River wasted no time, placing the lantern on the floor and crossing the chamber. He knelt beside the wallet and reached out a hand, but paused before touching it. This could be a trap. Perhaps the wallet contained Elharim magicks that would wither the flesh from his bones. Maybe the Father of Killers had known he would come all along and had laid a trap.
No. The Father of Killers had sent Forest to murder River. He had no idea that River would survive, let alone return for vengeance. For all the Father knew Forest had succeeded in his mission. This could not be a trap.
River grasped the wallet and gingerly opened it. What he had been expecting to find he couldn’t say, but it was not the dried and flattened rose that lay within the folds of the leather wallet.
He knelt and stared at it for several moments. A single rose. Whatever significance it had for the Father of Killers, River had no idea. Perhaps it was some keepsake from the Riverlands. Perhaps some gesture of union from Amon Tugha. River could only ponder as he reached out a finger to touch one of the dried leaves …
White light burned his eyes — a tunnel of blinding, searing fire through which he fell. River wanted to scream but his mouth would not open. Wanted to close his eyes but his lids would not shut.
Nails.
Two nails pressed against his lips, the metallic tang of iron teasing his tongue. He knew he would take these nails and make something of them, something deadly, something profane.
A lone tree standing in an ancient amphitheatre. A hammer. The nails. A sigil.
A smile.
Later this tree will act as a distraction. It will allow him to reach his mark. To commit the killing he has been tasked with. Ancient magicks will be invoked. Fell northern words for a fell northern spell.
The arena fills as he waits in the dark, unseen and unheard. He has had many faces over the centuries, many names, but for this work he wears the same one he has donned for decades — old and comfortable.
When the time is right, when the tree comes to life with all the hate and fury of his master, he strikes from the shadow, cutting down many men. They are as nothing to him, it is like murdering children as his blade slides between and through the plate armour they think will protect them.
There is confusion. Screaming. Carnage.
And finally she comes to him.
She is defiant, but not as defiant as the last one who protects her. There is something about this man, something special within his blood, but that is of little consequence. And so he strikes. More guardians who cannot be allowed to stand in his way.
More death. More killing. A pursuit.
Until finally he has them.
They stand atop a derelict wall and he cuts down the last of her protectors. Still she shows no fear. He knows he should strike swift but he cannot help himself. He must know.
‘What did you do to my son, River, to turn him against me?’
She smiles.
‘I offered him love.’
He has heard enough. But there is movement behind him. He senses danger … real danger.
An old woman, but much more than just that.
She flings something at him and he reacts out of instinct.
Foolish.
He is consumed by flame. Smashed. Burned. His arm is gone. The mask he wears now matters little.
He turns to see her standing there. Defiant again.
Something inside him admires her for it. He finally realises why River betrayed him for this woman.
She raises his blade.
He barely hears her words as she plunges it into his throat.
River fell back gasping, the leather wallet falling from his hand.
All he could see was the white ceiling flicker in the dancing light. As he sucked air back into his lungs he began to realise what he had just seen.
The Father of Killers was dead.
And Jay had been the one to kill him.
For a moment River felt elated. Jay was safe from the Father of Killers.
But she is not safe from Amon Tugha.
He glanced down at the wallet, seeing the dried rose had spilled out to lie on the whitewashed floor. His head had almost cleared now but there was still a fug there from what it had revealed to him. Whatever magicks had shown him his Father’s past, whatever this thing was, it held great power. Perhaps it could show him more.
River reached out, grasping the flower and crushing it in his fist …
The northern air was clear. Mountains surrounded him, rivers of crystal. Spires soaring, entwined within the landscape at their root. It was breathtaking to behold and he was proud to call it home. But he had no time to appreciate the architecture.
Instead he learned the killing ways. The tenets of the Arc Magna were not easily learned. Many failed. Many died. But not him. He was a prince, tall and proud and invincible. He would have made a great king, but that honour was not his by right.
His mother was a warrior queen. Keeping the Riverlands protected through ruthless stewardship. His brother was heir by right of birth, destined for power. He was but a warrior, a weapon. He would never be a king …
… unless he took the crown by force.
He gathered about him other warriors of like mind. Those who would never accept his brother as their liege. He planned meticulously. Trained his body unceasingly. And struck ruthlessly.
His coup failed.
While his co-conspirators were executed, he was exiled. Cast to the southern winds. Banished forever. Only Endellion and Azreal remained by his side. His loyal aides. They would be rewarded with all the riches he could bestow when he returned to claim his birthright.
And he would return.
But first he had to prove himself in the south. Had to conquer. Had to destroy. Had to tear down everything these southrons held dear and then rebuild it in his own name.
The Khurtas had been the first. Barbarians for sure, but effective in their killing ways and vast in number. It took him less than a year to defeat their nine tribal leaders and bring them to heel. In honour of his victory over them they gave him the name Amon Tugha, and he bore it proudly.
Next would be the Teutonians. A trickier prospect, no doubt, but he knew this would never be easy. He could only hope news of his victories was carried north to the Riverlands where his mother could hear of them. Where his brother could begin to fear him.
King Cael had at first appeared a worthy adversary, but he had faced the Khurtas with hubris. It had been his downfall. The king’s untimely death had been unfortunate. How much he would have liked to have taken that life himself, but it was not to be.
Still, with the king’s army defeated and routed, it was only a matter of time before he plucked the jewel from the crown of the Free States — Steelhaven.
And it would all have been so easy had she not taken up her father’s mantle. Had she not dodged his assassins and confounded his spies at every turn.
And there she still stood, defiant as ever. And that was why she had to die …
River felt his vision blur, the story about to end, but there was something else. Something … someone watching at the corner of his mind while he saw another life play out before him. He tried to turn his head, but the eyes upon him had already begun to look into his own.