* * *
Alendor rode on the back of a horse, the animal walking slowly down a rocky road toward an abandoned village. It was dusk, the light beginning to fade. I heard the rumbling roar of ocean waves against a rocky beach through the trees, heard the creak of wagons and the dull thuds of horses behind him.
He turned. Behind, a group of mercenaries surrounded two wagons loaded down with sacks and crates. Amenkor’s mark stood out clearly on the nearest crates.
The food Baill had stolen.
I felt a flare of anger, but then we entered the village.
The buildings were nothing more than shacks, the wood bleached white by the sun, most ready to collapse at the slightest touch. A few broken crab traps lay about, some caught in torn netting. There were no doors, no windows, only gaping openings no longer even covered by cloth. Outside a few of the hovels were small boats with jagged holes punched into the bottoms.
Alendor led the mercenaries and the wagons down to the edge of the village, where the dunes rose above the high tide marked by heaps of driftwood and tufts of saw grass. The wind blew sharper once Alendor reached the top of the dunes, catching hold of the horse’s mane and tugging at his ponytail.
Without a word, the mercenaries began pitching a camp, a few trotting off to gather wood, others breaking out tents and organizing a campfire, still others setting up a watch. As they worked, Alendor shaded his eyes against the setting sun and stared out at the ocean. As soon as the smoke of the cook fire drifted across his senses, he dismounted, one of the mercenaries taking the reins of his horse and leading it away.
The men settled in. Someone returned with a brace of hares, which were quickly skinned and set to roasting on the fire. Three men started a game involving thrown dice and runes, curses and laughter punctuating the darkness. Alendor kept to himself, a mercenary presenting him with one of the charred, roasted hares. A sense of quiet expectation fell over the group as the night progressed.
Then, as the moon rose over the treetops, one of the sentries cried out and everyone around the campfire looked out across the dune toward the cove.
Torches bobbed above the water.
Alendor stood, straightened his mercenary outfit with a frown, then motioned to the men.
The mercenaries jumped up and began hauling the sacks and crates down to the edge of the water. Alendor followed, a few of the huskier, deadlier-looking men at his side.
He halted and watched the torches on the cove move closer. When three boats rowed into view from the darkness, he muttered to the two men at his side, “Be careful. Don’t antagonize them like last time. Let me do the talking.”
The men grunted and shifted uncomfortably.
The boats ground into the sand and figures jumped out, most moving toward the pile of crates and sacks to one side, the mercenaries backing off as the others began to load them. Three of the figures moved toward Alendor.
As they came into view, their torches guttering in the wind from the ocean, I gasped.
The Chorl.
The leader, face set in a permanent scowl, spat something to his two escorts, then stepped forward, glaring at Alendor and then the two mercenaries. He was short, dressed in the same silky cloth as those who had attacked Mathew’s ship. A series of dark blue tattoos lined both cheeks from ear to jaw, and one of his ears—
The lower half of one of his ears had been sliced off.
It was the same man who had attacked Mathew’s ship, the same man who had held Erick at sword point, who had ordered the crew’s death.
“You brought shipment,” the blue-skinned man spat, the words sharp and halting and unfamiliar in his mouth.
Alendor nodded. “And I expect to be paid.”
The blue-skinned Chorl watched him with cold, black beady eyes. Then he shrugged, pulled a sack that had been tied to his belt, and tossed it onto the sand. It clinked, but Alendor did not move to pick it up.
“Another shipment in one month?” Alendor asked instead, never taking his eyes off of the leader of the Chorl.
“No!”
Alendor froze, a frisson of fear trembling through his arms. He knew their agreement was tenuous, that at any moment the Chorl could turn on him. He was only useful as long as he could provide them with food.
“Attack move,” the man said haltingly, sneering. “Now first day spring.”
The two Chorl behind him chuckled, and the blue-skinned man grinned, then burst out laughing before turning and sauntering back toward the boats, now loaded. His strangely curved sword ran silver in the moonlight at his side. When he reached the boats, he turned back and spat into the sand in contempt.
A shiver shuddered through Alendor, then he cursed as he reached for the sack on the sand, the boats slipping back out into the cove, vanishing in the darkness.
“What was that all about?” one of the mercenaries asked as they headed back to the campsite.
“Amenkor,” Alendor growled. “They’re going to attack Amenkor the first day of spring.”
* * *
I gasped, lurched upward before realizing I was lying on the floor of the throne room. The cold gray stone of the vaulted ceiling arched above me, interrupted a moment later by Avrell’s concerned face.
He knelt at my side. “Alendor is dead.”
“I know.”
He nodded, and along with Keven, helped me to stand. I staggered slightly, felt myself trembling, couldn’t seem to make it stop.
“What did you find out?” Eryn asked. Behind her, I could see Alendor’s body draped across the stone steps of the dais, face down.
The raw rage that enveloped me almost made me gasp. “That he and Baill have betrayed us.”
“To who?”
I caught Eryn’s eye, then Avrell’s, and finally Keven’s. “To the Chorl. They’re going to attack Amenkor the first day of spring.
“In two days.”
Chapter 12
I stared at the ceiling of my chambers in the darkness. The faint sheen of moonlight illuminated the open doorway to the balcony, the curtains billowing inward from the breeze.
I breathed in deeply, smelled ocean and salt and smoke from the hundreds of sconces that had been kept lit on the palace walls the last two nights, since I’d learned that the Chorl intended to attack the first day of spring.
Today.
I let the breath out in a long, heavy sigh, then sat up and shifted to the edge of the bed.
I wouldn’t be able to sleep. I doubted if many would.
I pulled on my breeches, a white shirt, my boots, and tucked my dagger into the belt, then drifted out onto the balcony and stared down at the city.
Amenkor. Torches lined the three walls surrounding the palace, as well as the lengths of wall on the juts of land leading out to the two watchtowers. Sentries occasionally passed in front of the flames, silhouetted briefly before passing on. In the city below, the streets should have been quiet for the most part, the only movements bakers getting ready for the morning rush a few hours off or guardsmen meandering the streets. Instead, there were groups of men at critical cross streets, their torches marking key defensive points throughout the city. The wharf was crowded with boats, carpenters even now working on the trading ships, frantically trying to install some additional defenses. Most of the palace’s patrol ships were already out in the harbor, dark shadows sliding through the moonlit waters.
Drawing in a deep breath, I closed my eyes and slid beneath the river, focusing on the city below, concentrating until I could pick out the flickering white flames of the people I’d tagged with the White Fire over the last few days. Catrell and Westen had volunteered, as well as a few other guardsmen and Seekers, and they were now stationed at various locations throughout the city. Westen and his Seekers had been split between the city and the palace, their skills better suited to attacks from cover and in narrow, confined spac
es. Catrell, now captain of the palace guardsmen in Baill’s stead, as well as captain of the regular guard, had sent the majority of his men into the city. The palace guardsmen had been left on the palace walls and the watchtowers, a few more on the boats.
Baill had taken at least twenty guards with him when he vanished, cutting the palace guardsmen down to just over a hundred men. Catrell had had another hundred and fifty city guardsmen under his control before Baill left. With the thirty Seekers . . .
It wasn’t much of an army. But with the militia we’d been training, with the citizens who had taken up arms and joined them, with Darryn and the denizens of the Dredge . . .
Divided among them all were the Servants, most able to provide some protection from the powers of the Ochean and her own Servants. As much as could be learned in such a short period of time anyway. Most of them, including Marielle, had volunteered to be tagged by the White Fire as well.
I could see those flames now, scattered throughout the city like stars.
I opened my eyes, let the river go.
Just before it slid away completely, I felt a surge, a ripple of power—
And one of the watchtowers exploded.
A fireball roared into the sky at the edge of the harbor, wood and stone and bodies arching up and out as a concussive crack of sound split the night. I jerked back from the edge of the balcony, gasped as debris began to rain down into the water of the harbor, boats silhouetted against the conflagration, and then the flames died back down.
A sudden, shocked silence fell. I could hear myself gasping, could feel my blood thudding in my veins.
Then a bell began to ring from the second watchtower, answered by others inside the city as the alarm began to spread. Activity along the walls doubled as men raced to positions. In the city, more torches were lit, bonfires raised along the lengths of barricades in the streets. The wharf erupted with frenzied activity, lines untied, trading ships casting off into the harbor. The patrol boats streaked toward the bay’s entrance.
The door to my chambers crashed inward and I spun, Keven streaming into the room with twelve other guardsmen, a look of panic crossing his face as he saw the empty bed. But then he caught sight of me on the balcony.
“Mistress,” he said, stepping quickly to my side.
“It’s started,” I said.
Keven stared out at the fiery ruins of the watchtower, his hand on the pommel of his sword. His eyes widened at the destruction, then his attention turned toward me. “We have to get you to the throne room.”
I’d slid back beneath the river, could feel his tension, his fear. But even as it registered on my senses, the fear was suppressed and the tension slipped into controlled channels, harnessed and used. This is what he’d been trained to do.
I felt the next surge of power a moment before the second watchtower exploded, a pulse that shivered across the harbor like a ripple on water, its source somewhere beyond the influence of the throne. Keven didn’t flinch as the fireball that had been the tower rose into the sky, didn’t even turn in that direction, his eyes never leaving my face, his jaw clenched.
I met his gaze, the urge to draw my dagger and rush down to the city below almost overwhelming. My hand already gripped the handle of my dagger, anger making me tremble. Anger at this attack, at what they’d done to The Maiden and the other trading ships.
Anger over what they’d done to Laurren and Erick.
But I’d be more effective here at the palace.
I blew my breath out in exasperation, then nodded. “The throne room.”
* * *
The palace was strangely empty, the hallways echoing as we made our way down the corridor to the main entrance to the throne room. Most of the Servants were already out in the city, along with the guardsmen. But Avrell and Eryn were waiting for me. Neither looked like they’d gotten any sleep.
“What’s happened?” Eryn asked immediately as the guardsmen opened the double doors and began lighting torches and candelabra. Avrell, Eryn, and I moved down the walkway to the dais.
“The watchtowers have fallen,” I said. “They’ll be entering the harbor soon.”
She nodded grimly. “The patrol ships and trading ships should halt them for a while. Did you see how many of them there were?”
“I didn’t see them at all.” I stepped up the dais and sat down in the throne, felt it settling into its usual shape beneath me. An echo of the city’s emotions flooded through me—terror, resistance, fear, anger; a seething turmoil—but I held it back, looked down at Avrell and Eryn. “I won’t let them take Amenkor.”
Both nodded, signed the Skewed Throne symbol over their chests, the gesture startling coming from them. It sent a shiver down my back.
“Remember,” Eryn warned, “Reaching drains your strength, makes you weak. Don’t overextend yourself trying to help those in the city. They can take care of themselves. Save your strength for later, in case you need it.”
I frowned in irritation, saw the answering stiff-lipped admonition in Eryn’s eyes, and grudgingly nodded.
Then they were moving, both marked with the White Fire now, both heading to the outer walls and the city below with looks of determination, Avrell to the middle wall, Eryn to the inner.
Keven took their place, gazed up at me expectantly. “Keep me informed of what’s happening.”
I inclined my head, drew in a deep breath, closed my eyes. . . .
And plunged myself into the river, the force of the throne behind me.
The rage of emotions that represented the city crashed into me like a wave, threatening to drag me under in the riptides. I struggled, cried out involuntarily, flailed against the currents of hatred and fear. I could feel the city’s attention drawn toward the burning watchtowers, could feel the shuddering apprehension as they watched the entrance to the harbor in the darkness, all of the bells in the city ringing, the patrol ships and trading ships that had managed to cast off the only counter to the heightening anxiety. The men and women in the ships sped toward the entrance with grim determination, and I latched onto this emotion and stabilized myself in the torrent of the river.
Settling myself in the currents, I streaked out over the black water of the bay, the flames of the watchtowers getting closer. As I approached, I could feel the disruption the destruction of the towers had caused on the river, a disruption brought on by a tremendous release of power. Whirlpools had formed, one each at the centers of the watchtowers. I skirted around the first whirlpool’s edge, felt its energy tugging at me, trying to draw me into its mouth.
One of the voices within the throne shifted forward, not Cerrin or Liviann, but Garus. He smelled of ale and roasted meat. It took more than one person to do that much damage that quickly.
They’ll have to recoup, Seth broke in. Regain their strength. We’ll have a little time.
A multitude of other voices agreed, but the tone of the agreement was grim.
What’s wrong? I asked, and felt Cerrin shift forward to respond.
When the Chorl were pushed back from the coast the last time, they had not progressed to the point where they could combine their powers in such a way. This much focused energy means they’re working together, augmenting each other, as we combined our powers to form the thrones. It seems the Chorl have learned a few things since they were here last.
Why didn’t you warn me they could do this when they attacked The Maiden?
Because they didn’t combine their strength then. They simply turned their separate attacks on one person.
Laurren.
My stomach clenched, and I thought about the Servants scattered about the city below, waiting to deal with the Chorl and their powers. If the Chorl Servants attacked them with their combined strength . . .
But there was nothing that could be done about that now, so I forced the sickening sensation aside and focused back down
on the harbor, on the black waters.
I noticed a flare of White Fire on one of the ships close to the harbor entrance and dove for it.
I found myself staring out through the eyes of one of Catrell’s high-ranking guardsmen, the patrol boat rocking on the waves beneath him, the motion sharper and more violent than what I’d experienced through Erick on The Maiden. Swallowing hard, suddenly feeling nauseous, I realized it was because the boat was smaller than the trading ship.
And then something skimmed out of the darkness beyond the burning watchtowers, its edges limned with reflected firelight. The bow and spit pierced the cloaking darkness like a dagger, the sleek ship gliding almost silently on the water, painted black so that it melded with the night—
Then it was past the juts of land, within the harbor itself, moving fast and deadly, streaking straight for the wharf and the docks at the mouth of Amenkor’s River, just like the ships that had entered the harbor of Venitte in Cerrin’s memory. And behind it came more ships, as sleek and silent, like lances from the night, twice the size of Amenkor’s patrol boats, all painted black, no light visible on the decks, even the sails black, the rigging, the masts. They were like shards of night, splintered off and sent hurtling toward the city.
The guardsman I inhabited jerked out of his shock and pointed, bellowed, “Ready! The ships have entered the harbor! The ships have entered the harbor!”
Cries rang out on all sides and the patrol boat suddenly listed, turning sharply to the left, directly toward the smooth lines of the first ship. The lead guardsman I inhabited clutched the railing before him to keep balance, shifted his weight, cursing silently. Fear slid down his arms like cold water, but he tightened his grip as he watched the ships knife into the harbor. Four of them . . . no, seven . . . no, twelve at least! And even as the patrol boat came up alongside the first enemy ship, he saw two more spits pierce the darkness beyond the harbor’s entrance into the firelight from the burning towers.
But he had no time to watch and count the enemy ships. His patrol boat had drawn abreast of the first ship. He barked orders. Grapnels were heaved up onto the enemy deck even as it sped past, the length of rope attached to each grapnel tied down to the front of the patrol boat. Rope hissed, trailing into the darkness, then snapped taut.
The Throne of Amenkor Page 65