The Way of Shadows
Page 94
Next to him, a man the king had always hated, Lord Ruel, suddenly slumped forward. His face smacked into his plate and he lay still.
The king laughed. Agon turned to him. The king wasn’t even looking at Lord Ruel, but the timing couldn’t have been worse.
Someone cried, “We’re poisoned!”
“The king has poisoned us!”
Agon turned to see who had shouted, but he couldn’t tell. Had a servant said it? Surely no servant would dare.
Another voice took up the shout, “The king! The king’s poisoned us!”
Laughing, the king jumped to his feet and stumbled drunkenly. He shouted obscenities as the Great Hall erupted in chaos. Chairs squeaked as lords and ladies stood. Some of them wobbled and fell. An old lord started retching onto his plate. A young lady collapsed, vomiting.
Agon was on his feet, shouting orders to the soldiers.
The side door by the head table burst open and a man in Gyre livery pushed in, holding his hands up to show he was unarmed. His livery was torn and bloody. A gash bled beside his eyes, streaming blood down his face.
Gyre livery? None of Logan’s servants were here tonight.
“Treachery!” the servant shouted. “Help! Soldiers are trying to murder Prince Logan! The king’s soldiers are trying to murder Prince Logan! We’re outnumbered. Please help!”
Agon turned to the king’s guards, drawing his sword. “There has to be some mistake. You, you, and you, come with me.” He turned to the bleeding messenger, “Can you take us to the—”
“No!” the king bellowed, his laughter instantly turning to rage.
“But sire, we have to protect—”
“You will not take my men. They will stay here! You will stay here! And you, Brant! You’re mine. Mine! Mine!”
To Agon, it seemed he saw the king for the first time. He’d seen Aleine IX as a foul, wicked child for so long that he’d forgotten what a foul, wicked child with a crown could do.
Agon looked to the king’s guards. Disgust was written on their faces. He could tell they ached to go defend Logan, their prince, but duty forbade them from disobeying their king.
Logan, their prince.
Suddenly, it became so simple. Duty and desire became one for the first time in years. “Captain Arturian,” Agon barked in his command voice, so that every royal guard heard him. “Captain! What’s your duty if the king dies?”
The squat man blinked. “Sir! My duty would be to protect the new king. The prince.”
“Long live the king,” Agon said.
The king was staring at him, confused. His eyes widened as Agon’s sword swung back.
Aleine was halfway through a curse when Agon’s sword struck his head off.
King Aleine Gunder IX’s corpse hit the table and knocked over chairs before coming to rest on the floor.
Before any of the guards could attack him, Agon raised his sword over his head with both hands.
“I’ll answer for this, I swear. Kill me if you must, but now your duty is to the prince. Save him!”
For a second, none of them moved. The rest of the panic in the hall seemed far away. The ladies screaming, men shouting, servants armed only with meat knives trying to defend their retching lords, shouts of “Treachery!” and “Murder!” ringing in the air.
Then Captain Arturian shouted, “The king is dead; long live the king! To the prince! To King Gyre!”
Together, Agon, the king’s guards, and a dozen knife-wielding nobles ran from the Great Hall.
Before Kylar got within sight of West Kingsbridge, he slowed to a walk. He willed himself to be a shadow, and looked at himself. He looked like a raggedly cut piece of darkness. That was good; Durzo had told him that the ragged edges obscured the humanness of his figure and made a wetboy harder to recognize. Kylar thought that his Talent would also be muffling his steps—he wanted it to—but he had no idea if it was. He couldn’t afford to find out the hard way.
He rounded the corner and saw the guards. West Kingsbridge was controlled with a large gate like the castle’s own gates. Hand-thick oak reinforced with iron, twenty feet high and spiked along the top, with a smaller gate inset. The big, mailed guards looked nervous. One was fidgeting, awkwardly turning his whole head to look to the sides. The other was more calm, pointedly staring every direction except down to the river. Kylar came closer. He recognized the men despite their helmets, and not only because the twins had matching lightning bolt tattoos on their faces. They were bashers, and good ones: Lefty—he was the one with the crooked nose—and Bernerd.
Kylar looked where Bernerd wasn’t looking. In the darkness, an unwieldy barge squatted on the river like a beached sea cow. Its doors were open, but no one held any lights. But darkness no longer affected Kylar’s eyes. If he’d had more time, he would have marveled about that—as night fell, if anything his vision improved as the shadows became more uniform.
Through the open doors of the barge, he saw rank upon rank of soldiers. Each wore Cenarian livery, but with a red kerchief tied around one arm. Common soldiers with kerchiefs on their left, officers with them on their right.
The soldiers weren’t Cenarian. Under their helmets, secreted in the shadows of the night, Kylar saw the stark, cold features of northmen: hair as black as a raven’s wing and eyes as blue as frozen lakes. They were big, raw-boned men, weathered and hardened from exposure to the elements and battle. So they weren’t just Khalidorans. They were Khalidoran highlanders, the Godking’s fiercest, most elite troops. All of them.
In daylight, that would be obvious to any Cenarian in the castle. But at night, it would take time for the Cenarian soldiers to realize that they were being attacked by a foreign enemy. The Cenarian soldiers would figure out that the armbands were what the Khalidorans were using to identify each other, but it would take time. Each new group that encountered the Khalidorans would have to learn it for themselves.
Kylar saw another barge pulling up the river, only a hundred paces away. Khalidoran highlanders tended to be broader and deeper of chest than most Khalidorans, and while a few free tribes still held out in the mountains, those who had been absorbed into the empire had become its most feared fighters.
Four or five hundred highlanders. Kylar couldn’t tell, but he guessed that the other barge was full of the elite soldiers too. If so, Khalidor meant to take the castle tonight. The rest of the country would crumple like a body deprived of its head.
Several wytches were talking as they climbed the switchbacks from the water up to the bridge. They were scanning the sky over the castle, apparently looking for some sign.
Indecision held Kylar frozen. He had either to get inside to save Logan—surely Roth would have either Hu or Durzo kill all the dukes, especially after all of Logan’s fighting on the Khalidoran border. Just as surely, the murder would happen shortly, if it hadn’t already. Kylar could go inside and try to stop the hit, or could try to oppose the Khalidorans out here.
By myself? Madness.
But just watching the barge pull closer to the bridge made him furious. He knew he should feel no loyalty to Cenaria, but he was loyal to Logan and Count Drake. If this army got into the castle, it would be a massacre.
So he needed to fight inside and outside. Great.
Kylar looked at the Sa’kagé impostors manning the bridge. Bashers wouldn’t know or care about the bridge’s defenses, much less have the discipline to dismantle them. All they had done was turn the crank that lifted the massive iron river gate.
The king laughed. Agon turned to him. The king wasn’t even looking at Lord Ruel, but the timing couldn’t have been worse.
Someone cried, “We’re poisoned!”
“The king has poisoned us!”
Agon turned to see who had shouted, but he couldn’t tell. Had a servant said it? Surely no servant would dare.
Another voice took up the shout, “The king! The king’s poisoned us!”
Laughing, the king jumped to his feet and stumbled drunkenly. He shouted obscenities as the Great Hall erupted in chaos. Chairs squeaked as lords and ladies stood. Some of them wobbled and fell. An old lord started retching onto his plate. A young lady collapsed, vomiting.
Agon was on his feet, shouting orders to the soldiers.
The side door by the head table burst open and a man in Gyre livery pushed in, holding his hands up to show he was unarmed. His livery was torn and bloody. A gash bled beside his eyes, streaming blood down his face.
Gyre livery? None of Logan’s servants were here tonight.
“Treachery!” the servant shouted. “Help! Soldiers are trying to murder Prince Logan! The king’s soldiers are trying to murder Prince Logan! We’re outnumbered. Please help!”
Agon turned to the king’s guards, drawing his sword. “There has to be some mistake. You, you, and you, come with me.” He turned to the bleeding messenger, “Can you take us to the—”
“No!” the king bellowed, his laughter instantly turning to rage.
“But sire, we have to protect—”
“You will not take my men. They will stay here! You will stay here! And you, Brant! You’re mine. Mine! Mine!”
To Agon, it seemed he saw the king for the first time. He’d seen Aleine IX as a foul, wicked child for so long that he’d forgotten what a foul, wicked child with a crown could do.
Agon looked to the king’s guards. Disgust was written on their faces. He could tell they ached to go defend Logan, their prince, but duty forbade them from disobeying their king.
Logan, their prince.
Suddenly, it became so simple. Duty and desire became one for the first time in years. “Captain Arturian,” Agon barked in his command voice, so that every royal guard heard him. “Captain! What’s your duty if the king dies?”
The squat man blinked. “Sir! My duty would be to protect the new king. The prince.”
“Long live the king,” Agon said.
The king was staring at him, confused. His eyes widened as Agon’s sword swung back.
Aleine was halfway through a curse when Agon’s sword struck his head off.
King Aleine Gunder IX’s corpse hit the table and knocked over chairs before coming to rest on the floor.
Before any of the guards could attack him, Agon raised his sword over his head with both hands.
“I’ll answer for this, I swear. Kill me if you must, but now your duty is to the prince. Save him!”
For a second, none of them moved. The rest of the panic in the hall seemed far away. The ladies screaming, men shouting, servants armed only with meat knives trying to defend their retching lords, shouts of “Treachery!” and “Murder!” ringing in the air.
Then Captain Arturian shouted, “The king is dead; long live the king! To the prince! To King Gyre!”
Together, Agon, the king’s guards, and a dozen knife-wielding nobles ran from the Great Hall.
Before Kylar got within sight of West Kingsbridge, he slowed to a walk. He willed himself to be a shadow, and looked at himself. He looked like a raggedly cut piece of darkness. That was good; Durzo had told him that the ragged edges obscured the humanness of his figure and made a wetboy harder to recognize. Kylar thought that his Talent would also be muffling his steps—he wanted it to—but he had no idea if it was. He couldn’t afford to find out the hard way.
He rounded the corner and saw the guards. West Kingsbridge was controlled with a large gate like the castle’s own gates. Hand-thick oak reinforced with iron, twenty feet high and spiked along the top, with a smaller gate inset. The big, mailed guards looked nervous. One was fidgeting, awkwardly turning his whole head to look to the sides. The other was more calm, pointedly staring every direction except down to the river. Kylar came closer. He recognized the men despite their helmets, and not only because the twins had matching lightning bolt tattoos on their faces. They were bashers, and good ones: Lefty—he was the one with the crooked nose—and Bernerd.
Kylar looked where Bernerd wasn’t looking. In the darkness, an unwieldy barge squatted on the river like a beached sea cow. Its doors were open, but no one held any lights. But darkness no longer affected Kylar’s eyes. If he’d had more time, he would have marveled about that—as night fell, if anything his vision improved as the shadows became more uniform.
Through the open doors of the barge, he saw rank upon rank of soldiers. Each wore Cenarian livery, but with a red kerchief tied around one arm. Common soldiers with kerchiefs on their left, officers with them on their right.
The soldiers weren’t Cenarian. Under their helmets, secreted in the shadows of the night, Kylar saw the stark, cold features of northmen: hair as black as a raven’s wing and eyes as blue as frozen lakes. They were big, raw-boned men, weathered and hardened from exposure to the elements and battle. So they weren’t just Khalidorans. They were Khalidoran highlanders, the Godking’s fiercest, most elite troops. All of them.
In daylight, that would be obvious to any Cenarian in the castle. But at night, it would take time for the Cenarian soldiers to realize that they were being attacked by a foreign enemy. The Cenarian soldiers would figure out that the armbands were what the Khalidorans were using to identify each other, but it would take time. Each new group that encountered the Khalidorans would have to learn it for themselves.
Kylar saw another barge pulling up the river, only a hundred paces away. Khalidoran highlanders tended to be broader and deeper of chest than most Khalidorans, and while a few free tribes still held out in the mountains, those who had been absorbed into the empire had become its most feared fighters.
Four or five hundred highlanders. Kylar couldn’t tell, but he guessed that the other barge was full of the elite soldiers too. If so, Khalidor meant to take the castle tonight. The rest of the country would crumple like a body deprived of its head.
Several wytches were talking as they climbed the switchbacks from the water up to the bridge. They were scanning the sky over the castle, apparently looking for some sign.
Indecision held Kylar frozen. He had either to get inside to save Logan—surely Roth would have either Hu or Durzo kill all the dukes, especially after all of Logan’s fighting on the Khalidoran border. Just as surely, the murder would happen shortly, if it hadn’t already. Kylar could go inside and try to stop the hit, or could try to oppose the Khalidorans out here.
By myself? Madness.
But just watching the barge pull closer to the bridge made him furious. He knew he should feel no loyalty to Cenaria, but he was loyal to Logan and Count Drake. If this army got into the castle, it would be a massacre.
So he needed to fight inside and outside. Great.
Kylar looked at the Sa’kagé impostors manning the bridge. Bashers wouldn’t know or care about the bridge’s defenses, much less have the discipline to dismantle them. All they had done was turn the crank that lifted the massive iron river gate.
