“Don’t leave without me,” Corbus said breathlessly as he directed the operator to a different destination. The man nodded, then activated the machine. It swung ponderously around again, the motion tossing Corbus against one of the support poles on the edge of the fløte’s platform. He gripped it tightly.
Just one more stop.
This time when he exited he told the man he would tip him well when he returned. The fløte had descended to a much lower level of the fortress, and Corbus walked out into a darker hallway smelling of must, yet with the murmur of muted conversation and the clink of glasses all around. Corbus stepped up to a certain doorway, knocked twice, then once, then three times. Instantly the door swung open. Several standard-looking Nortlanders, complete with the bushy beard and ruddy face, stared out at him.
“The wolf howls at midnight.”
“The pack bays for blood,” the shortest man replied.
“It is time, my friends, much earlier than we thought. The prince has need of you. Will you answer the rightful king’s call?”
The men knelt, saluting Corbus. “We are ready, Assassin.”
He opened the knapsack and handed them the weapons he had gathered. “Use them only if necessary. Otherwise, use your own weapons.” They nodded, treating the small daggers with reverence. “Let’s go.”
He led a dozen men back to the fløte. The operator appeared surprised at the large number of fully armed and armored men approaching his vessel, but he cast off at Corbus’s direction, and the vessel ascended. As promised, Corbus generously tipped the operator when they returned to the hallway where the prince now waited with his men.
Corbus moved up close to Lokus to murmur, “My Liege, if I may say it, I still do not believe we are ready. We cannot take them yet. Next week perhaps, when the Romans are weaker and both Therodi and Laufas are in the field, we can take the citadel unaware.”
The prince gazed back at him with eyes that burned in cold fury. “Tonight, my father shall die. And I shall be king. Laufas and Therodi shall either bend knee to me, or find themselves lacking knees and heads.”
Corbus bowed his head in acknowledgement, then said, “May I see your weapons, My Lord? I wish to sharpen them for you before the attack, as only a master assassin such as myself knows how.”
Lokus handed over his sword and his gauntlet claws-intricate and extraordinarily rare weapons; Corbus had never seen any others in existence. And this man treats them like common objects. Why, if I owned them. . Despite such thoughts, Corbus matter-of-factly pulled his whetstone and, more surreptitiously, one of the tiny vials from his belt pouch. Lokus turned away, uninterested in such workaday procedures, and addressed his men. Taking advantage of their distraction, Corbus carefully uncorked the vial, tipped the contents onto a rag, and rubbed the rag over each of the five needle-sharp claws and the tip of the sword blade. No one will be recovering from that, even a man with the king’s famous iron constitution. He tucked whetstone and the rag-wrapped vial back into his pouch, and held the weapons out to Lokus.
“Be very careful, my prince; a prick from these weapons will have dire consequences.” The man sheathed his sword and pulled the gloves on nonchalantly, as if ignoring the warning. Corbus nearly threw his hands up in exasperation.
“Ready?” The usurper asked. His men nodded, grim-faced.
Corbus, hand on the hilt of his own weapon, pulled the door open. The prince and his rebels stormed in. Corbus followed.
Chapter 18
Octavia
Spilled roughly onto the red-carpeted floor of the throne room, Octavia drew a shaky breath and tried to gather her wits. The lump on her head was still pounding, and her empty stomach threatened to dry heave again. Thank goodness that murderer Corbus isn’t here, she thought as she looked around.
The throne room of the Nortland king was relatively barren. Large stone columns, intricately carved in mythological scenes from Nortland’s past, supported heavy timber beams, some looking many hundreds of years old. It was all Octavia could do not to gawk in awe of the Nortlander artistry. She had been to the Imperial throne room in Rome, strode amongst the magnificent columns that graced it, but this dwarfed even that in scale. While not as refined, nor as gaudy, this throne room certainly had their more “civilized” neighbors beaten in the “terrifying and imposing” department.
Octavia dragged her eyes down from the ceiling to the massive throne that stood on a stone dais at the center of the room. Sunlight filtered in from somewhere very high above, creating a field of shimmering light around the throne.
Octavia rose shakily to her feet, her hands rubbing at her arms to try to bring some warmth to her body. Her other jacket had been so matted with blood and puke that her captors had burnt it. Her teeth chattered as she examined the immense throne.
It was rumored to be pure copper, and the rumors appeared to be true. The massive construct was simple and smooth, a large square seat with two armrests and a headrest of hammered and engraved copper. Apart from the engraving, there was no further adornment, other than the furs thrown over the seat. Probably gets cold up there.
A faint shuffle grabbed her attention. The two large guards behind her had straightened to stand ramrod straight, something relatively rare for these generally undisciplined barbarians. That fact alone made her take notice of the man who entered.
He was swathed in fur and armor, save for his bald head, which shone like the copper throne in the diffuse overhead light. He needed no herald, no trumpet of announcement. This was the Copper King, his mighty lordship, first among equals, master of hammer and anvil, ruler of Midgard, Nortland, and assorted territories, frozen chief of the north and general pain in the Imperium’s side, His Majesty Gustavus Bismark II.
Regarding her with intense purple eyes, he approached Octavia calmly. His face betrayed no hint of anger or malice, nor any sign of warmth or curiosity. All Octavia could discern was the iron strength of his chill gaze. She lowered her eyes, but not her head, unable to maintain eye contact with such a man.
“Are you afraid?” The voice was low, but melodic, like water burbling from the high mountains.
“No, Your Majesty,” Octavia managed to whisper.
“And why not? Your people have brought war to my country. I have seen it for myself.” A loud thump piqued Octavia’s curiosity enough to get her eyes up again. The king had placed his large copper hammer of state next to his throne, its head thudding against the solid stone. They really go all out with this whole “copper king” business, Octavia’s mind thought fleetingly.
Gustavus’ voice pulled her back to reality. “Your legions have cut a bloody swath through my nation, and we have done naught to you. Perhaps you, Senatora, representative of our esteemed brother in Rome, could shed some light on why there is an army camped at my door.” He lowered himself into his seat.
Octavia was stunned. How can he not know? Has no one told him? Have none of our envoys demanding he capture and turn over the prosecutors of the Brittenburg Incident been received? She voiced these thoughts.
Now it was the king’s turn to be surprised. Or so Octavia thought, although the only indication of it was a slight narrowing of his eyes. If anything, his piercing stare became even more painful to look at.
“You’re telling me that your entire Empire declared war on my nation because of a simple raid?” he said quietly in unaccented Latin.