she did her best not to feel too much.

  “Wise words. Practical ones too. What do you grieve for, Anhuset?”

  “Those things whose burdens are easier borne if I don't speak of them.” She wasn't ready to bare her soul to him. Even knowing he'd pass no judgment on her, it felt trivial somehow to reveal her own lesser desolations when his experiences had been so much worse than hers.

  “One day,” he said softly, “you'll trust me enough to gift me with a glimpse into that guarded heart of yours.”

  She surprised herself, and possibly Serovek, by staying quiet instead of denying his statement. To her relief, he didn't push for more from her.

  While they remained wary as they traveled along drover paths snaking through the contested territories, most of the trip remained uneventful. They still shared the nighttime guard duty so that at least three of them were awake and rested at all times.

  Only one thing caused them all to draw swords and push the wagon team to a faster pace. Two leagues out from the entrance pass to the Lobak valley, they traveled through marshland, riding over a rutted road partially submerged in spots by water lapping sluggishly across its surface. It was an ordinary road through an ordinary wetland except for the slender poles embedded in the ground at regular intervals that ran the road's length on either side.

  Carved with arcane symbols that glowed dully in the gray light of an overcast day, the poles were attached to each other by shimmering bands of the same luminescence to create a border that hummed a wordless tune.

  Anhuset had halted her horse at a splash in the water, the sound made ominous by the sight of four huge scaled humps breaching the still water and hinting at something colossal gliding just below the surface. A wake, of a size comparable to that left by a ferry or other large craft, rippled the surface behind the swimmer.

  “Weapons at the ready and stay in the center,” Serovek instructed them. “I've no doubt this fence was erected to keep whatever is in the water from attacking those who take this road, but no need to tempt fortune by testing its effectiveness. Keep moving.”

  The heavy mist blanketing the marsh followed them even after they left the road for higher, drier ground. Damp and chilly, the fog drifted belly-high on the horses, and Anhuset caught herself peering hard into the miasma, looking for ghostly cro
wds or a phantom queen who ruled them.

  Late afternoon saw no respite from the cloudy gloom. Grim and frowning, Serovek rode a slow circle around their party as they tightened the distance between riders and wagon. “I don't like this,” he said. “We're traveling blind through this soup but stopping to camp is a worse alternative.” He rode closer to Anhuset. “How good are the Kai at seeing through fog?”

  “Unfortunately, no better than humans,” she said.

  “I was afraid such was so.” He addressed all three of them. “Keep moving and your eyes and ears open. We'll journey until full dark and get as far as we can before we stop to make camp. With any luck, this will have burned off or faded, and we'll have clear weather.”

  As fate would have it, luck laughed at Serovek's optimism. The fog only thickened and rose higher until the wagon and team were vague shapes in front of Anhuset and the riders with her as phantasmal as the ghosts on the bridge they'd left behind days earlier.

  “Methinks this stuff is thick enough to walk on.” Erostis's muffled complaint hung in the clinging mist, disembodied and far away though Anhuset knew him to be just ahead of her.

  “I might as well be blindfolded for all I can see where I'm driving this team,” Klanek added.

  “Hush.” Anhuset's command silenced them instantly. She reined her mount to a stop and listened. Almost indiscernible from the clop of horse hooves and the creak of wagon wheels, the faint sounds of movement teased her ears. The slide of leather on leather, the bend of wood from the draw of a bow. A furtive step. A careful inhalation.

  “Close in,” she said, hoping her party heard her near whisper. “Shields.”

  The hard thunk of an arrow hitting flesh, followed by Klanek's pained cry, set off a chaotic melée between their group and a half-glimpsed band of silent attackers. Obscured by the mists, they targeted the horses first.

  Anhuset's horse squealed its terror as the tip of a whip snaked through the fog to land a welt across its rump. The animal bucked beneath her, thrashing even when a second whip crack heralded a strike across its withers, leaving a bloody welt.

  Anhuset fought the reins with one hand and slashed at a shadowy figure darting toward her.

  “Defend the wagon!” Serovek, invisible in the mist, commanded.

  She was useless to help at the moment, working hard to control the half-mad equine under her. The horse reared, arching too far back to come back down on its front hooves. Anhuset leapt from the saddle to avoid being crushed as the horse fell backwards. She still held her sword but lost her shield.

  More shapes hurtled through the mist, swarming them. Three rushed her, solidifying into men armed with blades and an ax. Undaunted by their number, she took the first man down with a quick cut to the torso, disemboweling him. Blood splashed hot across her arm and hand. The second she decapitated. The third reversed his charge and fled. Anhuset grabbed the ax the headless attacker had dropped and flung it, sinking it between the man's shoulder blades. He fell, disappearing into the mist without a sound.

  “Anhuset!” Serovek's bellow carried to her, followed by a curse and more shouts before abruptly going silent.

  She bolted in the direction from which his voice had come, praying she wouldn't stumble over a downed horse or worse a dead Serovek. She glimpsed the wagon, abandoned by both driver and team. She dared not shout in return and give their attackers her location.

  Her caution came to naught. The slide of a rope sounded right at her ear before one looped around her neck and was jerked so hard, her head snapped back, and she lost her footing. The ground rose up hard and unforgiving, driving the air out of her lungs in one thin, constricted whoosh.

  She worked at the rope collaring her, trying to slide a claw between it and her throat to keep from being strangled. The noose tightened even more, choking off her air. Rough fibers cut into her skin as she thrashed on the ground, this time reaching back to find her killer and sink her claws into him. Her hands met only air and the end of a long baton to which the rope was attached. Whoever held it was far out of her reach.

  The gray of the mists became the gray of strangulation that finally closed over her eyes in a black curtain, and she knew no more.

  Chapter Nine

  What's to come won't be fair.

  She woke with a muffled gasp, wincing at the fiery pain flaring in her throat, as if she'd swallowed a live ember. A thick cloth gag covered the lower half of her face, muzzling her. An attempt to stretch resulted in muscles cramping in protest. She was bound in a fetal position, wrists to ankles, the leather strips wrapped so tight her fingers were numb. Forced into a hunch and unable to straighten, she was afforded only a sliver of view of her surroundings.

  A cluster of horses gathered nearby, shuffling away as human legs strode back and forth. Raucous voices filled the air, all male, some joking, others angry, a few drunken.

  Anhuset twisted her shoulder and craned her neck, trying to see better. She lay in the middle of a camp surrounded by strangers who, for the moment, hadn't noticed she'd woken.

  There was no sign of Serovek, though she thought she caught a glimpse of Magas half hidden behind the large tent at the edge of her line of sight. Sadness weighed on her as she remembered the sound of an arrow striking a body, then Klanek crying out in pain. Was he dead? Was Erostis? Serovek himself? And if so, why had their attackers chosen to keep her alive for now?

  The pain in her throat was nothing compared to what swelled in her chest and threatened to choke her more effectively than the lasso someone had noosed around her neck to strangle her into unconsciousness. The margrave who'd battled and won against the galla surely hadn't met his end at the hands of a bunch of roving marauders and thieves.

  She tugged on her bonds, testing their strength. Her captors had trussed her more thoroughly than a pig set for slaughter, and if her blurring vision and pounding head were clues, they'd drugged her for good measure.

  A pair of muddy boots suddenly planted themselves in front of her. Anhuset arched her neck for a better view of their wearer. He crouched in front of her, revealing a boyish visage with a sweet smile and the empty-eyed stare of a murderer. She didn't have to be human to discern the trappings of madness lurking behind his eyes. Whatever stared at her from black pupils and hazel irises, it made her think of the galla in Haradis. Every hair on her nape stood on end.

  “Finally awake,” he said in Common tongue. “I'm surprised you aren't dead with as many darts as we shot into you once you fainted. There was enough sleep elixir on those points to drop a warhorse. It really is true what they about the Kai—as strong as you are hideous.”

  He was less than subtle with his baiting, and Anhuset didn't rise to the insult. She met his stare with an unwavering one of her own until he stood up and put some distance between them. He motioned to someone standing nearby. “Remove her gag.”

  “What if she tries to bite?”

  Count on it, she thought.

  The chill in the killer's tone would have frozen a lit brazier. “Then I suggest you don't get your fingers too close to her mouth.”

  Coward. For all his posturing and the dead gaze, this man was craven. Was he the group's leader? And if so, what idiot followed a commander who ordered his men to do what he wouldn't do himself?

  Another man skirted a wide circle around her until he stood behind her. A painful jerk on her hair, and the gag fell from her mouth. This time when the first man squatted in front of her, he wasn't nearly as close. “Sha-Anhuset of the Kai.” Her eyebrows arched, and his satisfied smirk made her want to slap it off his face. “Yes, I know your name. You're the first Kai I've ever seen this close. Eyes that glow like a wolf's in the dark. If the rest look like you, then you're an ill-favored bunch. I pity the Gauri woman who married your regent. Poor bitch. Terrible fate being fucked every night by ugly Kai cock.”

  Anhuset had heard worse remarks from better adversaries. “Where's my horse?”

  “That's what concerns you? No worries for the great ma
n himself or the rest of your party?” He shook his head, clucking his disappointment. A crowd had gathered behind him. He addressed them this time. “Aren't you lads glad you don't have this unfeeling cunt to lead you? More interested in her nag's fate than her comrades'.” A chorus of jeers met his remark. He turned back to her, his sneer aging his youthful features. “Your nag is unharmed, tethered not far from the margrave's stallion. You'll not be needing it.”

  She had no intention of letting him see her worry for the others so he could use it against her. “You know who I am.” This time she allowed a matching sneer to creep into her voice. “I can't say the same about you. Why did you attack us?”

  He waved another man over to stand with the one currently hovering behind her. “Sit her up. I'm tired of bending down to have this conversation.”

  The pair did as he ordered, yanking her roughly from her recumbent position so that she sat, still hunched over, her back aching from the strain, her hands still numb. The bright sun making her squint hung in the sky, arcing toward the west. Early afternoon. She'd been insensate almost a day, brought down first by strangulation and kept that way by a sleep elixir administered via darts.

  Her captor loomed over her, arrogant and bloated with triumph. She'd hand over a decade of her lifespan to a god for the chance to split him from throat to gullet with her sword, her knives, or her claws. She wasn't picky.

  “I was paid a hefty sum to capture you and the margrave,” he said. “And expect an equally nice ransom for the enchanted monk.” His shoulders went back and his chest out. “I'm Chamtivos Havonas, lord of these lands.” He scowled. “Or so I was before the Nazim monks stole them from me.”

  So this was the infamous warlord who wrought havoc in the Lobak valley and surrounding areas. A boil on the arse of many, if the gossip she'd overheard among the ferry crew was anything to go by. His revelations answered some of her unspoken questions. Serovek was still alive, though in what condition she could only guess. Megiddo was likewise somewhere in the camp, though from her limited vantage point, she couldn't tell if his body still lay in the wagon or had been removed. No mention of Erostis or Klanek, and she feared the worst.