More screams from the princess as she found the strength to rise, her hands scrabbling at her face and hair as they beat down the flames.
“Princess . . .” He went to her but she reeled away, still screaming, running through the smoke, her blue gown lost in the haze. He ran after her, rebounding from flaming walls, stumbling over corpses. The smoke faded as he found the corridor. Screams echoed in the distance as the princess continued her unreasoned flight. He ran on, pausing at the sight of a guardsman’s body a short way along the corridor. This one wasn’t burned, his throat gaping open. Slit from behind, a single stroke. Kuritai. They’re here. It’s started.
He took the guardsman’s sword and ran on, following the princess’s screams, finding more bodies with every turned corner, bloody streaks staining clean palace marble. The screams were soon lost amongst the rising cacophony of terror and combat as the Kuritai abandoned stealth and began their work in earnest. He found a maid standing amidst four bodies in a courtyard, staring about in shock, for some reason still holding a basket of laundry. Before he could approach her a Kuritai appeared from the shadowed arches behind to cut her down with a single thrust through the back.
Frentis held up a hand as the man came for him, short sword raised, speaking in Volarian. “The King has been dealt with. I have orders to secure his sister.”
The Kuritai hesitated, his sword dropping only a fraction, but it was enough. Frentis’s sword point scraped past the opposing blade, taking the man in the eye, punching through to the brain. Frentis tugged the sword free and ran on.
More bodies, more Kuritai killing servants and soldiery alike with typical efficiency, too many to fight. Any who tried to block his path were killed, otherwise he ran on. There was a joy in the familiar feel of the Asraelin sword in his hand as it parried and cut, years of Order training returning in an instant. I am no slave, he remembered, side-stepping a thrust and severing his assailant’s arm. I am a brother of the Sixth Order. Freedom was exhilarating, adding speed to his flight through the palace. There should have been guilt; he had just killed the King of the Unified Realm, he had left a trail of death the length of the Alpiran Empire, but the absence of the binding was too wonderful to allow the onset of despair. That, he knew, would come later.
They should have killed me in the pits, he thought as he ran. I’ll turn this invasion into their ruin. I’ll wring blood from their army until their empire’s bled white.
He drew up short at the sight of a guard officer fighting two Kuritai in a hallway lined with huge paintings. He was a Lord Marshal of horse judging by his uniform, and a skilled swordsman, managing to keep two such able opponents at bay, though they were slowly backing him into a corner, his parries becoming more desperate as they closed for the killing blow.
Frentis took the princess’s throwing knife from his boot, still red with his blood, and threw it at the nearest Kuritai, the blade sinking into the base of his skull. His companion stepped back from the Lord Marshal, his gaze finding Frentis, then dropping into a defensive stance he recognised from the pits. The Lord Marshal saw his chance and aimed a thrust at his chest.
“No!” Frentis shouted but it was too late, the Lord Marshal had taken the bait. The Kuritai ducked under the blade, rolling and jabbing upwards with his short sword, the blade sinking deep into the guardsman’s chest.
Frentis charged the Kuritai as he vaulted to his feet, spinning to parry the first thrust, replying with one of his own, only blocked with instinctive speed. Frentis took in the man’s features, finding recognition there. The One who answered the door to the warehouse, he realised. A Kuritai captain. The man’s face was devoid of expression, betraying no surprise at finding himself fighting a man who had been at the mistress’s side the night before. It was the way with these automata. Bred and trained for war, conditioned with drugs and Faith knew what other Dark devices. Made perfect killers, immune to fear or distracting insult. Even so, he had killed many, and now would kill one more.
It was a scale from his days under Master Sollis, drilled into him with merciless precision, for use against a skilled enemy. A series of slashes and thrusts, delivered with dizzying speed, all aimed at the face, forcing the opponent to raise his blade, leaving the midriff open, not for a sword but a kick. Frentis’s boot took the One full in the sternum, bone breaking with an audible crunch. The Kuritai slumped against the wall, blood coming from his mouth, but finding the strength for a final thrust. Frentis swept it aside and cut his throat with the backswing.
“K-King . . .” the fallen Lord Marshall stuttered, staring up at Frentis, his face white from loss of blood.
Frentis went to his side, looking at the wound and seeing it was hopeless. “The King is fallen,” he said. “But Princess Lyrna lives. I need to find her.”
“Brother . . . F-Frentis, is it not?” the guardsman asked in a croak. “I saw . . . with the Wolfrunners, years ago . . .”
“Yes. Brother Frentis.” I am a brother of the Sixth Order. “And you, my lord?”
“S-Smolen . . .” He coughed, staining his chin with blood.
“My lord, your wound . . . I cannot . . .”
“Care not for me, brother. L-look for her in the east wing . . . Her rooms are there . . .” He smiled as his eyes began to dim. “Tell her . . . It was a great thing to travel so far . . . with the woman I loved . . .”
“My lord?”
The smile faded from the Lord Marshal’s lips and his features slumped into a lifeless mask. Frentis gripped his shoulder and turned away, turning a corner and running in what he hoped was an eastward direction. The palace was empty here, no more bodies, although the sounds of slaughter still echoed through the halls. He passed a broad window and saw flames rising in the city. He paused, taking in the sight of the Volarian fleet crowding the harbour, well over a thousand ships, disgorging a great mass of soldiery onto the wharfs, a constant stream of boats carrying more from the ships outside the harbour wall. He could see no Realm Guard, just Varitai and Free Swords, forming ranks and moving off at the trot, spreading throughout the city in accordance with a well-rehearsed design. This has been long planned my love . . .
Varinshold will fall this night, he realised, tearing his gaze away and running on. He would find the princess and spirit her from the city. Then to the Order House with warning of the impending attack.
He came upon more bodies as he entered the east wing; it was separated from the main palace by a narrow courtyard, several corpses lying amongst the rosebushes and cherry blossoms. A tumult of combat came from the doorway ahead, shouted challenges in an unfamiliar language. A woman’s voice.
He charged in, finding four Kuritai battling a tall tattooed woman wielding a spear, the blade trailing blood as she whirled it. One was already down and she speared another through the leg as he stepped forward to make an unwise thrust, twisting away before the others could close. Lonak, Frentis realised, noting her tattoos and the indecipherable abuse she yelled at her attackers. Crouched to her rear was a lanky youth clutching a long sword, staring at the melee with wide-eyed indecision. Frentis was impressed he hadn’t run.
He killed the wounded Kuritai with a slash to the neck, took another down with a thrust to the back, parried the third’s slash and stepped back as the Lonak woman speared him in the guts. She finished him with a bone-crushing stamp to the neck and whirled to face Frentis, spear levelled. “Who are you?” she demanded in Realm Tongue.