The Spear of Malice (War of the Archons 3) Read online

  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 befor
e 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 w
as 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.