Moving toward the palace, which sat atop the highest point in the city, he still did not bother with caution. There was no point staying out of sight, not when his aim was to be found. Still, no matter how close he came, he saw not one soldier scouring the city for him. The only conclusion he could imagine was that Varis held absolutely no fear of him. That meant the youth was either a proud fool, or Varis truly had no reason to fear any adversary. Either option suited Kian’s plan, but the latter troubled his heart.
As Kian continued his march, the voices of his friends filled his mind, beginning as unintelligible whispers and rising to a grating chorus. Varis has grown more powerful by far … He intended the message to be a challenge, a slap in the face … He wants you to come for him, so he can prove that he is the more powerful of the two of you. Ellonlef’s voice rose above the rest. He will kill you … You did not see what he did to his army, how he destroyed ten thousand in moments. God or not, he holds the power of one!
Kian halted in the shadows cast by a small palace, staring at his destination across a broad and cobbled road that encircled the king’s palace. In his mind’s eye, he saw Ellonlef’s gaze, so dark and warm … and slowly fading.
A chill wind gusted around him, pulling him out of his reverie. Castoff rubbish danced low over the ground, carrying with it the mingled odors of snow and despair. You could turn aside, a small voice suggested, deep within his mind. Run. Run now, far away.
Despite himself, Kian listened.
Hazad and Azuri are your men, they are your brothers. They will stand with you, no matter your decision. Did they not say as much? Ellonlef, too, all but begged you to turn aside. Run, now! Get Hazad and Azuri and Ellonlef, and make a new life for yourself!
The words sowed seeds of doubt and promise in equal measure. Varis’s journey abroad was to have been Kian’s last task as a hired sword. He had longed for a hasty end to the mission, so that he might retire to Izutar and live out the rest of his days in peace and contentment. However, Varis’s secret ambitions had changed that. Already the new king had slaughtered many, and his actions doubtless would condemn tens of thousands more.
“I do not want to die,” Kian said under his breath, feeling like a boy again, lost and alone. “I want everything to be as it was.”
Another gust slammed into him, and fingers of ice seemed to claw over every inch of exposed skin. Such winds and worse were common in Izutar, the realm of his birth, lands he had not seen in over a score of years. Those winds, along with scratching out a life amid stone and ice, instilled strength and resilience into every Izutarian. As well, it gave them pride, for what other people could boast of surviving not just enemies, but also the unforgiving world itself? Such confidence had led his parents to send him away as a child, rather than see him in chains, knowing that if the ruthless life every Izutarian faced had not killed him in the crib, then he stood a fair chance of enduring anything the world put before him, even if alone and hungry.
“Even if I run,” Kian whispered, “I will never be free. Varis will send his hounds, be they men or demons from Geh’shinnom’atar. He will hunt me and those I love, until we can run no more.”
The truth did not make him feel any better about his likely fate, but he knew, if for no other reason, he could not dishonor the memory of his family or his people by fleeing this duty set before him now. And if that duty earned him death, then so be it. Death, after all, was the ultimate fate of every man. Better to chose the path and face all upon it with a strong heart, rather than to cower and run and be taken unawares.
Resolved to his purpose, he flexed his sword hand while he studied the scene before him. Guardsmen at the main gate stood over a blazing firepot, stomping their feet against the cold, their fingers splayed above the flames. He would have expected to see archers walking atop the wall, their eyes scanning the darkened sprawl of Ammathor, but the wall stood empty. Likely, the cold had driven most of them into the corner turrets. Only if an alarm were sounded, would they bother coming out.
Like a wraith clad in beggar’s rags, Kian left the shadows and strolled across the road. The wind’s icy bite gnawed past his inadequate garb, sank past flesh to assail his bones. The flames of the guards’ firepot leaned far over in the rising wind, the tops sheared off in wisps of orange amid swirls of sparks. The guardsmen, more concerned with keeping warm than guarding the palace, had propped their spears against the wall at their backs. They had swords, but Kian suspected that even if they drew them, they would not use them unless he forced them to it. They did not see him coming, staring as they were into the flames and grumbling loud enough to mask any sound of Kian’s approach.
One of the guards finally glanced up when Kian halted and loudly cleared his throat.
“Halt!” the man called needlessly, drawing his companion’s attention. The guardsman was tall for an Aradaner, his face gaunt from recent hunger. His eyes were shot through with red, as if he had found additional warmth from a skin of wine.
“I am expected,” Kian said calmly, the blustery night air whisking away his steaming breath.
The other guardsman, silent and unmoving, peered at him. Unlike his companion, his dark eyes were clear, though he looked every bit as hungry. “You should not have come here, Izutarian,” he said, in no way hostile. They might have been two fellow travelers pausing to discuss the condition of the road. The calmness of the meeting proved that Varis had told them to expect Kian.
“I had little choice,” Kian answered.
The sober guard considered that. “I suppose not. What choice all of us had was taken away with the arrival of the new king.”
“Are you loyal to Varis?” Kian asked bluntly.
The guardsman showed his teeth in a bitter smile. “Much the same as I am loyal to all vipers that can kill a man with a single bite. As I said, our choices on many matters have grown slim.”
“Quiet, Vicr,” his companion hissed. “The king’s eyes and ears are everywhere!”
Vicr nodded toward his companion. “Na’eem, here, he fancies even the shadows are after him.” Though his tone was mocking, his darting gaze suggested he believed it as well.
Kian could have told them of the freed mahk’lar into the world of men, but he did not have time to spin that tale. Instead he said, “Dark days have fallen. Best to trust the likes of Na’eem’s fancies, just in case.”
Vicr shrugged. “Perhaps you are right, but there are not likely to be any watchers this night. Too damned cold. If there are, they are looking for you,” he finished, eyeing Kian.
“I saw few enough of the living in the city,” Kian said.
“Most have fled to the Chalice. And if not there, they have left Ammathor entirely.”
“As should you,” Kian responded.
“The king gives us bread and a warm bed,” Na’eem said. “And wine. The road, as we hear it, is beset by armies of brigands and Bashye.”
“When’s the last time you got bread or a bed?” Vicr snapped. “My belly has wanted for anything to eat for so long that I’m starting to think you might make a fine meal.”
Na’eem looked suspiciously at his companion, and took a subtle, careful step away.
Kian shook his head. “From here to the Qaharadin Marshes, the road is near as empty as the city, unless you count a few Madi’yin wandering about, and no more Bashye than normal.”
Vicr considered that, anger growing in his dark eyes. “So the kingslayer,” he snarled derisively, “lied about that as well. No surprise, really.”