The pole-axe blade slammed into her back and erupted from her chest. Her back arched as blood fountained from her mouth. She hung there for a moment, head lolling to the side, her eyes finding his face. “Beloved,” she said, showing red teeth in a smile of complete devotion. Frentis twisted the blade and watched the light fade from her eyes.
More screams from the princess as she found the strength to rise, her hands scrabbling at her face and hair as they beat down the flames.
“Princess . . .” He went to her but she reeled away, still screaming, running through the smoke, her blue gown lost in the haze. He ran after her, rebounding from flaming walls, stumbling over corpses. The smoke faded as he found the corridor. Screams echoed in the distance as the princess continued her unreasoned flight. He ran on, pausing at the sight of a guardsman’s body a short way along the corridor. This one wasn’t burned, his throat gaping open. Slit from behind, a single stroke. Kuritai. They’re here. It’s started.
He took the guardsman’s sword and ran on, following the princess’s screams, finding more bodies with every turned corner, bloody streaks staining clean palace marble. The screams were soon lost amongst the rising cacophony of terror and combat as the Kuritai abandoned stealth and began their work in earnest. He found a maid standing amidst four bodies in a courtyard, staring about in shock, for some reason still holding a basket of laundry. Before he could approach her a Kuritai appeared from the shadowed arches behind to cut her down with a single thrust through the back.
Frentis held up a hand as the man came for him, short sword raised, speaking in Volarian. “The King has been dealt with. I have orders to secure his sister.”
The Kuritai hesitated, his sword dropping only a fraction, but it was enough. Frentis’s sword point scraped past the opposing blade, taking the man in the eye, punching through to the brain. Frentis tugged the sword free and ran on.
More bodies, more Kuritai killing servants and soldiery alike with typical efficiency, too many to fight. Any who tried to block his path were killed, otherwise he ran on. There was a joy in the familiar feel of the Asraelin sword in his hand as it parried and cut, years of Order training returning in an instant. I am no slave, he remembered, side-stepping a thrust and severing his assailant’s arm. I am a brother of the Sixth Order. Freedom was exhilarating, adding speed to his flight through the palace. There should have been guilt; he had just killed the King of the Unified Realm, he had left a trail of death the length of the Alpiran Empire, but the absence of the binding was too wonderful to allow the onset of despair. That, he knew, would come later.
They should have killed me in the pits, he thought as he ran. I’ll turn this invasion into their ruin. I’ll wring blood from their army until their empire’s bled white.
He drew up short at the sight of a guard officer fighting two Kuritai in a hallway lined with huge paintings. He was a Lord Marshal of horse judging by his uniform, and a skilled swordsman, managing to keep two such able opponents at bay, though they were slowly backing him into a corner, his parries becoming more desperate as they closed for the killing blow.
Frentis took the princess’s throwing knife from his boot, still red with his blood, and threw it at the nearest Kuritai, the blade sinking into the base of his skull. His companion stepped back from the Lord Marshal, his gaze finding Frentis, then dropping into a defensive stance he recognised from the pits. The Lord Marshal saw his chance and aimed a thrust at his chest.
“No!” Frentis shouted but it was too late, the Lord Marshal had taken the bait. The Kuritai ducked under the blade, rolling and jabbing upwards with his short sword, the blade sinking deep into the guardsman’s chest.
Frentis charged the Kuritai as he vaulted to his feet, spinning to parry the first thrust, replying with one of his own, only blocked with instinctive speed. Frentis took in the man’s features, finding recognition there. The One who answered the door to the warehouse, he realised. A Kuritai captain. The man’s face was devoid of expression, betraying no surprise at finding himself fighting a man who had been at the mistress’s side the night before. It was the way with these automata. Bred and trained for war, conditioned with drugs and Faith knew what other Dark devices. Made perfect killers, immune to fear or distracting insult. Even so, he had killed many, and now would kill one more.
It was a scale from his days under Master Sollis, drilled into him with merciless precision, for use against a skilled enemy. A series of slashes and thrusts, delivered with dizzying speed, all aimed at the face, forcing the opponent to raise his blade, leaving the midriff open, not for a sword but a kick. Frentis’s boot took the One full in the sternum, bone breaking with an audible crunch. The Kuritai slumped against the wall, blood coming from his mouth, but finding the strength for a final thrust. Frentis swept it aside and cut his throat with the backswing.
“K-King . . .” the fallen Lord Marshall stuttered, staring up at Frentis, his face white from loss of blood.
Frentis went to his side, looking at the wound and seeing it was hopeless. “The King is fallen,” he said. “But Princess Lyrna lives. I need to find her.”
“Brother . . . F-Frentis, is it not?” the guardsman asked in a croak. “I saw . . . with the Wolfrunners, years ago . . .”
“Yes. Brother Frentis.” I am a brother of the Sixth Order. “And you, my lord?”
“S-Smolen . . .” He coughed, staining his chin with blood.
“My lord, your wound . . . I cannot . . .”
“Care not for me, brother. L-look for her in the east wing . . . Her rooms are there . . .” He smiled as his eyes began to dim. “Tell her . . . It was a great thing to travel so far . . . with the woman I loved . . .”
“My lord?”
The smile faded from the Lord Marshal’s lips and his features slumped into a lifeless mask. Frentis gripped his shoulder and turned away, turning a corner and running in what he hoped was an eastward direction. The palace was empty here, no more bodies, although the sounds of slaughter still echoed through the halls. He passed a broad window and saw flames rising in the city. He paused, taking in the sight of the Volarian fleet crowding the harbour, well over a thousand ships, disgorging a great mass of soldiery onto the wharfs, a constant stream of boats carrying more from the ships outside the harbour wall. He could see no Realm Guard, just Varitai and Free Swords, forming ranks and moving off at the trot, spreading throughout the city in accordance with a well-rehearsed design. This has been long planned my love . . .
Varinshold will fall this night, he realised, tearing his gaze away and running on. He would find the princess and spirit her from the city. Then to the Order House with warning of the impending attack.
He came upon more bodies as he entered the east wing; it was separated from the main palace by a narrow courtyard, several corpses lying amongst the rosebushes and cherry blossoms. A tumult of combat came from the doorway ahead, shouted challenges in an unfamiliar language. A woman’s voice.
He charged in, finding four Kuritai battling a tall tattooed woman wielding a spear, the blade trailing blood as she whirled it. One was already down and she speared another through the leg as he stepped forward to make an unwise thrust, twisting away before the others could close. Lonak, Frentis realised, noting her tattoos and the indecipherable abuse she yelled at her attackers. Crouched to her rear was a lanky youth clutching a long sword, staring at the melee with wide-eyed indecision. Frentis was impressed he hadn’t run.
He killed the wounded Kuritai with a slash to the neck, took another down with a thrust to the back, parried the third’s slash and stepped back as the Lonak woman speared him in the guts. She finished him with a bone-crushing stamp to the neck and whirled to face Frentis, spear levelled. “Who are you?” she demanded in Realm Tongue.
“I am a brother of the Sixth Order,” he replied. “Come in search of Princess Lyrna.”
“You wear no cloak,” she said, eyes narrowed in su
spicion.
“Brother Frentis?” the lanky youth came forward, staring at him. “Could you be Brother Frentis?”
“I am,” he said. “Is the princess here?”
The Lonak woman lowered her spear, though her suspicion still lingered. “This place falls to deceit,” she told the boy. “Don’t give your trust so easy.”
“This is Brother Frentis,” he replied. “And you saw what he just did. If we cannot trust him, there is no-one to trust.”
“The princess,” Frentis repeated.
“She’s not here,” the boy said. “We haven’t seen her since she went to meet with the King. I’m Arendil, this is Davoka.”
“You are far from the mountains,” Frentis observed to the Lonak woman.
“I am ambassador,” she replied. “What has happened here?”
“The King has been assassinated, also his queen and the children. Princess Lyrna has fled, badly wounded. We must find her.”
The Lonak woman’s eyes lit with rage and concern. “Wounded! How?”
“She burned. The assassin . . . had a Dark ability with fire.”
Davoka hefted her spear. “Where is this assassin?”
“Dead by my hand. We have no time for this. A Volarian army comes ashore as we speak and this city will be in their hands within hours.” He cast around at the empty palace halls. She will not be found here. “We have to leave,” he said. “Get to the Order House.”
“Not without my queen,” Davoka stated.
“If you linger here, you’ll die and she’ll still be unfound.” He gestured at the long sword in the boy’s hands. “Can you use that?”
The boy took a firmer grip on the hilt and nodded.
“Then next time do so, don’t just stand there.” He started for the courtyard, Arendil trotting after.
“Davoka,” he paused to hiss at the Lonak woman. “Please!”
Frentis ran on, making for the western wall. The gates would be in Volarian hands by now, they would have to find another way. He glanced back on reaching the wall, seeing Davoka’s tall form following. He moved right for another forty feet or so until he found it, a shallow drain leaking foul-smelling water into the city sewers through a channel in the base of the wall.
“We won’t fit,” Arendil said, nose wrinkling at the smell.
The channel was barely one foot high, though fortunately without bars. “Strip,” Frentis told him, pulling off his shirt. “Smear yourself with shit. It’ll ease your passage.”
He went first, scooping up muck from the drain water to cover his chest and arms. He cast the sword ahead of him then lay down and crawled through, straining to squirm into the sewer beyond, skin scraped and chafed by the rock, his knife wound stinging from the foulness that would surely infect it. With a final grunt he hauled himself free of the channel, bending down and extending a hand to the boy. He pushed his long sword through then followed, coughing and retching from the stench. Davoka was next, her spear clattering past them before her head appeared, teeth bared as she tried to pull herself free. Frentis and Arendil took hold of her arms and hauled her out, Arendil gaping at her bare though shit-covered breasts. She cuffed him on the side of the head and retrieved her spear.
“How do we find our way down here?” Arendil asked, rubbing his stinging head.
Frentis found he had a laugh in him. “How does anyone find their way around their home?”
◆ ◆ ◆
He tried for the northern river outlet first, it was closest and offered the prospect of the north road, the quickest route to the Order House. He had Davoka and Arendil wait whilst he crawled through the pipe to the river, peering out at the half-obscured north gate on the far bank. Varitai were already manning the gatehouse with more on the walls, including several archers. He had hoped to crawl along the bank and through the channel under the city wall but they would be seen almost instantly and swimming upriver against the current was impossible.
“No good,” he reported after crawling back. “The walls are lost.”
“No other way?” Davoka asked.
“Just one.” He didn’t like it, the route was tortuous and would add miles to their journey to the Order House, but all other avenues would be well guarded by now. For all his detestation of the Volarians, their efficiency demanded considerable respect.
“You were there,” Davoka said as he led them on an easterly course through the maze of tunnels, splashing through the foul waters that still made Arendil retch with every other step. “You saw this assassin?”
The King’s eyes . . . the sound his neck made as it broke, like a dry piece of driftwood . . . “I was.”
“There was no warning? No chance to stop it?”
“If there had been, I would have taken it.”
A pause as she fumbled for the right words. “The gorin . . . character of the assassin? Their name?”
“A Volarian woman. I never knew her name.” He held up a hand as a sound echoed through the tunnels, a brief shout, quickly cut off. He crouched, waiting, listening. Faint whispers came to him, rough voices in argument, the words indistinct.
Frentis crept forward, sliding his feet along under the water, pausing at a corner as the voices became clearer. Two of them, both male. “I ain’t staying down ’ere all fuckin’ night,” a guttural whisper, the words pitched high in desperation.
“Then go for a nice walk outside,” a calmer response, but still edged with fear. “Make some new friends.”
A pause, then a sullen mutter, “Must be somewhere better’n this shit pipe.”
“There isn’t,” Frentis said, stepping round the corner.
The two men crouched in the tunnel ahead gaped at him then surged to their feet. The smaller of the two, shaven-headed with a gold earring, carried a long-bladed dagger. His companion, a large man with a mass of shaggy black hair, brandished a cudgel as Frentis came closer.
“Who the fuck are you?” the large man demanded.
“I am a brother of the Sixth Order.”
“Balls, where’s your cloak?” He advanced raising the cudgel with a snarl, stopping short as Frentis’s sword point appeared under his chin.
“Proof enough?” Frentis asked.
The smaller man seemed about to intervene then caught sight of Davoka advancing along the tunnel, spear levelled. “No offence, brother,” he said, pushing the dagger into his belt and raising his hands. “I’m Ulven and this fine fellow is known as Bear, account of his hair, see? Just two honest folk seeking refuge.”
“Really?” Frentis angled his gaze, studying the large man’s fearful visage. “When this one used to collect for One Eye he was called Draker and you were called Ratter, on account of your trustworthy nature.”
The smaller man drew back, eyes narrowed. “I know you, brother?”
“You used to call me shit-bag when you gave me a kicking. The night I gave One Eye his name you were right behind him as I recall.”
“Frentis,” the man breathed, partly in amazement, but more in fear.
“Brother Frentis,” he corrected.
Ratter swallowed, glancing behind him in preparation for flight. “That . . . was a lotta years gone, brother.”
He had often dreamed of a chance for vengeance, recompense for all those beatings, all his stolen loot. Killing them would be so easy, he was so well practised after all.
“One Eye blamed us, y’see,” Ratter went on, backing away. “For not spotting you that night. We had to leave the city for years, lived like beggars we did.”
“How terrible for you.” Frentis looked into Draker’s eyes, seeing only fear, like the bandit in the desert, or the smuggler’s first mate . . .
“We’re making for the harbour-pipe,” he said, withdrawing the sword point and moving on, Ratter shrinking away as he passed. “You can come, but I hear one ounce of shit from eit
her of you, you’re done. Understand?”
◆ ◆ ◆
It took a good hour’s worth of sloshing through the sewers before they came to the pipe jutting out from the harbour wall. As they moved the sounds of Varinshold’s fall echoed down through the drains, screams of torment and terror, roaring fires and the thunder of collapsing walls. Here and there they heard the unmistakable song of combat, clashing steel and rage . . . followed by the screams of the defeated.
“Faith!” Ratter breathed, gazing up at blood dripping from a drain in the tunnel ceiling. “Never thought I’d feel sorry for the City Guard.”
Frentis peered through the pipe at the harbour, seeing Volarian ships clustered around the quays, more offshore still disgorging troops into their boats. He judged the distance to the nearest ship at little over a hundred paces, well within bowshot and there was a fair chance of being seen, but he was hoping most of the archers were employed elsewhere. In any case there was no other option.
“Mind if I go first, brother?” Ratter volunteered. “Clear the way like?”
“Fuck that,” Draker replied. “Why should you be first?”
“Because whoever’s last is most likely to get an arrow in the back,” Frentis said. He beckoned Arendil closer. “There’s a ten-foot drop onto the rocks below the pipe,” he told the boy. “The tide’s on the turn so we won’t have to swim. Keep to the rocks and head north. That’ll bring you round the headland. When the ships are out of sight, wait for us.” He nodded to Davoka. “You next. Then you two,” he added as Ratter started to speak again.
Arendil took a deep breath then climbed into the pipe, shuffling along then dropping from sight. Davoka paused before following. “If you die?”
“The Order House is twelve miles west. Find the north road and follow it.”
She nodded then followed Arendil through the pipe. Frentis turned to find Ratter and Draker tossing a coin. Ratter lost, much to Draker’s delight. “Enjoy your arrow, y’little bastard,” he said, squirming into the pipe with difficulty.
“Fat sod’s going to block the bloody thing,” Ratter grumbled as Draker seemed to take an age to haul his bulk along. Finally, after much squirming, his great shadow disappeared from the pipe, heralded by a shout as he landed on the rocks below.