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

  ‘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.

  ‘Try not to kill any more of them,’ he bellowed at Retuchius, though it was clear he was already too late for that. Putting heels to the horse’s flanks, he raced after Eyman.

  The storm was abating with every passing moment, and Josten could see Eyman just ahead. He tried to shout after him, but the wind was still too strong for his voice to carry. As they galloped across the sands in pursuit, the cultist pulled his steed up, turning to face his pursuers. His sword was drawn as he charged towards them and Josten held his breath, expecting Eyman to be cut from the saddle when the two riders clashed.

  As they drew level, Eyman ducked, hanging off the saddle as the cultist’s sword slashed overhead. It was a feat of horsemanship Josten had not expected
– maybe he had underestimated the young militiaman all along. But he didn’t have time to wonder on that as the cultist continued the charge straight at him.

  Josten raised his sword high. There’d be one chance at a strike as they galloped past one another. He could see the cultist’s wide eyes now, peering desperately from within his headscarf. He looked wild, or was it scared? Didn’t matter either way, Josten had to kill him quick all the same.

  At the last second the cultist jumped up, bracing his feet against the saddle, then leapt. Josten cursed as the cultist barrelled into him, knocking him from his horse’s back. They both hit the ground, rolling in a torrent of sand. Josten tried to get to his feet, but the fanatic was on him, clawing at his face as he pulled a curved knife. Josten barely managed to grab his attacker’s wrist before that blade was plunged into somewhere vital.

  They were wrestling now, spinning in the sand. A flash of fear in the fanatic’s eyes, and Josten smashed his forehead into the man’s face. The cultist fell back, dazed enough for Josten to take the initiative and stick the curved blade into his chest.

  There was no time for gloating. Josten was on his feet and running after Eyman. Through the eddying storm he caught sight of tracks in the sand. Quickening his pace he raced up the side of a dune, at any moment expecting to see Eyman’s decapitated body lying in the sand. As he neared the top he saw a riderless horse standing there, still blindfolded, waiting patiently like it was in a stable.

  Josten’s heart sank as he slowed, approaching the top of the ridge carefully, fully expecting the lad to be dead. As he gazed down the other side he almost laughed. Eyman sat atop the prone body of the Hierophant, the priest lying unconscious beneath him.

  Eyman looked up at Josten and smiled. ‘Took your time,’ he said in his thick Cordral accent.

  Josten smiled, suppressing his laughter. It looked like he had underestimated the lad after all.

  3

  THE palace was in upheaval as servants and maids prepared for the impending arrival of the Suderfeld envoys. Adaali could only marvel at their industriousness as they swept and polished the corridors and reception rooms to a fine mirror sheen. She had never seen the place so busy.

  Likewise, she had never seen her mother so preoccupied, barking orders as though she were a battlefield general. Everything had to be perfect and Queen Suraan was determined to impress their guests, whenever they deigned to arrive. For Adaali it was a welcome relief. With her mother’s attention focused wholly on the aesthetics of the palace, Adaali and her brother were all but ignored, if not actively encouraged to stay out of the way.

  Musir Dragosh was equally busy, ensuring his Desert Blades were prepared for the southerners. Every warrior shone like a bright gem, having lacquered their arms and armour, trimmed their beards and oiled and braided their hair. They each looked as beautiful as they were deadly.

  As a consequence, Adaali’s weapon master had no time to train her, and she could spend her time on less vigorous pursuits for a while. This meant keeping the prince entertained. Not that she could complain. Adaali was her brother’s protector, but having some time to simply play was a welcome relief from the usual formality of her duties.

  She had already lost count of the number of times they’d played seeker today, but as the afternoon wore on Adaali was still not losing her enjoyment of it. As always, she was the one doing the seeking, but it gave her a great deal of pleasure to hunt through the old forgotten hallways of the palace. She also took encouragement that her brother seemed to be improving in his role as hider.

  The tower at the southwestern extent of the palace complex was long disused, but the pair knew several ways inside. It was full of clutter – abandoned tapestries and paintings, elaborately crafted furniture left to rot, threadbare sofas that would once have seated emperors and sorcerers long dead. Forgotten trinkets and treasures from all over the world had been gifted to the palace when Kantor had sat at the centre of a huge empire. Now that empire was no more, and the memory of it was as decayed as the tower itself.

  Adaali had already searched the bottom levels of the building, her bare feet easily navigating the uneven and broken floor tiles and the rusted detritus that lay strewn all about the place. As she worked her way up, she began to get a sinking feeling that Rahuul had ignored her order not to hide at the summit of the tower. The further she went, the more certain she became.

  A rickety ladder led to the uppermost level, the staircase having rotted and collapsed. She had warned Rahuul that the observatory was forbidden but as she climbed up into the vast chamber, roof pitted with holes and housing a loft of nervous pigeons, she saw him waiting for her.

  He sat at the edge of the room, back to her, legs dangling over the side. One entire wall of the observatory was open to the elements. Decades previously a gigantic telescope had stood there, mounted atop its frame. Now only the rusted metal of the frame remained, the telescope itself long gone.

  Adaali felt her heart skip a beat. One slip and Rahuul would plunge to his death, but he seemed heedless of the danger.

  She made her way towards him, not wanting to call out and startle her brother lest he slip from the edge. A sudden gust of warm wind blew across the observatory, stirring the dust on the ground and shaking the rafters.

  ‘I know you’re there,’ Rahuul said as she approached.

  Adaali let out the breath she was holding.

  ‘I thought we agreed. You were not to come up this high. It’s dangerous up here.’

  ‘You agreed,’ Rahuul replied as she moved closer. ‘Not me.’

  ‘If Mother finds out we’re up here she’ll murder us both.’

  ‘Then don’t tell her,’ Rahuul said.

  Adaali was both surprised and impressed at how rebellious he was getting. He had been coddled all his life, brought up surrounded by advisors and protectors, yet he still had a fiercely independent streak that none of them had noticed. Adaali had often been accused of similar traits but she guessed her brother was just better at hiding them.

  She carefully sat down beside him, letting her own legs dangle over the edge but resisting the temptation to look down. Rahuul stared out across the city, his expression serious, surveying the domain that he would one day inherit.

  As Adaali regarded her baby brother, she realised how fast he was growing and with it, how clever and regal he was becoming. He was certainly much cleverer than she had been at his age.

  ‘What are you thinking about, little prince?’ she asked as he watched Kantor and the deserts beyond.

  The slightest of smiles rose on one side of his mouth. ‘I am wondering who will help me rule when I am king,’ he said.

  Adaali sucked air in through her teeth. ‘Oh, I would imagine Mother will find you a wife. A most suitable one, who smells of perfume and wears fine silks.’

  Rahuul screwed up his nose at the thought. ‘I don’t like the sound of that. It will be just like having another mother – only this one will be younger.’

  Adaali giggled. ‘If it makes you feel better, little brother, you will always have me. I will always protect you.’

  As she gazed out across the city, she knew how true that was. She was destined to always stand by his side. To never leave this place nor live her own life, no matter how alluring that might seem.

  Rahuul looked across at her, the smile dropping from his lips. His eyes turned sullen and the sad look on his face almost broke Adaali’s heart.

  ‘But who will protect you?’ he asked.

  Adaali thought on it, and went for the easy answer. ‘We will always have Mother,’ she replied. ‘And Musir Dragosh. He will protect both of us.’

  Rahuul shook his head. ‘We will not always have them. They are old. They will both die soon while we have many years ahead of us.’

  Adaali almost laughed at her little brother’s wisdom, but she realised he was right. One day she would be his only protector and there would be no one left to watch over her.

  ‘I will take care
of us,’ she replied, trying to convince herself as much as him. ‘Do not think on such things. It will be many years before you should worry about who protects whom. For now you should worry about what Mother might do if she finds out we’re up here.’

  Adaali leaned back away from the ledge, rose to her feet in a single graceful movement, and held out her hand to Rahuul. He took it, and she pulled him to his feet, leading him out of the ancient observatory and down through the ruined tower.

  He might have been clever beyond his years, but his hand still felt tiny in hers as they walked the ancient corridors. Adaali felt the burden of her responsibility more than ever. She could only hope that he would grow strong and powerful, in stature as well as in mind. That he would command loyal armies and lead a faithful nation. Maybe then he would not need his elder sister to watch over him. Perhaps then she would not feel so shackled to her duty.

  The maidservants and groundskeepers were still hard at work as Adaali led her brother back to the palace. Their mother scurried from one great hall to the next, barking orders at anyone who would listen, and it became obvious she would have no time for her children. Adaali felt some relief when the royal maids came to take Rahuul for his evening bath and she was finally left alone.

  But what to do?

  She could not remember the last time she had not been given some task by either her mother or her weapon master. She had spent the morning at exercise before taking care of her brother, and heading to the training yard seemed a waste of this free time.

  As she wandered the halls, passing the servants vigorously polishing the silverware for the hundredth time, she spied a familiar face. She had not known Ctenka for long, since he had been at the palace for only a few months, but she had spoken to him a number of times before. He was younger than most of the palace guard, and much less strict in his duties. Even now he was picking at something on his uniform, as though he had spilled food down himself and was now panicking in case a superior officer found him in a state of dishevelment.