The Spear of Malice (War of the Archons 3) Page 6

  ‘It is time for me to retire,’ she said. ‘I hope you have enjoyed our hospitality.’

  ‘Indeed,’ said Duke Bertrand rising to his feet. ‘And I hope you will later allow me some time to discuss matters further?’

  The queen considered his words for a moment. ‘Perhaps,’ she replied.

  Dragosh led the way for the royal procession and Adaali stood, ushering Rahuul after them as he took one last bit of a sweet cake. They left the dining hall behind and returned to the royal chambers. Adaali watched with concern as handmaids helped her mother to her bedchamber. It seemed the public engagement had taken a toll, but there was little Adaali could do about it. Once she had kissed her brother goodnight, she returned to her own chamber and wasted no time in stripping off the bothersome gown.

  She should have gone to bed, but then she remembered how Dragosh had been so preoccupied with palace security. With so many strangers he would surely be too busy to train her in the morning. Now would be a better time than ever to take advantage of that.

  After changing into her plain tunic she slipped from her room and padded down the corridor from her chambers. The palace was still well lit, but she managed to pass unseen as she slipped out into the dark of night.

  It was silent in the training yard but for the sound of distant crickets. Adaali regarded the weapon rack, knowing it was pointless even pretending to choose. Before she could reach out for a spear she started at a voice behind her.

  ‘Good evening.’

  Adaali span, feeling her heart pounding as she saw a stranger in the shadows.

  ‘My apologies, I didn’t mean to startle you,’ said Duke Bertrand as he walked out into the moonlight.

  ‘You did not startle me,’ she lied.

  He smiled knowingly. ‘Of course not. A little late to be training, isn’t it? And in such darkness?’

  ‘Musir Dragosh says a warrior should not rely on her senses or her environment. A warrior should be prepared to face her enemy at any time, day or night.’

  ‘Musir Dragosh is very wise. But I am no enemy.’

  She looked him up and down. In his fine clothes and with no weapon he was far from threatening. ‘No, I suppose you’re not.’

  He seemed friendly enough and wore an easy smile, but she could sense a sadness to him. His brows were furrowed and there was a melancholy present in his one blue eye.

  ‘Do you often practise so late?’ he asked.

  ‘Not often. Only when I am told.’

  He nodded his understanding. ‘I hear that. I too have to do what I’m told.’

  ‘But you are a duke. Surely you can do as you please.’

  Bertrand laughed at her answer. ‘If only that were true, my princess. Above me there are kings. Above them is the King Regnant. Above him…’ He trailed off, as though he was reluctant to speak further. Adaali couldn’t imagine who could possibly be above the King Regnant.

  ‘So even you must do your duty,’ she said. ‘I have my duty too.’ She looked back at the training rack, at the weapons laid out there, thinking on the hours of pain she had endured.

  ‘I’m sure. It can be a burden.’

  She looked back at him, thinking about the miles he had travelled to broker his alliance only to receive Queen Suraan’s rebuttal.

  ‘Will your king be angry you have failed?’ she asked.

  Bertrand shrugged. ‘I have not failed yet,’ he said.

  ‘But you may well have to give him sad news.’

  He fixed her with another mournful look. ‘It is not the news that will be the sad part.’

  Before she could answer, she heard a palace servant talking nearby and realised it would not do for her to be caught alone with one of the palace guests.

  ‘I must go,’ she said. ‘Good luck to you, Duke Bertrand of the south.’

  ‘And to you,’ he replied.

  With that she left him in the training yard and made her way back inside. When she finally reached her chamber it was empty. As she ducked under her covers she thought on the duke and how sad he had been. She almost felt sorry for him, but sorrow did no one any good. Everyone had their burdens, and no one else could carry them.

  6

  EYMAN looked nervous as they rode their horses west. Josten knew he should never have let the young lad come, but he’d been too keen to be refused the chance. Now he looked about ready to shit his saddle.

  Why did this always happen? Why did he always find himself watching over the weak link in the group? Nobody had ever watched over Josten Cade when he’d been young and green and as much use as tits on a bull. He’d had to learn quick what it meant to be a soldier. He’d been flung in the sea and forced to swim or drown. Eyman would just have to learn the hard way like everyone else.

  ‘You’ll be all right,’ he said reassuringly.

  So much for the hard way.

  Eyman grinned. ‘I know. What’s the worst that could happen? Right?’

  ‘Capture and torture,’ Kyon said from behind them.

  ‘It won’t come to that,’ replied Josten.

  Eyman didn’t say anything else. It was obvious he was considering the notion. Josten just hoped the prospect of death or torture would make him more careful, fight that bit harder. He hoped it wouldn’t fester and turn to fear – that would make the lad less than useless.

  Putting it from his mind, Josten squinted northeastwards. He could just make out the spires of Mantioch in the distance. They had given the place as wide a berth as they could, keeping a wary eye out for scouting bands of cultists, but so far had been lucky enough to avoid any roaming patrols.

  ‘How much further?’ Retuchius asked. ‘We’ve been riding for a night and a day.’

  ‘Another few leagues and we should pick up the road west to Kragenskûl,’ Kyon answered.

  Retuchius remained silent. Despite all they’d been through he still hated Kyon. As long as it didn’t stop them doing their jobs, Josten wasn’t about to get involved.

  Kyon’s words were proven true no more than an hour later when their horses came to a road, if Josten would have called it that. It was more a dusty trail where the endless desert flattened out, east to west.

  ‘No place for an ambush,’ said Retuchius.

  Josten nodded in agreement. ‘We’ll keep moving west, hopefully the road will cut through another forgotten town or temple. With any luck we’ll be ahead of whoever’s transporting this stone.’

  ‘Did we ever find out what it’s for?’ Eyman asked as they took the road west at a trot.

  ‘No idea,’ Josten replied. ‘All I know is Silver wants it kept out of Innellan’s hands. That’s good enough for me.’

  ‘So it could be useless?’

  ‘Useless to us, maybe. But if Innellan’s demanded it be taken from Mantioch to Kragenskûl she must want it for something. Anything we can do to disrupt that gives us an advantage.’

  ‘So it’s some magic bauble?’ Eyman said.

  Magic. Josten still hadn’t got used to that word, despite all he’d seen. ‘It could be a lump of useless rock, for all I know. But we have our orders and we’re going to see them through.’

  They continued along the road as it swept up the side of a steep bank. At the top Josten reined in his mount. Looking down on what lay beyond, he allowed himself a smile.

  In a shallow valley sat the remains of an abandoned mine. Several tunnel entrances were held up by ageing timbers and tracks for mining carts could still be seen snaking along the ground. Here and there stood abandoned huts. The road ran straight through the middle of it.

  ‘This is the spot,’ Josten said as his men reached the brow of the hill.

  ‘Perfect,’ said Kyon as he looked down onto the broken valley. ‘We can block the exit on the other side of the quarry, pen them in.’

  ‘How long do you think we have?’ asked Retuchius.

  ‘Not long,’ Josten replied. ‘The Hierophant said they’d be moving the stone as soon as the storm stopped. That was yesterday.’
/>
  ‘Then we’d best get a move on,’ Kyon said, urging his horse down into the quarry.

  Josten ordered Eyman to stay up on the ridge and keep watch over the road back to Mantioch. The rest of them entered the quarry and made cover on either side which they could hide behind. Retuchius took the horses ahead, tethering them out of sight. Then they waited.

  Concealing himself within the entrance to a collapsed mine, Josten took his position. Most of his time these days was endless hours of boredom split up by moments of extreme violence and terror. But he’d known what he was letting himself in for when he followed Silver north to the Ramadi. He was a fighting man, always had been. This was his life. Granted, he’d always been paid a decent wedge of coin for his trouble, and now he was offering his services for free, but nothing much else had changed. At least now he had a cause. Now it felt like what he was doing mattered. Best not to dwell on that too much lest he persuade himself he’d made the wrong decision. As Eyman galloped down into the quarry, Josten didn’t have to think on it any longer.

  ‘They’re coming,’ Eyman said. ‘Less than a league back.’

  ‘How many?’ Josten asked.

  ‘Half a dozen riders. One wagon.’

  ‘All right. Tether your horse with the rest and get yourself behind the barricade.’

  Eyman nodded, urging his horse on down the road.

  Josten drew his sword, pressing himself up against the wall of the tunnel entrance. Time seemed to stretch. It always did before the fight, before the killing. Less than a league shouldn’t have taken that long, but it was an eternity when you were about to risk your life. When you were about to run charging at someone with a sword, hellbent on killing them and they hellbent on surviving. He should have been used to it by now, but Josten reckoned no one could ever get used to a thing like that. Not unless they were mad.

  He glanced out across the quarry, seeing the Shengen hiding, waiting. At least he wasn’t alone. These easterners were forged in iron – strong, tough, loyal. A thousand like these and Josten could have ended the War of Three Crowns years ago.

  At the sound of hooves tamping against the hard ground, the time for daydreaming was over. Josten squeezed himself tighter against the side of the mine entrance as he peeked down the road. Eyman had been right – half a dozen riders, three in front and three behind a wagon. It trundled down into the quarry, wheels kicking up dust as it drew closer.

  Across the quarry the wagon drew level with him. Retuchius crouched behind an upturned cart, his men were further down the road, hiding behind the rocks and ridges, and inside the carcasses of derelict huts. As Retuchius nodded his way, waiting for the signal to attack, there was movement behind him. The ground rose up, as though the side of the valley was coming to life. Josten could only watch in horror as he realised it was all too human – a man hidden beneath his cloak, half buried in the dirt.

  They were already lying in wait.

  Josten was about to sprint from the mine entrance, about to shout that this was a trap, when something came at him from deeper in the tunnel. He just had time to raise his blade as the shadows came alive; a hulking figure lurching forward from the dark.

  ‘Ambush!’ Josten cried, but the shout was lost beneath the ring of metal as he parried a sword thrust.

  His attacker was a brute, flesh covered in charcoal, naked but for a kilt around his waist. The giant’s hair was greased back, eyes two white pools of hate, and he charged at Josten with all the fury he’d come to expect from these mad cultist bastards.

  There was no room to swing his sword in the tunnel, and Josten staggered back, just managing to parry another thrust as he stepped out into the open. From the corner of his eye he barely had chance to register the mad battle going on across the hill as Retuchius and the rest of the Shengens were forced into a desperate fight for their lives.

  The warrior came at him again, swinging that curved blade with precision. Josten parried as he backed away, stumbling all the while, desperate to keep his footing.

  Below him the doors to the wagon burst open, more cultists teeming out, taking the fight to the Shengens.

  The cultist swung again, thick arms wielding that blade like it weighed nothing. Josten ducked, countering with a thrust of his own sword. He struck the cultist in the guts, blade driving in halfway to the hilt. It was a thrust that would have felled any normal man, but these cultists were far from normal. They were slaves to the White Widow, in thrall to a god, and they would strive to do her bidding even if every limb was severed.

  Ignoring his grievous wound, the cultist raised his blade once more. Josten could only stare up at it, his own weapon lodged in the enemy. Before that blow could land, another sword hacked into the side of the cultist’s head. Blood spattered Josten’s face as the cultist was felled like a tree. Eyman stood there victorious, a look of grim determination about his young features.

  Josten planted a foot on the dead man’s body and wrenched his weapon free. A glance around at the battlefield and he knew they’d already lost. On the opposite hill Retuchius lay face down, blood pooling in the sand around his head. The other Shengens were fighting valiantly but with the reinforcements who’d burst from the wagon and a dozen more springing from beneath the dirt of the quarry they were sorely outnumbered.

  ‘Get to the horses,’ Josten shouted. Eyman just stared back at him in shock. Josten grabbed hold of his collar. ‘Fucking run!’ he bellowed.

  That was enough to light a fire in the young militiaman, and he turned, racing west along the road to their hastily erected barricade.

  As battle raged around them, Josten could see more men fighting up ahead. The cultists seemed to be appearing from nowhere, their camouflage hiding them beneath the ground until the moment was right to attack. Kyon swung his weapon expertly, cutting down two cultists, but more were streaming from the hills on either side. As Josten raced towards the battle he knew this was all his fault. How had he missed the sign of the ambushers? How had this turned into such a fuck-up?

  There’d be time to chastise himself later, if he managed to get out of there alive.

  Josten charged into the enemy, smashing the back of a skull open. He swung again, taking another in the shoulder. Kyon moved to position himself by Josten’s side as Eyman stumbled to a halt, unsure of what to do.

  ‘Keep running,’ Josten barked, as he and Kyon retreated from their attackers, the barricade at their backs.

  They were surrounded. More cultists were advancing from down the road, a good half dozen. An arrow streaked past Josten’s head, embedding itself in the wooden barrier behind him. Archers were all they needed.

  Kyon picked up a fallen shield and Josten joined him behind it. More arrows struck the steel. There was a shrill yell beside him as a kilt-wearing fanatic charged. Josten swung, taking down the attacker with a solid blow.

  ‘Get out of here,’ he shouted at Kyon.

  The Shengen turned to make a run for it, just as an arrow hit him in the shoulder. He dropped his shield, stumbling in the dirt as two more arrows struck him in the chest.

  Josten glanced back over the barricade in time to see Eyman on top of a horse, kicking it for all he was worth, leaving the quarry behind. Good for him.

  Turning back to the cultists, Josten gritted his teeth. Time to hate. Time to fight. Time to die.

  They were surrounding him now. Maybe a dozen. None of them seemed too keen on attacking though. They still had that zeal in their eyes but something was stopping them from ending this. More warriors came from the quarry and over the ridge down into the mine complex. There must have been more than a score hidden all about the mineworkings. Josten realised he and his dozen men had never stood a chance.

  A huge warrior pushed his way to the fore, curved sword in hand. Blood spattered his charcoal-covered face and dripped from that blade.

  ‘Drop it,’ he said, motioning to Josten’s sword with his own.

  ‘Do I look fucking stupid?’ Josten replied. ‘I’ll go down f
ighting, if it’s all the same to you.’

  There was a sharp hiss before Josten felt a burning hot pain stab through his thigh. He yelped, losing his balance as he grasped the arrow someone had just fired into his leg.

  ‘I warned you,’ said the big cultist.

  That was fair enough, but Josten would be damned if he’d let these bastards take him alive. He tried to push himself back up, but the pain shooting through his leg wouldn’t let him. Instead he had to kneel, brandishing his sword as best he could, ready to take the first one of them that approached in the groin.

  The big one came forward, swung his blade and knocked the sword right out of Josten’s hand. So much for going down fighting.

  ‘What do we do with him now?’ said one of the cultists. ‘Back to Mantioch?’

  The big one shook his head. ‘No. We have our orders. Get him in the wagon.’

  Josten tried to fight them off as they rushed him, but there were too many. He didn’t even get a decent shot at one of them before his hands were tied behind his back and he was bundled towards the waiting wagon.

  He grunted and snarled as they threw him inside, but he knew it was pointless. No amount of defiance was going to save him now.

  7

  THE world was roiling in a storm of red and death. Teeth gnashing, flesh tearing, bones cracking in a never-ending nightmare from which she could not wake. She was trapped in this hellish vision, a foetus wrapped in the belly of some unseen horror.

  Above it all, voices whispered malevolent words, hate-filled curses just beyond her understanding, a thousand screeching mouths assailing her all at once. And yet, behind it all, one voice was with her, whispering words of hope, a beacon in this fog of terror. She tried to reach out to that voice, to grasp it and hope it could pull her free like a fish from the sea, but it was too distant, too weak. It could not overcome the wave after wave of bile.

  She would have screamed but she had no voice, would have run but she had no legs, would have fought but she had no arms. If only she could open her eyes…

  Adaali woke panting in the cool night air. Once again the linen sheet clung to her legs, holding her fast. She unpeeled it from her cold wet flesh and cast it aside, rolling from the bed and crouching down, the voices fading. At the back of her mind she could still hear the distant clashing of weapons. Those voices raised in anger.