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As its neighbours muster for war, the city state of Kantor clings desperately to neutrality. Suraan, the queen regent, is beset on all sides, her son Rahuul still too young to take the throne. As his elder sister and guardian, Adaali's only purpose is to protect Rahuul from would be usurpers. But dark forces are at play from within and without, and she must seek help from the most unlikely of places, or be consumed by the war of the gods that threatens to destroy the very fabric of her world.
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CONTENTS
Cover
Also by R.S. Ford and Available from Titan Books
Title Page
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Copyright
Prologue
1
2
3
4
5
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Epilogue
About the Author
WAR OF THE ARCHONS
SPEAR OF MALICE
ALSO BY R.S. FORD AND AVAILABLE FROM TITAN BOOKS
A Demon in Silver
Hangman’s Gate
Spear of Malice
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Spear of Malice
Print edition ISBN: 9781785653124
E-book edition ISBN: 9781785653131
Published by Titan Books
A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd.
144 Southwark Street, London, SE1 0UP
www.titanbooks.com
First Titan edition: January 2021
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Copyright © 2021 R.S. Ford. All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.
PROLOGUE
The Ramadi Wastes, 107 years after the Fall
THE wastes were silent but for the occasional snort of oxen, the relentless squeaking of the wagon’s wheels and the flapping of its hide cover in the breeze. The sounds had been Byram’s constant companions for endless leagues of sand. It was enough to drive a man mad and brought to mind the Lament of the Ramadi. The Seven Deserts calling myriad names, Calling thy despair.
Byram had much to despair about.
They were on their way to Kragenskûl, that vast city in the desert, and must have journeyed for a hundred leagues. Byram so hated to travel. The poorly secured covering allowed the sand to constantly encroach on the wagon’s interior and despite the welcome breeze, the cart stank of unwashed bodies as the other Priests of Wraak sat sweating in their robes. It was intolerable, but Byram knew he had no choice. At least he could take solace that he was not out riding in the sun like Kraden’s men.
Byram glanced ahead, past the wagon driver, past the lumbering oxen that pulled them along, to see Lord Kraden riding at the head of the column. He looked perfectly happy despite the elements, sitting proudly, bald head exposed to the sun. His mount was much less content, white froth covering its hide as it plodded along, close to death.
Dragging his eyes away from the warlord, Byram glanced across at his travelling companions. They were nondescript, their hoods pulled over their faces, hands hidden in sleeves. Only one other stood out. She sat towards the rear of the cart, shaven head focused on the column of soldiers marching in their wake. There was a look of longing on her scarred face. Byram knew the Carpenter yearned for only one thing – to inflict pain – and she was empty without it. Sadism brought her to life, and to most men that would have been anathema. But Byram had long ago learned to appreciate her talent for torture as one might admire a fine painting or sculpture. Beneath the smock he knew she wore close-fitting leather, buckles secured tightly, pinching her flesh, causing her constant discomfort. It was as though the pain was her captor and she its willing prisoner. He was so glad she had come.
A sudden bark from Kraden diverted Byram’s attention. Looking ahead he saw what had caused the warlord such instant mirth. The desert city of Kragenskûl loomed on the horizon and Byram felt relief wash over him that this hellish journey was almost at an end.
The city grew larger and Byram thought back to the last time he had seen the place. It had been on some long-distant campaign when one of the Legion’s long-forgotten lords had seen fit to besiege the city. Naturally they had failed – the white walls of Kragenskûl were all but impregnable – but as they drew closer, Byram could see much had changed.
As impenetrable as those walls might have been, clearly they were not strong enough for the city’s new ruler. Earthworks had been built all around the perimeter and new fortifications were being constructed, but that was not the most striking change. Where before the city’s spires had peered menacingly from behind the city wall, now a colossal tower had been built in its centre, stretching up to the heavens and dwarfing the buildings that surrounded it.
The flags that now fluttered on the battlements no longer bore the black skull on red of the Qeltine Brotherhood. Now the Qeltine and every other cult of the Ramadi Wastes were gathered beneath a different banner. The white desert songbird flew on every pennant. It had once been the symbol of the dead god Eranin, a deity worshipped by a cult long since lost to history, but now it was reborn as the symbol of Innellan – queen of the Seven Deserts.
Nobody stood in their way as they passed the earthworks and trundled through the vast open gates. Byram could see members of the Bloodguard standing sentry but they made no move to stop Kraden as he led the way, nor did they try to inspect the contents of the wagon.
Once inside the city Byram caught sight of the tower in all its majesty. It was a vast monument dedicated to the White Widow, and he could only imagine the effort required to build such a thing in such a short space of time, but then he was sure Innellan could motivate even the most lacklustre servant to the greatest of labours.
The wagon came to a stop at the base of the tower and Byram wasted no time in climbing down from it. His back was stiff from the journey and his legs unsteady, but still he was in better condition than the team of bulls that had pulled them across the desert.
Kraden had already dismounted and stood staring up at the massive building like a child in awe of a giant. He turned, regarding Byram with a huge gap-toothed grin.
‘Isn’t it magnificent,’ he boomed. ‘We are here, at the heart of Kragenskûl. I had always dreamed I would fight my way in at the head of an army, but instead we just ride right through the gates like we own the place.’
Ignoring Kraden’s exuberance, Byram made his way inside. If the others were already there it meant he had been tardy. It would be unwise to keep the White Widow waiting.
As soon as they entered through the arch at the base of the tower they were attended by thin figures dressed in white. Their faces were wan, eyes sallow, but the most unnerving thing was their mouths; sealed shut with strands of wire. The Silent Sons beckoned Kraden forward and led the way up the vast, winding staircase.
Byram was in no mood for such a climb after their long journey, but what choice did he have? He slogged his way up the stairs and before long his breathing became laboured. For his part, Kraden practically bounded up the endless flights, his armour doing little to encumber him.
When finally they reached the summit, Byram was sweating profusely and he paused to catch his breath before ascending the final stairway to the throne room. Gathered below it were the warriors of various Ramadi cults. They stood in stony silence, tension hanging in the air like an executioner’s axe. The hatred these men and women bore for one another was visceral – they had fought for generations and now they were thrust together as a single tribe. Only the threat of Innellan’s wrath kept their violent natures at bay.
When Kraden approached the stairs, the Bloodguard barred his way. Before he could protest, Byram stepped forward. Immediately the guards stood aside and allowed him to pass. Kraden growled as he was left behind, but there was little the warlord could do. Both men knew it was Byram who held the real power within the Legion of Wraak – it would have been pointless for Kraden to protest.
When he reached the summit, Byram could see the rest were already gathered. They stood within the dark room, illuminated by warm red sunlight that shone through a huge arch making up one half of the chamber.
The High Chieftain of the Hand of Zepheroth stood in one corner having travelled the relatively short distance from Gortanis. He was every inch the savage, dusty animal hides covering his muscular shoulders, his face a brutal mass of barely subdued hatred.
From the once beautiful city of Mantioch had come the Hierophant of Katamaru’s Faithful. He lingered by the archway, his gold-banded arms folded as he stood impatiently.
The Reverend Mother of the Daughters of Mandrithar was from distant Isinor, her black garb covered in empty sheaths for her myriad knives.
There were also representatives from the Doom of Haephon, the Eye of Honoric and even Duchor’s Blades – their delegate looking more like a seasoned pirate than the lord of a Ramadi cult.
Byram could feel the discomfort in the air. As below, there was a palpable tension. Old vendettas still burned like raw wounds and Byram felt at any moment the unspoken hatred might boil up into violence. All that was dispelled as a door opened at the far end of the chamber. A warm wind blew past them in a single swift gust, all threat of violence was replaced by an overwhelmingly malevolent aura, and every one of these lords of the desert dropped to their knees.
Byram risked a glance upwards, instantly regretting it as he saw her appear from the dark. Her red gown trailed behind her, white hair flowing down to a wasp-thin waist. As her black-eyed gaze scanned the gathering before her, Byram felt suddenly sick at the sensation of utter evil she cast.
Gracefully Innellan mounted the stairs to her onyx throne and sat gazing down at the Ramadi warlords, each kneeling in fealty.
‘Thank you for attending,’ she said, her words dripping with insincerity. None of them had any choice in this. They were slaves to her will, for now and always. ‘Who will begin?’
The Hierophant stood. It seemed he truly was impatient for this to be over.
‘My queen,’ he said, keeping his head bowed. ‘The invaders to the east are proving ever more troublesome. The Shengen forces have liberated several mines in the area. The Lords of Byzantus have been all but destroyed. Before long the enemy will arrive at the gates of Mantioch. We have done everything we can to repel the invaders but their general is a cunning tactician – always two steps ahead of us. They also have a warrior among their ranks – a woman invincible on the field. We need help in the east, my queen. You must send reinforcements to aid us before the city falls.’
Innellan didn’t answer, but instead simply stared at the Hierophant. The man hadn’t given a great account of himself and Byram half expected the White Widow to strike him down where he stood. Instead she cast her eye across the rest of the kneeling warlords.
‘Next,’ was all she said.
The Hierophant reluctantly sank to his knees as the veteran pirate of Duchor’s Blades rose to his feet. Understandably, he spoke with a nervous edge to his voice:
‘Our spies in Kantor have reported Queen Suraan still holds onto her neutrality. She will neither pledge her loyalty to you nor the Suderfeld king until her son is of an age to take the throne. However…’ He paused, as though afraid to relay the news. Byram didn’t envy him the task. ‘We have learned a Suderfeld contingent is already making its way north and are about to meet with her. I do not know what they might offer her for an alliance, but even if we sent envoys with a counter-proposal now, they may well be too late. Now united, the Suderfeld is strong, their armies mighty, and the resurgence of magic there gives them a distinct advantage. It seems unlikely Queen Suraan will be able to resist their influence for long.’
Innellan rose from her throne and the pirate took a step back. Relaying such news might not be good for him, and Byram even felt a touch of sympathy for the man.
‘On your feet,’ she said. ‘All of you.’
The compulsion to stand coursed through Byram’s every fibre and he stood with the rest. He was overwhelmed with the yearning to obey Innellan’s word and he had long since learned not to resist.
The White Widow walked among them. When she passed close to him, Byram felt a heady mix of emotions battling for supremacy – yearning, loyalty, revulsion, fear. He almost shook as these feelings overwhelmed him.
‘The Suderfeld is of little concern,’ she said. ‘Its king is a puppet. There is a power behind that throne that I will deal with in due course. The true enemy lies to the east.’
As she spoke, Innellan walked past the weathered figure of the Reverend Mother. The old woman became agitated, the perspiration that ran down her temple making tracks across her dust-stained cheeks.
‘Each one of you will pledge a tithe of troops to march east and relieve Mantioch,’ Innellan continued. ‘The city must not be allowed to fall. This enemy must be destroyed at all costs.’
As she spoke, Byram saw the Reverend Mother reach a hand behind her back, producing a blade from a hidden sheath in her waistband. He suddenly felt a spark of excitement – of hope. The Reverend Mother was so close, and Innellan’s back was turned. Could this nightmare be about to end? Could one of them at least resist Innellan’s allure for long enough to strike her down?
The Reverend Mother snarled as she lunged forward, blade raised to plunge into the back of Innellan’s neck. Byram heard the feral cry, his heart pounding as he realised they were about to be freed.
Innellan didn’t move, simply gazing out of the arched window, as the Reverend Mother froze. She stood transfixed, knife raised high, every muscle trembling as she fought against the White Widow’s glamour.
Slowly, Innellan turned to face her would-be assassin, a curious look to her pale features.
‘Brave,’ she whispered. ‘Your resolve is only to be admired. How long have you harboured such a defiant heart, I wonder?’
The Reverend Mother gritted her teeth against Innellan’s enchantment. Byram almost felt sorry for her; this woman he had fought against for decades, this deadly warrior who had seen fit to defy a goddess.
‘No matter,’ Innellan continued, ‘clearly you have a formidable strength of will. It will be a shame to lose you. But defiance cannot be tolerated.’ She turned dismissively, lazily gesturing with one hand. ‘Cut your throat.’
The Reverend Mother continued to tremble, and Byram could see a single bloody tear drip from her eye. The knife in her hand drew closer to her neck but the woman fought against it, refusing to obey to the last.
With a shriek, the Reverend Mother dropped the knife and ran towards the open archway. With a last cry of defiance she pitched herself over the side and into oblivion.
Byram watched in amazement. In the end the Reverend Mother had chosen her own way to die. She had defied Innellan’s command. She had disobeyed the god who reigned over them all.
In that instant Byram realised Innellan could be resisted. That someone with enough determination might be able to strike her down. He also knew that it most certainly wasn’t him.
Innellan stared after her rebellious servant. It was as though she too understood her own vulnerability. For the first time Byram saw doubt draw over the White Widow’s visage, but it was gone as soon as it appeared.
‘You have your instructions,’ Innellan said quietly. ‘Send your levies to Mantioch. The city must not fall.’
Every one of them bowed low, backing out of the throne room before making their way down the stairs.
After rejoining Kraden below, Byram ignored his questions while the Silent Sons led them back down the tower. He spoke to no one as they followed an emaciated servant to a chamber near the foot of the stronghold. It was bare but for a single window, while a plain wooden bed stood to one side and a mirror hung on the wall.
Standing in the centre of the room, Byram tried to clear his mind of what had happened. No matter how he tried to purge himself of Innellan’s influence he knew it would be impossible. There was no way he could ever rid himself of her allure, but neither could he blindly follow her into oblivion. She had to be stopped, but what could he do? He did not possess the will to resist her glamour. The Reverend Mother had shown a strength he had never witnessed before and still she had perished.
Opening his eyes, Byram caught sight of himself in the mirror. The serpent tattoo that encircled his eye had long since faded. It was still visible though, an indelible part of him, much like his loyalty to the Legion of Wraak. A Legion that was no more. A Legion Byram wanted back with every fibre of his being.
He knew he had to fight these seditious ideas. There was no way to resist the White Widow and even the most fleeting thought of betrayal might lead to his death. Before he could begin to purge himself of those feelings, his chamber door creaked open.
The Carpenter entered, her robe discarded, her shaved head now concealed beneath a leather hood. In one hand she held a whip, and on seeing it Byram loosened his robe and let it fall to the ground. All thought of defiance had to be scourged from his body.
As the Carpenter began to minister to him, the sting of the lash cutting his buttocks so exquisitely, Byram felt the sudden release of his burden. He could only hope the pain would be enough to quell any further notion of disobedience. It was the only way he would survive.
1
ADAALI stared at the ceiling, too afraid to close her eyes. For the past three nights her dreams had woken her well before dawn but the memory of them was scant. Try as she might to piece them back together she could only gather brief flashes – disparate images and scenes, as though she were trying to remember a mummers’ play from years ago.
She had seen gods in a distant land. A faraway place and a faraway time where the sky was the bluest she had ever laid eyes on. Or was it the blackest? Had there been a storm raging? The tighter Adaali tried to grasp the images the more they slipped through her fingers. All she knew for certain was that she had been surrounded by titans. Myriad gods with myriad faces, angels and demons with immense power, and she had been nothing but an ant scurrying about their feet. It had been enthralling until they had turned their eyes upon her and then, when she was locked in their inscrutable gaze, she had found herself falling – the wind in her face, her gut twisting with the thrill and terror of it – but she woke before the shock of any impact. What it all meant she could not say, but Adaali knew she would not find any answers wallowing in her bed.
She pulled back the sheet and stood, feeling the chill through her nightslip. It was damp with sweat and clung to her as she moved towards the open window and leaned out, gazing at the dark city. Beacons burned all along the walls of Kantor, and she could just make out sentries patrolling the battlements. The guardians were vigilant, but it did little to reassure her. Only recently a great warlord had been defeated in the east, but to north and south powers were beginning to stir; powers that threatened to consume the entire Cordral. Kantor was caught in the middle, and there was no telling what catastrophe might befall the city.
Shaking her head, she tried to dislodge the feeling of dread. She was still plagued by the memory of her dream and needed something to clear her senses and make her focus.
After peeling off the slip, she donned a plain red tunic. Still in her bare feet she made her way down through the sleeping palace. She trod carefully just as Dragosh had taught her, leaving no sound as she passed by the servants’ quarters and the guards standing at their posts. Eventually she reached the ground floor of the palace and came out into the central courtyard. It was a wide open space that had once been an ornamental garden. On Dragosh’s insistence it was now cleared of all foliage and a thick bed of sand had been laid across its length.
‘If Princess Adaali is to be her brother’s sworn protector she will need her own training yard,’ he had said. The Queen Regent had taken little persuasion.
Naturally the yard was empty. A brazier stood in each of the four corners but they had long since burned down to embers. The encroaching dawn light began to cast long shadows but Adaali could see enough to train. A couple of servants walked at the periphery of the square carrying chamber pots and somewhere, someone was baking bread. The smell of it on the morning air made Adaali’s stomach rumble with longing, but she had not yet done enough to deserve a morning meal. She would earn it first.
Weapon drills were her favourite. When Dragosh arrived he would most likely work on her physical conditioning, which was something she hated. He had told her she must get stronger, that her slight frame would need much development, but this time before dawn was her own. She could fill it how she pleased.
The weapon rack to one side of the yard held spears, axes, swords, maces and other, more exotic weapons. Dragosh had once told her that when she mastered them all she would no longer need him. Adaali knew she was years away from that and should probably pick something she was weak with like the axe. Instead, she reached forward and plucked a spear from the rack.
As soon as she held it in her hand memories of her dream were gone, threats from north and south forgotten. It was just her and the weapon.
She ran through the drills Dragosh had taught her – low sweeps, swift jabs, deep thrusts. As she moved through the forms she considered how perfect the weapon was for her. Its superior reach meant she could attack a more powerful sword-wielding opponent and stay out of their range. Her speed meant she could dart in without fear of being struck and outmanoeuvre even the quickest armoured enemy.
The longer Adaali practised, the more she knew this was her true purpose. Not that she had ever had any choice. She was Queen Suraan’s eldest, but her younger brother was rightful heir to the throne of Kantor. In years past she would have been married off to the heir of another city state or foreign court, or perhaps to seal an alliance with a Suderfeld lord, but this was not that time. The other great cities of the Cordral were gone, and Queen Suraan would never have allowed Adaali to be wed simply to secure an alliance. Instead, in this time of mistrust and uncertainty, Adaali was to be her brother’s guardian. Prince Rahuul’s most trusted shadow. She would never sit on the throne of Kantor or any other, and Adaali had long ago learned to accept it. Or had she? Had she come to terms with the fact she would be nothing more than bodyguard to her younger brother? Never have any ambition other than to ensure his safety?
Adaali span on her heel, ending the combat drill, and let fly with the spear. It soared twenty feet across the training yard, and embedded itself in a wooden target. She heard the wood crack and splinter, shocked at her own strength. She had flung the weapon in anger, the injustice of her position making her throw it all the harder.
‘Your form is good,’ said Musir Dragosh. Adaali started, finding him watching from the shadowy extremities of the training yard. He stepped out into the growing light of dawn, his muscular figure moving lithely as a leopard. ‘But your throw was wild.’
‘But accurate,’ she replied, gesturing at the wooden target, cracked down the middle where the spear had pierced it.
Dragosh considered the broken target as though trying to find fault, but couldn’t quite manage it.
‘You are here before sunrise again. So that is something,’ he said, as though it pained him to grant her any kind of praise.
For the past few days, Adaali had risen before the sun and made her way to the training yard, trying to wash the troubling dreams from her mind. She would have liked to accept Dragosh’s compliment, but it was not diligence that had brought her there, more necessity.
She made to retrieve her spear, but Dragosh halted her with a raised hand.
‘Your adherence to the discipline of the spear is impressive, but you rely on it too much,’ he said. ‘Your other forms are weak.’
‘But the spear is—’ she tried to say but was silenced when he motioned with his finger.
‘Sword and shield,’ Dragosh pronounced.
It was her least favourite of all the weapon forms, but Adaali knew better than to protest. She might have been a princess of Kantor, but Musir Dragosh didn’t care. Any sign of petulance or defiance and he would punish her. Once punished by the leader of the Desert Blades, the lesson was learned in full.
Adaali took a sword and shield from the rack and tested the balance of the blade in her hand. It was a well-crafted weapon, much like those used by warriors of the Desert Blades, save for its dulled edge.
Dragosh waited in the centre of the square. He carried no shield and his blade was drawn. This was no training weapon but his sword of office. The ornate hilt was crafted in the shape of an eagle and the razor-sharp blade gently curved to a point.
Adaali advanced purposefully. Experience had taught her Dragosh would rarely take the initiative and she wanted this over with so she could move on to a more favourable weapon. She feinted to the left before slicing in from the right. Dragosh easily parried her attack and she took advantage of his lack of shield, shoving her own forward. Dragosh dropped his left shoulder, leaning away from the attack, and she missed by several inches.
Her teacher countered, sweeping his blade at head height, and she ducked. He cut downward and she raised her shield, feeling the power of his blow rock through her arm. Gritting her teeth against it, she thrust in again, and with one simple sidestep Dragosh avoided the attack.
She let out a slow breath, anticipating the inevitable counter as Dragosh hacked down diagonally. Knowing he would expect it, Adaali lifted her shield in another feint, then dropped and rolled beneath the strike instead of blocking it. She heard the blade pass by her head and swiftly rolled to her feet, yelling in victory as she struck with the sword.
However, Dragosh had already moved, altering his stance and striking a final killing blow. His keen-edged blade rested beneath her chin and Adaali froze.
‘Don’t claim victory until the enemy is dead,’ Dragosh said.
‘Yes, Musir,’ she replied.
‘Now, again.’
Adaali risked a longing glance towards the spear protruding from the wooden target board before hefting her sword and shield once more. This was going to be a long morning.
* * *
She had washed and eaten hastily after her session with Dragosh before going to her lessons. The airy room in the eastern wing of the palace was a far cry from the intensity of the training yard, but as much as Adaali resented being beaten daily with sword, spear and axe, it was still far preferable to the stultifying dullness of the classroom.
She sat beside her little brother Rahuul, her mother standing before them both, reciting some treatise on ancient history from a suitably antique tome. Rahuul gave their mother his rapt attention, spellbound by her words, but Adaali did not share his attentiveness. The histories bored her as much as mathematics, languages, geography or wordcraft, and Adaali made no attempt to mask her contempt. In years gone by she had worked her way through a dozen tutors, each one giving up due to her ambivalence or often open disdain. It was one of the reasons their mother had taken to teaching them herself. Only she and Musir Dragosh could hold Adaali’s attention.
But there were other reasons Queen Suraan had taken to tutoring her children personally. Since their father’s death, threats to the royal family had come from every quarter, creeping from every stinking lair and darkened corridor. Where assassins were not lying in wait, self-serving courtiers and city aldermen lurked ready to pour their poisonous influence into the ears of the fledgling prince. The Queen Regent would have her children influenced by no one but herself.
As her mother spoke, Adaali ignored the words, instead thinking about the burden this woman was under and how serene she seemed despite the weight of it. There was war to the north where a new queen had risen – a witch queen if rumours were to be believed. She had united the cults and threatened to invade the south, but fortune had favoured the Cordral when invaders had come along the Skull Road from the Shengen Empire. Instead of turning their eye to Kantor they had instead struck north to take war to this new queen and her army of fanatics. For now, the north was not a priority – more pressing was the threat from the south.
There had been conflict there since before Adaali was born, but now that war was over. Since then, the King of the Suderfeld had pressured Queen Suraan for an alliance. So far she had resisted, desperate to keep Kantor and the Cordral free of further conflict, but how long she could hold out only time would tell.
Suraan’s voice suddenly stopped and she looked up from her tome, past her children to the far end of the chamber. Adaali turned to see a man standing at the open door. She hadn’t even heard it open, not that it was surprising given the newcomer.
Egil Sun was silent as a serpent and just as slender, his dark blue robe covered in scraps and rolls of parchment. He entered the room with his usual solemn expression and as much as Adaali refused to fear him, she couldn’t help but feel it creeping up within her, threatening to overwhelm her every faculty. He was Keeper of the Word, said to know forbidden things, said to have done hideous crimes in service to the crown of Kantor, and he carried the stink of dread wherever he went.
‘Apologies for the intrusion, my queen,’ Egil said. ‘But we must speak further about the impending visit.’
Adaali looked back to her mother, seeing she was trying her best to control her anger.
‘Can you not see my children are at their lessons?’ Suraan replied.
Egil regarded Rahuul, choosing to ignore Adaali altogether, which she was more than thankful for.
‘Indeed, my queen. But the delegation from the Suderfeld will not wait. And neither must we. They are due to arrive on the high moon, and we still have much to prepare for.’
‘Then prepare for it,’ Suraan said, unable to disguise the impatience in her voice. ‘You are vizier to the crown. Is that not one of your duties?’
‘Yes, my queen, but we must discuss what you are to say when you meet their envoy. We must have a united front. Kantor must know its mind – all the possibilities must be prepared for.’
‘I have not yet decided whether I’ll meet with them personally, Egil.’
A stony silence as Egil considered her words. ‘But you must. This is no time for neutrality, my queen. Kantor must decide who it will stand with. And who it will oppose.’
‘Kantor has always stood alone, Egil. We are a free people; we do not have to pick sides. Sometimes inaction is the only course of action.’
‘Now is not the time for worthless epithets.’ Egil’s tone had lost all its reverence and he practically sneered down his hawk nose. Adaali felt herself bristling at the lack of respect, but it was not her place to challenge him. ‘We did nothing when the Shengens passed through the gates of Dunrun and we were fortunate not to have suffered the consequences.’
‘You were the one who ignored the warnings, Egil. Don’t presume to lecture me—’
She paused, glancing down at Adaali and Rahuul as though suddenly remembering they were present.
‘Children,’ she said, her voice calm once more. ‘The vizier and I must speak. Your lessons are over for the day.’
Rahuul needed no further encouragement and scrambled from his seat. Adaali was less keen to leave her mother alone with Egil, but she obeyed nonetheless. But then what choice did she have? Adaali had long since learned her duty was to obey.
‘Let’s play seeker,’ Rahuul said as soon as they left the room behind them. He ran on ahead down the corridor.
Adaali walked after him, in no mood for his games. When she reached the end of the corridor he was awaiting her around the corner, hiding behind a big pot plant, but still in plain sight. He leaned out from behind the plant and gave her a mischievous grin.
That brought a smile to her face, but also filled her with sadness. All her little brother wanted was to run and play. He had no idea what awaited him in a few short years. Assassins already hid in every alcove and the rulers of the Cordral’s other provinces coveted Kantor’s throne. Adaali’s purpose was to keep her brother from danger, and the only way to do that was to see him mature before his years, not indulge his childish games.
‘Come on, let’s play,’ Rahuul urged.
Adaali would have much preferred it if he had children of his own age to run and play with, but the Prince of Kantor could never be afforded such a simple luxury. All he had was her.
‘All right. I’ll seek,’ she said.
Adaali watched as he scurried off to hide. She knew she had to cherish these moments of innocence. They would not last much longer.
2
JOSTEN was beginning to think this was a mistake as he struggled on through the desert. The sand stung his eyes despite the cotton scarf tied tight around his head, and the desert wind howled in his ears, threatening to send him mad.
The rest of his men seemed to be weathering the conditions more resolutely, and Josten was forced to plod on in silence rather than look weak. There was no way he was about to complain while surrounded by twenty taciturn Shengens. They were staunch to a man, every last one the veteran of a dozen campaigns. A more professional bunch of soldiers he couldn’t have wished for, and here he was, in charge of them all. Josten Cade, mercenary and pirate, leading the best fighting men in the world. It was strange how things turned out.
But then, everyone got what they deserved.
When they reached the top of the next windswept ridge he felt palpable relief. In the distance was their rendezvous point – an old temple half buried in the sand, its central tower listing dangerously as though the desert were trying to swallow it whole. He crouched down, shielding his eyes as he tried to make out details of the site, wary of signs of ambush.
‘Is this the place, you think?’ Retuchius asked.
Josten nodded. ‘Looks like it, though there must be hundreds like this littering the Ramadi.’
As he spoke something glinted from the tower protruding from the centre of the ruin.
‘That’s our man,’ said Retuchius.
‘All right, let’s move,’ Josten shouted above the din of the storm.
On his order, twenty men made their way down over the ridge, sticking close together as they crossed the sand to the ruin. At the gate they paused warily, but as Josten peered into the courtyard he saw a single scout already waiting for them. He was tall, face hidden within a headscarf, but when he gave the signal of the Shengen legion Josten relaxed.
The walls of the ruin offered them shelter from the howling winds and Josten led his men inside, glad of the respite. He pulled the scarf from his face and when the scout did likewise Josten recognised the stern features of Kyon, former praetorian to the Iron Tusk himself.
‘Glad to see you alive,’ said Josten.
‘Likewise,’ Kyon replied. ‘I was beginning to wonder if you were going to make it.’
Josten patted the scout on the shoulder. He was a good man, solid, dependable. Considering they had fought on opposing sides not a year before it was a surprise they’d become close. Kyon harboured a deep shame that he was desperate to atone for. The Iron Tusk’s hold on the Shengen legions had been a strong one, a devotion only a god could command, but Kyon still felt responsible for his own actions.
‘What do you have for us?’ Josten asked.
‘They are on the way,’ Kyon replied. ‘The party set out from Mantioch yesterday. About a dozen riders on horse, but I managed to stay ahead of them – the storm helped with that.’
‘How long do we have?’
‘An hour, maybe less.’
Josten turned to the rest of the men. ‘Right – you all know the drill. An enemy patrol is on the way. We need at least one of them alive. If our luck holds they’ll want to take shelter here. That’ll be our chance.’
Retuchius looked uncertain. ‘A dozen riders would be hard enough to take down even if we didn’t need prisoners,’ he said. ‘And what if there’s more than that? If we try and take them on here we’ll be trapped. We’re stuck in the middle of the desert with no way to send for help.’
‘There’s no more than a dozen,’ Kyon said.
‘According to you,’ Retuchius snapped.
There was no love lost between the two of them. Retuchius had been loyal to Emperor Laigon even before he defeated the Iron Tusk. Kyon had ordered the slaughter of men of the Fourth Standing; Retuchius’ old legion. As much as Josten could understand his mistrust of Kyon, he knew they had no choice but to fight together.
‘We need information on their movements,’ Josten said. ‘Short of asking nicely this is the next best thing. We all know the dangers.’
That was enough for Retuchius and he nodded his assent. Josten wasn’t worried, he knew Retuchius was being overly cautious. He’d seen these men fight, had faced their shields and spears, and would rather be fighting at their side than with a hundred death cultists.
‘Right then,’ Josten raised his voice above the din of the storm. ‘I want men ready to block the entrance, there’s only one way in and out. The rest of you take flanking positions, we need to hem in the riders and take them down before they can manoeuvre, shield walls to either side.’
The Shengens obeyed him without question, carrying their shields and hunkering down amongst the fallen masonry.
‘What about me?’ said a voice behind him.
Josten turned to see Eyman. He was a young lad of the Cordral, an ex-militiaman who’d decided to follow Silver and the Shengens when they struck north from Dunrun so many months ago. He was inexperienced but keen, a combination that would either see him become an asset or a right royal pain in Josten’s arse. Which one remained to be seen.
‘Why don’t you take the tower?’ Josten gestured to the crumbling monolith that looked over the entire temple. ‘Keep an eye out for us.’
Eyman looked up at the crumbling building uncertainly. ‘Er… sure. I can do that.’
Josten watched as he scurried away. With any luck Eyman would give a good account of himself. In a perfect world he’d only have experienced fighters at his side, but that was a luxury he’d had to forego.
Once the men had taken their positions, Josten joined the shield wall at the gate. He crouched down, pulling his scarf around his face. There was no more to say now. They knew their jobs. All he could do was wait.
His hand strayed to the sword at his side. Idly he flicked up the cross-guard with his thumb, loosening the blade in the sheath. Old habits died hard.
As time passed, Josten noted that the cover offered by the swirling sand and deafening gale was now abating. Why did nothing ever go right? Before he could lament further, Eyman waved from the tower, gesturing back west through the open gate.
Josten peered out, seeing horses appear through the dying swell of the sandstorm. Quickly he moved back, flattening himself against the crumbing wall, holding his breath as he waited for the first of the horses to come trotting into the courtyard. The riders were covered in the yellow dust of the storm, their horses’ eyes covered to shield them from the stinging sand. Josten watched, slowly unsheathing his blade as the last rider entered through the gate.
‘Now!’ he yelled.
On his order, half a dozen men rushed to block the entrance, their shields locking together, spears jutting forth to form a deadly barrier. The rest of the Shengens rushed in from the riders’ flanks, crouching behind tower shields, advancing with surprising speed.
Josten ran forward, trying to locate their commander. Whoever he was he’d have the most information and with any luck Josten could subdue him before one of the Shengens impaled him on the end of a spear.
A horse reared as he rushed past, its pained whinny rising above the sound of the storm. To the front of the column, Josten spied his target. The man’s headscarf had slipped, revealing his olive-skinned face and the iron band about his head that marked him as a Hierophant of the Set.
He raced past the line of attacking Shengen warriors, grabbing the bridle of the Hierophant’s horse and pulling it towards the ground. The beast was strong, but it couldn’t resist as the bit tightened in its mouth. The Hierophant took a wild swipe at Josten with his sword but missed, unbalancing himself. He slipped from the saddle, hitting the ground and rolling aside.
The Hierophant came up on his feet as Josten advanced. The man glanced back along the column as it came under attack and it was clear his men were losing the battle. The Shengens had them penned in, and though they had the advantage of being mounted, their swords could do little against the spear-wielding legionaries.
‘There’s nowhere for you to go,’ Josten said. ‘Put down your weapon.’
The Hierophant took no notice, snarling as he darted forward, curved blade raised. Josten hadn’t expected him to do as he was bid, and he parried the incoming attack. Before he could counter, another horse bolted in between them. Josten barely had a chance to dodge out of the way before the rider took a swipe at him.
The Hierophant leapt up behind the man, screaming the order to retreat. As one, the remaining riders bolted for the wall of shields barring the way out.
Josten rushed after the Hierophant, but the high priest dragged the rider from the saddle in front of him, flinging him to the ground. The cultist hit the dirt at Josten’s feet then leapt up to attack. Josten parried the frenzied assault just before the fanatic was skewered on a Shengen spear.
Only three cultists remained in the saddle now – the Hierophant one of them – and they spurred their mounts towards the Shengen shield wall. Josten fully expected the horses to pull up short when faced by the wall of spears, but cursed when he remembered they were blindfolded. The first horse smashed into the shield wall, its screeching whinny pealing out above the storm as it took two spears to the chest. The impetus of its charge smashed a gap in the shield wall, scattering the Shengens and allowing the other two horses to gallop through the breach.
Josten cursed again, eyes darting around for an abandoned steed. He saw one, milling in a panic, but before he could grab the reins he heard a voice from above.
‘I’ve got it,’ shouted Eyman, dropping the few feet from the tower overhead. Deftly he landed in the saddle of the horse, and before Josten could shout at him – whether to congratulate him for his dumb luck or tell him not to be so bloody stupid – the lad had kicked the steed after the escaping cultists.
‘Bollocks!’ Josten gave chase. One more horse milled about the courtyard, its rider slumped over its back. He pulled the corpse to the ground and climbed up into the saddle.