The God King (Book 1) (Heirs of the Fallen) Page 22

  They kept on for a good while, but in time Hya ordered a halt. They took cover in an alley.

  “Are you well?” Hazad asked the gasping old woman. “Should I carry you?”

  “I’m well enough,” Hya rasped. “Just old and tired. As to toting me about like a sack of potatoes, there’s no need. We’re nearly there.”

  “Down!” Ellonlef cried.

  Kian threw himself flat, just as a hail of arrows clattered against the wall behind him. Gleefully calling out to one another, the attackers galloped off into the night.

  Hazad jerked his head out of a snowdrift. “By Memokk’s stones! What’s wrong these lunatics?”

  “I don’t know,” Azuri said, brushing snow from his cloak. “Lunacy, perhaps?”

  Kian dragged himself to his feet. “We must hurry.”

  Hya nodded. “Go to the street, and keep on until I say otherwise.”

  They continued on, matching their pace to the old woman’s. After many more twists and turns, they entered an area filled with massive warehouses. The worst of the fires and bloodletting fell behind them. Kian knew the respite wouldn’t last.

  “There,” Hya said, pointing out a sprawling building. Before they could move off, she stopped them. “If things go wrong, don’t hesitate to kill the man I seek, and all who are with him.”

  “I thought he was a friend,” Kian snapped.

  Hya shook her head in weary disgust. “Tonight I’ve seen the true manner of friends in the Chalice. We can trust no one.”

  Chapter 32

  After gaining entrance to the warehouse with a harsh word from Hya, Kian and the others stood in silence. Forty or more rough men and women ringed them, eyes hard. Overhead, dozens of skinny children sat upon sagging rafters, eyes overly wide in their hungry faces. Stacked everywhere in the warehouse were towering mountains of baled silk and wool, wagons full of ale and wine casks, and bushels of dried firemoss and swatarin. This last filled the air with a heady fragrance.

  A tall thin man draped in pale green robes stepped forward. He peered at the newcomers over a nose that was long and sharply hooked. After a quick study that ended on Hya, he offered a humorless and wholly unwelcoming smile full of small, pegged teeth.

  “O’naal,” Hya said, bowing her head slightly. “Seems it’s your turn to rescue me, rather than the other way around.”

  O’naal’s narrow-set eyes were twin points of night that showed more cunning than mercy. “Sister Hya, as I have promised before, I’m forever in your debt. Gods know you have poured life back into me more times than I can count.”

  “I’ve also tucked your guts back in a few times.”

  He smiled wanly. “Indeed you have. However, these others are strangers to me, and so I must count them as trespassers. While the Chalice is a den of lawlessness, it does have its own justice, as you well know.”

  Hya harrumphed. “They’re with me, you scrawny wretch. The big one is Hazad, the pretty one is Azuri.” She nodded at Ellonlef. “She is a fellow Sister of Najihar. The last one there is Kian. They ... we ... I need your help getting into the palace.”

  At the mention of Kian’s name, O’naal’s long face rippled with surprise. “I’d heard that our new and great king gave over an ice-born barbarian with that name to the Priests of Attandaeus. I’d later heard that after those black-hearted beasts had their way with him, they dropped him in the Pit. Later still, I’d heard that a pack of rabble-rousers somehow managed to set him free, and that the House Guard was out searching for him.

  “I must say, I’d discounted most of those tales. Yet here you stand, Kian Valara, looking whole and hale. Odd, don’t you think?”

  “You heard exaggerations,” Kian said lightly. “Oh, I was tortured a bit, but nothing a few days rest won’t cure. But that’s of no matter.”

  “Then what is?”

  Kian eyed the man, wondering if they really needed him, wondering if one of these others might provide a means to get into the King’s Palace. “As Hya said, we need your help—”

  “Getting into the palace,” O’naal interrupted. “Forgive me, I thought the old woman was insane.” Laughter rippled through the onlookers, and Hya scowled.

  Kian ignored it all. O’naal held his focus. “Will you help, or not.”

  O’naal thought for a long time, then a little longer. At last he said, “I am indebted to Hya, and it so happens that I despise being a debtor. As I rescued you all from the storm and the red butchery spreading outside my walls, I estimate that my debt is paid. So, you understand, if I agree to this new venture, why, there would be the matter of recompense.”

  “You expect payment?” Hya snarled.

  “I’m glad we see things the same,” O’naal said cheerfully. He turned his gaze back to Kian. “But, just so we are all clear on this subject, if I fail to receive my dues, I expect King Varis will reward me handsomely if I present him with your head on a pike, Izutarian.”

  A few hard chuckles met this.

  Before Kian could utter a word, Hya asked, “What’s your price?”

  “One hundred aridols,” O’naal answered promptly. “And make sure they’re minted in the image of our befallen Simiis. His grandson, it seems to me, might well be the sort of sovereign to mingle a bit of gold with a lot of brass in his new coinage.”

  “Thrones have been bought for less,” Hya said evenly.

  O’naal spread his hands. “Surely lives—mine and yours in particular—are worth more than even the greatest of chairs?”

  “You will have your hundred aridols and more, O’naal. You’ve seen but a tenth of my wealth, so you know I can pay. But I’ll give you nothing until after you have fulfilled your part of the bargain.”

  “That hardly seems fair.”

  Hya shuffled closer to him, and in a harsh whisper said, “I wonder how much less it would take to convince your followers to help an old woman? For a pittance more, I’d guess they might even rid me of you.”

  “Oh, Hya, you are a foul little bitch,” O’naal said, smiling wickedly as he did so.

  Hya cackled and bobbed her head. “That I am. Now quit daydreaming about buggering yourself, and take us to the palace.”

  “I suggest all your followers join us,” Kian put in. Better to have every last one of these scoundrels at his side than at his back.

  “I think not,” O’naal snorted. “These are Chalice folk. They can take care of themselves.”

  Hya cupped a hand to her ear and glanced around with her wide milky eyes. “What was that? Did I hear someone else say they could help me?”

  “Oh, very well,” he said hastily. “All of them.”

  Kian and the others stood back while O’naal shouted orders. His underlings ran for the shadows in the back of the warehouse, and there came the strident squeal of rusted hinges.

  O’naal spoke with open disgust. “Come, my people! We’re about to share in the majesty of the King’s Palace.” Cheers went up, and he scowled all the harder.

  Joining with everyone else, Kian and the others bustled along until coming to an open trapdoor set in the dirt floor. Far down the shaft below, there were several men holding torches.

  “Follow me,” O’naal said, stepping onto the shaft’s ladder and starting down.

  It took some time for everyone to make their way down to the tunnel below. The last man dropped the trapdoor, then sealed it shut using a pair of thick iron bars.

  After counting heads, O’naal lifted a torch and led them all deeper into the tunnel. Kian strode along in silence. He returned Ellonlef’s troubled glances with a comforting smile that he did not feel. Varis waited ahead. One or the other of them, perhaps both, would die tonight. But no matter what happened, he was as ready as he could be. He had a purpose, a destiny some fool poet might say, and on that he rested his thoughts and his will.

  Chapter 33

  The underground passages stretched on and on. After perhaps an hour, O’naal led them into an open chamber with several other tunnels leading out
of it. At the chamber’s heart, a framework of ladders and wooden platforms climbed up to the high ceiling.

  “There’s another trapdoor above, which I’ve oft used over the years—highborn ladies, it happens, have a taste for rogues,” O’naal said wistfully. He shook his head. “Beyond the trapdoor you’ll find yourself in a hidden passage within the palace walls. The first is connected to many other passages. There are a few firemoss lamps above, and a cistern of water to set them alight. As well, you will find scores of peepholes in the walls that you can use to guide you through the palace. Do you know where you’re going?”

  Kian thought about it, and was sure he had the answer. “The Golden Hall. Varis will have his scrawny arse planted on the Ivory Throne.” While he had never seen the Golden Hall or the Ivory Throne himself, he had heard them described enough times that he was sure he would recognize both.

  O’naal knelt and traced a rough map in the dust. He jabbed the tip of his finger at certain spot. “I trust a man of your talents can find the way.”

  “You’re not coming?” Kian asked.

  “No he’s not,” Hya said in answer. “And neither am I. This is your task, and that of your companions, if they chose to join you. Should you fail, Kian, there is nothing anyone can do to stop Varis.”

  O’naal arched a speculative eyebrow at that.

  Hya took Ellonlef’s hand. “I won’t try to turn you away from this task, Sister, but I beg, please be careful. There are too few of us left to risk even one.”

  Ellonlef offered the woman a reassuring smile.

  Hya faced Kian and dropped him a wink. “Try and keep you clothes on this time.” Laughing with her at Ellonlef’s blush, Kian returned the wink.

  Sobering, Kian glanced back at his companions. “Wait here until I signal you.”

  “Just as long as you do signal us,” Azuri said. “Don’t you dare get it into your mind to go alone after Varis again.”

  Kian silently cursed his friend’s insight. Knowing further delay would only breed doubts, he climbed up the rickety ladders.

  At the top, he eased open the trapdoor and scrambled into cold darkness. He paused there, sword drawn. No enemies showed themselves, all was quiet. To Kian’s mind, soldiers should’ve been making the palace ready against Prince Sharaal’s looming attack—as he had no doubt where Varis would be, neither did he doubt that the boy’s father would attack soon.

  Putting away his sword, Kian felt around until he touched the rounded edge of the water cistern O’naal had described. A moment more, he had the hemp handle of a small firemoss lamp in hand. He pulled the cork from the lamp’s top, used a dipper to pour water into the opening. Within heartbeats, the lamp began glowing with a bright amber radiance. He waved it over the opening.

  Azuri popped into view after several moments, followed by Ellonlef and Hazad. They looked expectantly at him. Envisioning O’naal’s map, Kian set off.

  The hidden passages ran smooth and straight, the dusty floors scrawled with old footprints. Every step he took, the more his guts roiled. Always before, his sword had guarded rich merchants and lesser nobles. It had never carried the weight of defending entire realms. Such was a responsibility he’d never sought. Truth told, he didn’t want it now, but Varis had given him no choice.

  Quicker than he would have hoped, they reached the spot O’naal had pointed out on his map. Kian found a small wooden panel set into the wall, and a tiny knob to slide it open. On closer inspection, he found that a portion of the wall around the panel was actually a narrow door with a simple latch.

  He handed off the firemoss lamp with a quiet word to hood it, and Azuri tucked it under his cloak. Taking a deep, steadying breath, he gently slid the panel open, allowing a faint pinprick of light to shine on his face. Kian leaned in close, and saw that O’naal had been accurate.

  Firemoss globes nested in golden tripod lampstands provided plenty of light to pick out the Ivory Throne atop a high dais. The gemstones set in the tusks that made up the throne seemed to glint with menace. On the floor below the throne stood a massive table with an equally large map covering its surface. Varis was out of sight, but Kian sensed the youth was near, much the same as he felt Ellonlef at his back.

  Kian was unable to force himself to open the door. The reason, he hated to admit, was that he feared the memory of the pain Varis had inflicted upon him. But there was something else, a hidden presence watching him, stalking him. Looking back, he recalled that something had always been just out of sight, marking the perfect time to attack him.

  As that murky thought passed through his mind, a door opened and closed. “Lord Marshal Yagaal,” came Varis’s voice.

  “My Liege!” came another man’s voice, and the sound of a fist thumping his chest in salute.

  “What word of my father’s attack?” There was a hint of boredom in the young king’s tone, as if his father attacking at the head of the strongest legion in the realm was but a trifling matter.

  Yagaal moved into view at the head of the great table. He swept back his flowing cloak of green and gold, knelt, and bowed his head.

  Varis materialized from the other direction, clad in scarlet robes, as he had been in the Gray Hall. “Enough groveling, Yagaal,” Varis snapped. “What word do you bring?”

  Lord Marshal Yagaal stood, the hard planes of his face made sterner by shadow. “The Chalice is burning from one end to the other. The rabble have gone mad, razing and looting at will. Sometimes they attack our forces, other times Prince Sharaal’s. More often than not, they attack each other.”

  “You expected better from packs of animals?” Varis asked, darkly amused.

  “No, my Liege. Of course not. But so far the chaos has stalled Sharaal’s advance. However, as you well know, the Crimson Scorpion Legion is the finest ever fielded. It’s only a matter of time before they put down the Chalice hordes and your forces, and begin advancing on Ammathor and the King’s Palace. Those you command cannot hope to do more than delay your father’s march, and then only by wetting the ground with their blood.”

  Varis waved that off with a dismissive air. “Let my rebellious father and his traitorous army come. What else have you?”

  Yagaal’s nostrils flared, his whole body rigid. “What else would you have of me, my Liege?”

  “I wanted the Izutarian found and captured, Yagaal, along with all those who have sided with him. Is that too much to ask?”

  The Lord Marshal’s jaw bunched, and his eyes took on an icy sheen. “My men have been starving for weeks, and now you stand them against their brothers-in-arms. As we speak, men I have trained, men I have fought beside, men who believed in you, are dying by the hundreds.”

  “Other than dying, what else are soldiers good for, Yagaal? No, don’t answer—doubtless you’ll only prattle of honor and duty and service. Tell me instead, how goes your hunt for the Izutarian and his companions?”

  “My Liege, have you heard nothing I’ve said? Your father’s forces have thwarted any attempt to find where Kian—”

  “Never speak his name!”

  Yagaal narrowed his eyes, but this time he didn’t bow. “Forgive me, my Liege, I’m a fool.”

  Varis laughed. “You’re too hard on yourself, Yagaal. Soldiers should never be so hard on themselves. Tell me, does a lowly cow berate itself for shitting upon its own hooves? No, of course not. The beast merely keeps eating and lowing and shitting.”

  Yagaal stood straighter. “No, my Liege, I am a fool for having allowed you to sit here, safe in the palace of your forefathers, after you murdered a much better man and king than you will ever be.” He tugged his braid of rank off his shoulder and hurled it at Varis’s feet. “I am a fool, but not enough of one to serve a jumped-up, sniveling wretch of a kingslayer.”

  Varis’s features twisted into a mask of hatred. His eyes changed from dark to glowing white, and his skin grew radiant.

  Yagaal brandished his blade, even as a sensation of rising power filled Kian, mingled with the icy calm that
always overcame him in the face of coming battle. With no plan, he pulled his sword and threw open the narrow door.

  Varis spun, his golden features contorting with rage. “You!” At the same instant, a blast of fire blossomed from his hand.

  Kian had no time to react. The searing mass struck him square but burst apart, leaving him unharmed. The feeling of immense energies began to flood through Kian, seeking escape. Instinct told him to restrain that rising torrent.

  Yagaal turned, staring in confusion as Ellonlef, Hazad and Azuri gathered behind Kian.

  With his unnatural eyes, Varis watched as well. “It seems you’re as stupid as Lord Marshal Yagaal. But, as it happens, your stupidity has served me well. Now I don’t have to go hunting for you myself.”

  Kian had never seen much reason for speeches before a fight. He stalked forward.

  “He must die!” Yagaal cried, charging forward, his sword falling toward Varis’s neck.

  Kian froze, the moment stretching long before him.

  Yagaal’s sword flashed, even as ebon filaments shot out of Varis’s skin to fall on Yagaal, then Ellonlef, then Azuri, and finally Hazad. Some few sought Kian, but the Powers of Creation raging within his own veins held them at bay.

  Ellonlef’s eyes widened as those threads sank into her flesh and devoured her from the inside out, despoiling once smooth skin, devastating her beauty. The others fared no better.

  Kian began to move, but he seemed caught in a nightmare where the air had gone to jelly.

  Ellonlef’s gaze flared wider, and the whites of her eyes filled with black webs. She began to scream, a hoarse wail, as did Kian’s friends and Yagaal.

  Kian cried with them, his voice lost to his ears, their shrieks destroying him where Varis’s atrocious powers could not. And then they fell. Slowly. One by one.

  Yagaal reeled, gagging on a stream of boiling blood. When his hip struck the edge of the table, he simply burst apart in a shower of contorted limbs and steaming ooze.