Before Stefan could discern the weapon’s owner, a resounding thud and clang of metal on stone made him whip his head around to the other side. One of the Royal Guard now stood on the table. Four arrows protruded from his breastplate. Blood bubbling from his lips, the soldier keeled over, grasping at the shafts and fell off the table with a crash.
High-pitched screams echoed from all around. The games erupted into chaos.
CHAPTER 13
The stampeding crowd shook the stonework. Dust and pebbles dropped from parts of the walls. Across the arena, a space cleared around a lone man who stood with a bow pointed in Nerian’s direction. The Royal Guards streamed out from the doorways near the attacker. They also rushed out from the passages close to the King’s throne. People were screaming and pointing to the left. Stefan turned his head. Less than forty feet away, another man dressed like a typical commoner, held a bow also aimed at the King. The crowd cowered away from him. Some sought to leave, but guards at the exits prevented them from fleeing.
“Be calm, my people.” Nerian’s voice, deep yet serene, carried above the panicked cries.
Kahar stood beside the King, sword in hand. The milling mass of people attempting to escape slowed and then stopped altogether.
Palm facing outward, Nerian kept his outstretched arm raised. Face an unreadable mask, he said, “Take your seats again, but leave space for me to deal with those who would harm your King.”
The spectators complied with his wishes despite the nervous mutters buzzing amongst them. Twenty feet of empty seats separated them from each attacker. The effect of Nerian’s voice and demeanor made Stefan want to sit and relax, but he fought against the urge and remained standing. He studied his chest. A ragged gash marred his jacket from one side of his chest to the other. Frayed ends of satin and linen waved in the breeze. The wound stung, and the blood stained the blue to give it a purplish color. The sight of how close he’d come to death and the assassins’ attempt on his King’s life brought a wave of anger bubbling up inside him.
“Empty the arena and prepare for the main entertainment,” Nerian ordered. Perspiration beaded the King’s forehead, but his face was stoic.
Stefan frowned. In all his years, he did not remember seeing Nerian sweat, not even on the hottest days in the armor he always seemed to wear. The clank of gates drew the Knight Commander’s attention below. Guards entered the arena and herded the players from the field. The dartan handlers came next and led the beasts away.
As he worked to calm himself, Stefan wondered why the would-be assassins didn’t fire. The answer came as Nerian gave a slight wave of his hand as if directing a band at a ball. Frozen in the act of shooting, the two attackers rose into the air and floated several feet above the arena. A squeeze of Nerian’s hand into a fist and the men fell to the ground.
Arms flailing, they cried out and dropped their weapons. They landed hard despite trying to roll. One managed to scramble to his feet. The other man’s leg was bent at a crooked angle. He groaned as he struggled to stand. His accomplice rushed to his side and gave him a hand. Together they faced the King.
“My dear subjects,” Nerian began, “what we have here are elite assassins sent by the Tribunal. Two Raijin to be exact.”
Awed murmurs rippled through the crowds. Stefan stared. The Raijin were nothing like he expected. He always pictured them being similar to the Pathfinders, moving with a deadly grace in all they did. These two men seemed normal and unimpressive, but he knew better than to judge them by their appearance. Raijin were among the deadliest swordsmen and Matii within the Tribunal. They were supposed to be worth any five experienced fighters in a battle. Their ability for stealth and infiltration were second to no one’s.
“You had a good plan,” Nerian said to the two men. “Not Forging so I would be unable to spot you beforehand. Using divya arrows to penetrate any Forge I might use or my armor. Too bad you forgot that something as simple as a dish, a piece of stone, or a normal blade has the ability to intercept an imbued weapon when used correctly.” The King gave a sly grin. “I am not above using the mundane.”
“You knew of this?” Stefan whispered.
Nerian shrugged. He gestured to the Raijin. “Now that you have given up the one chance you had to use the elements, what will you do? Wait, I know. You will fight for your lives.”
Shock ran through the spectators at the King’s proposal. They understood what killing Tribunal Matii meant.
War.
Despite his urge to retaliate against the Raijin, a sense of dread knotted in Stefan’s gut. To talk of campaigning against the Tribunal was one thing. Committing an act that without doubt would start the conflict was another. “Are you certain you want to do this?” he asked.
“They did this, not I,” Nerian snapped. Not once did his or Kahar’s attention waver from the Raijin. “They attacked us first. What are we supposed to do? Cower? Hide? Not respond? The Tribunal made the first move and played their hand. Now, it is time to play mine.”
“We’re not ready for this.”
“Fortune waits for no one.” This time Nerian’s voice did not rise over the nervous murmurs of the people. “More often than not, you must take what is handed to you and fashion it into what you need.”
“But-”
“In this, there are no buts, Stefan.” Nerian pointed to the expectant crowd. “Seti needs you. Your men will need you.”
Stefan almost said more, but this wasn’t the place to argue. Regardless, Nerian wouldn’t be swayed. In ways, he didn’t blame the King. If the assassins were anyone else but Raijin, he would have killed them himself. The Knight Commander bowed. He hoped the King was making the right choice.
“My people, I know you have your doubts as I would if I were in your place. The Tribunal has done much to help our people and Ostania as a whole in the days when the shadelings were slaughtering and converting all before them in the name of their god.” A murmur of agreement issued from the crowd. “But those days are done-long gone. As a people, we did our part too. Countless thousands sacrificed themselves in those wars. The Nagels, the Abenderoths, the Durrs, the Engels, the Jungs, the Kalbs.” Nerian continued with a long list of family names. With each name called out, the whispers grew to crying and wails as people remembered those they had lost. Finally, he said, “the Dorns.”
Stefan’s chest heaved. His ancestors had been involved in every major war in the last several hundred years in Seti. There were few left in the Dorn lineage.
“You can trace our loss in the bloodline of ANY Setian family,” Nerian shouted, voice mired in passion. Then his tone softened. “We lost much … not only lives but also our standing as being foremost in Denestia. Most of all, we lost our freedom as a people. For too many years we have … no I have … subjected us to the Tribunal’s whims under the guidance of their High Ashishin. Their Shin were treated better than our own Alzari.” The King paused as several people shouted that the Alzari deserved better.
“I agree,” Nerian said. “For that I am sorry. I allowed them such a pedestal. But no more. After all, what is the difference between them and us besides the types of elements they can call upon? None. What makes the Shins superior? Nothing.” An expression of regret crossed Nerian’s face. “Sometimes a King must make a choice to see his people survive, no matter how detestable the decision may be.”
Stefan took in the many nods among the spectators. Where doubt and questions once existed, the people now clung to the King’s every word.
“Now …” Nerian shook his head as if in resignation, “months after I told the Tribunal we no longer required the services of their Shins … and that in fact, we wished to stand alone as a people to rebuild Seti and Ostania to its former glory,” he gestured to the Raijin, “they sent their answer. Death to me because I want more for you, for us, as a people.”