For the first time since leaving Ellonlef to deliver his message to Kian, Varis took stock of what he had unconsciously noticed on the road east, and quickly concluded that he had seen very little of men, even after crossing the River Malistor. The crofter and his small farm had been a rarity. There had been no Bashye, no merchant caravans, or any other travelers. Most commonly, villages and towns had been desolate, their sole inhabitants starving dogs and rolling tumbleweeds. At the time, he had paid little attention to the scenes of abandonment. in truth, he had allowed himself to become overly captivated with his growing power.
It took another hour to reach the wall, and from there Varis began searching for a suitable place to climb over. He did not want to make himself known until he sat the Ivory Throne, so he avoided all people, and stayed well clear of the gate. His efforts were not difficult, for people were obviously too concerned with themselves to worry about one lone man among the hundreds wandering about.
By the time Varis found a route that appeared relatively safe, the day had passed and yet another smoky, crimson dusk was approaching. Night had fallen by the time he had carefully picked his way over the treacherous remains of Edaer’s Wall and moved into the edge of the city, which had once been dominated by bustling warehouses, bazaars, and artisan shops.
Though he expected the worst, the scene that greeted him was far worse than anything he could have imagined. Not one building in sight remained unscathed, and many had fallen in on themselves. The plastered walls of those still standing were blackened and cracked from fires that had swept through the entire district. Mounted patrols roamed the debris-littered streets, but the soldiers paid scant attention to the few looters and scavengers hunting amid the carnage for anything of worth. What Varis noted above all else were the hollow eyes and sunken cheeks of everyone he saw, even the soldiers. These people, he thought, are ripe for the plucking. It would take little to turn them to his side.
As he pushed deeper into the city in an effort to reach the king’s palace, the extent of the destruction grew, as did the suffering. The sick and dying wandered aimlessly in search of food and anything they could use to build a fire to ward against the unnatural cold. The rotting dead were carelessly heaped in every alley. More than once he saw men, alone or in groups, catch solitary women and drag them amid the dead and shadows, indifferent to the reek of rotten flesh as they satisfied bestial lusts normally held in check by the king’s law. Children, quicker on their feet and more keenly alert to all the new dangers, ran in packs, like feral animals. One filthy group of urchins fell on a starving dog, bludgeoning it with sticks, and then ripping it apart with their bare hands to enjoy a hot, bloody meal.
At one time, Varis might have been repulsed by the detestable goings-on, but no longer. The city was literally starving to death, tearing itself apart in desperation. In all the faces he saw people pushed to the point that they would accept any authority over them, as long as that authority offered a reliable supply of bread, a warm place to sleep, and a modicum of safety. He could not have asked for a finer gift.
After much longer than it should have taken, what with the usual route often blocked by one obstacle or another, Varis spotted the looming walls ringing the king’s palace. Built originally for defense with granite hauled down from quarries carved into the Two Brothers, the towering curtain wall and blocky barbican gate looked forbidding rather than inviting, no matter that white plaster cloaked gray stone. Arrow slits cut vertical slashes in the thick walls, while covered wooden galleries stretched along the tops, hiding the presence of all but a few watching guards. Cracks showed here and there, but for the most part, the curtain wall seemed to have escaped the damage the rest of the city had suffered. Varis concluded that the rest of Ammathor might have suffered more at the hands of the citizenry, than from quakes and the burning stars that had fallen from the heavens. If so, then it proved to him that no army could ever wreak the level of havoc on a city as could a desperate citizenry. He tucked that thought away, saving it.
As he closed on the palace, the racket of thundering hooves drew Varis’s attention. A large man, followed by twenty lancers, charged out of the barbican gate. At the last instant, the leader reined in, shock evident on his face. As were all soldiers of the House Guard, the man Varis knew as Igindu was clad in a long, pleated green leather kilt, his chest protected by a breastplate of hammered bronze. From his shoulders hung a green and gold cloak. Igindu also wore the triple-knotted scarlet cord over one shoulder that denoted his rank as a master of spears. While the man was yet plump, hunger had whittled him down to half his former girth.
“Prince Sharaal?” the man blurted uncertainly. “How have you come to be here, alone?”
“Your eyes deceive you, Igindu,” Varis said to the man who had taught him the sword. Behind the soldier, the lancers were all staring like fools. “It is not the father who stands before you, but the youngest son.”
Igindu’s sagging features jiggled with uncertainty. “Prince … Varis? Gods good and wise, you have grown into a man since you-” he cut off abruptly. “By the gods, where have you been? Your family has been mad with worry and grief. King Simiis sent out four legions to search for you across the desert, north toward Izutar, south to the border of Tureece, and east across the Golden Plain. Before this occurred-” he waved an arm around the city’s ruined state to express what he could not voice “-King Simiis was preparing to march on Tureece, thinking you had been captured.”
“The letter explaining my intended journey must have been misplaced,” Varis said with bland indifference. Before Igindu could respond to that blatant lie, Varis added, “You thought I was my father, so I must ask, if Prince Sharaal is not in the palace, where is he?”
Igindu’s eyes went hard with mistrust, just for a moment, then softened. “Soon after the Three were destroyed,” he said, all but choking on the words before rushing on, “King Simiis received word from Lord Marshal Otaker of Krevar that a formidable army was soon to march on Ammathor.”
“That is all?” Varis asked, keeping a keen watch on Igindu’s reactions. “Otaker gave no other description?”
Igindu spread his hands above the pommel of his saddle. “The king, all of us, could have hoped for more, but that was the extent of Otaker’s warning. We have heard nothing since, so it was feared that the army he warned of overran Krevar. That is reason King Simiis sent your father and mother into hiding, along with nine of Ammathor’s twelve legions, including the Crimson Scorpion Legion. Your grandfather feared that with Edaer’s Wall fallen, as well as Dawn’s Wall to the east, an army that could decimate Krevar could also pose a dire threat to Ammathor. He wanted to ensure that if such happened, your father would be able to assemble a counterstrike.”
Varis found no deception in the explanation. “What of my brothers?”
Igindu swallowed and looked away. “You Highness, your brothers perished while hunting in the mountains. I found them myself, amid a landslide. They….” his voiced dwindled to a sigh, and in the end he shook his head in despair.
Varis hid his smile. Ever had he despised his brothers. To the last, they had fancied themselves future warrior kings. At best, they had been but warriors of silken sheets and fat pillows, given to making sport of bedding adventurous highborn ladies and their insipid daughters. And when not so engaged, they had idled away their miserable lives hunting the crags of the Two Brothers. He was only partly glad that their distractions had saved him the need to slay them himself.