The Throne of Amenkor

by Joshua Palmatier

  Temall doesn’t seem to realize how dangerous the Chorl are. You need to warn them.

  Agreed. But I’m not certain they’ll be willing to listen.

  Be convincing, I said, voice hard.

  Westen was about to respond when a guardsman stumbled into the hollow.

  Westen reacted instantly, crossing the copse before anyone else had even moved. “Report.”

  The guardsman straightened, one hand clutched to his side. “Temall,” he gasped, then swallowed, wincing, “is under attack. By the Chorl.”

  Adrenaline surged through Westen’s body even as he barked orders, motioning to the Seeker Tomus to join him. The fire was smothered, roasted rabbit removed from the skewers and stowed away with cold efficiency, the copse abandoned within ten minutes.

  Moving swiftly, they pushed northward, angling to the west through the cuts and folds of the land, following the guardsman who’d brought the warning. Urgency bled through Westen, tingling in his blood as the group splashed through a stream, up over a ridge, the guardsmen behind grunting as the earth shifted out from beneath them—

  And then the leading guardsman slowed.

  Holding up a hand, Westen stopped. The group of forty guardsmen and Seekers ground to a halt behind him, most heaving at the sudden strain.

  The guardsman they’d followed scrambled up another incline, then pointed.

  On the far side of the low hill, the ground swept down to a scattering of fields, a few lines of trees used as windbreaks and dirt roads between them. Then the land rose again, cottages appearing among the fields, and suddenly there were stone walls, only half as high as Amenkor’s walls. A dry ditch had been dug around the entire enclosure at least three feet deep, the dirt removed from the ditch piled up at its edge, away from the wall, creating an embankment. The dirt appeared fresh, the ditch recently dug. A thin strip of land gave access to the gates, and a group of people—women and children mostly—rushed through the opening, a harsh bell ringing, muted by distance.

  I thought Temall was a port, I said.

  Coming up along Westen’s side, Tomus said, “Where’s the port?”

  “On the far side of the town,” the guardsman answered. “The main portion of the town is encircled by the wall. There’s an access road that leads down to the docks and harbor. There isn’t much there—some warehouses, a few taverns, and brothels.” He shrugged.

  A blood-freezing scream sounded and everyone’s attention turned toward the southern edge of the fields.

  A group of men were struggling to hold the Chorl back. Only a few of the men wore armor and carried swords, the rest were in field worker’s clothes, wielding hoes and shovels.

  And they were outnumbered. There were nearly twice as many Chorl as Temall defenders. Even as we watched, the Temall line began to crumble, men shrieking as they fell, the Chorl’s piercing battle cries a harsh counterpoint.

  “Tomus.”

  Without another word, Tomus spun and descended from the hill, shouting out orders for the men to ready. Armor clattered and swords hissed from sheaths.

  Through the Fire, I felt the tension on the river double.

  Westen glanced toward the gates, toward the group of women and children still trying to reach safety. “They need to close the gates,” he said. Images of his own wife and son flashed through his mind and his jaw clenched. He pushed the thoughts away, his hand gripping the hilt of the dagger at his waist.

  To the south, the Temall line staggered, then completely crumbled. Chorl began pouring through the breaches, heading straight for the gates. Someone at the gates noticed, and cries of terror echoed across the fields, the women and children surging forward.

  Westen spat a curse, spun, shouted, “Tomus!”

  “Ready.”

  Even as the group charged over the ridge, down into the fields, I could feel Westen sinking into the calm center I’d felt once before, during the Chorl attack on Amenkor. The center all Seekers sought. Devoid of emotion, cold and calculating, he let it wash away all thoughts of his family, focusing solely on the battle scene ahead. His gaze flicked over the Chorl ranks, estimated the force at well over a hundred, noted the riot of color in the clothing that the warriors wore, vibrant in the evening sunlight, noted the glint of light from the raised, curved swords, the blue skin, the darker blue tattoos on the warriors’ faces.

  And then his gaze caught the unmistakable blaze of yellow and another swath of dark green.

  The Chorl had one of the priests with them.

  And a Servant.

  With Westen’s men halfway to Temall’s gates, tearing through a field of half-grown corn onto a road, the Chorl fell on the back of the stragglers trying to push through the still open gates. Cries of terror erupted into screams of pain and anguish, growing louder and louder—

  And then suddenly Westen was there.

  But the Chorl had seen us coming.

  Westen drew to an abrupt halt ten paces from the edge of the Chorl line that had turned to meet us. He’d outdistanced the rest of the men from Amenkor. The leading Chorl warrior in the front ranks—tattoos curling across his face, even along the ridge of his nose—smiled.

  Deep inside Westen, straining to keep myself from surging forward and seizing control of his body, I felt the last subtle shift at Westen’s core . . . and he became utterly calm.

  He smiled in return.

  The Chorl warrior roared, a cry picked up by all of the Chorl surrounding him. On the river, I felt the rest of the Amenkor men catch up, felt them sprinting past as the Chorl roar changed cadence and the blue-skinned men leaped forward.

  The leader of the Chorl was the first to die. As he charged, spittle flying from his dark blue lips, Westen sidestepped, drawing his Seeker’s dagger in one smooth motion and cutting it across the leader’s exposed throat. Blood sprayed outward, but Westen had already shifted, the Amenkor and Chorl warriors clashing with a sound that reverberated on the river. The taint of blood flooded outward, tinged with sweat and freshly turned earth and desperation. I felt myself reaching forward through the Fire, my emotions tangling with Westen’s, my heartbeat trembling, quickening, then meshing until his heart and mine pulsed as one. We melded, the hours of practice I’d endured under his training over the last several months allowing me to anticipate his movements. Joining with him, I used the river, nudged him this way and that without ever fully seizing control.

  He punched his dagger forward, the blade piercing through the Chorl warrior’s blue-and-purple silken clothing, through the leather armor beneath, and into his heart. The Chorl gasped, a bubble of blood flecking his lip, and then Westen used the man’s momentum to shove him aside, the dagger pulling free with a jerk. Westen’s hand shifted, altering the grip on the hilt, and he cut to either side, left and right, slicing open an arm, the man shrieking, then sliding the dagger into another man’s side, the man’s back arching as his body toppled, all while Westen waded deeper into the confusion. Blades rose and fell, men gasping, crying out, cursing. Screams were cut short and blood flew from sword edges, spattering clothing, armor, skin, drenching the ground, and still Westen waded forward, thrusting bodies aside, trampling those that had already fallen. Through the roar of the battle, muted at the edges by the river, I could feel Westen’s intent, could see his focus.

  The yellow robes of the priest. The green of the Servant.

  I narrowed the river down further, as I’d done on the Dredge, pushed it, used it to shove a path forward. A blade descended toward Westen’s flank, toward an opening in his defenses, but I shunted it aside with a hastily raised shield, felt the startlement of the Chorl warrior as his sword struck thin air and skittered away, but Westen pushed forward again, the press of bodies that surrounded him swallowing up the warrior before he could strike again. Westen’s dagger fell again and again, glancing off armor, sinking into flesh, and then the bodies became too dense,
too close together, and we ground to a halt, unable to slash at bodies that were pressed too tightly together.

  “We can’t get closer!” Tomus shouted at Westen’s back. Two other Seekers had forged through the Chorl warriors with us, were guarding Westen’s back. “They’re packed in too close!”

  Westen snarled into the face of the Chorl warrior before him, the warrior sneering back.

  Then, I felt power building on the river.

  The Servant! I yelled. She’s going to attack!

  Fear lanced through Westen, and he bellowed, “Fall back!”

  The gathering force on the river released. Heat streaked by overhead, a fireball searing past, trailing flames—

  And exploded.

  A concussive wave surged through the battle, anguished screams piercing the clash of metal, warriors pushing away from where the fireball had landed. The packed bodies around Westen loosened, and with a satisfied grunt he reached forward. One hand caught the sneering Chorl warrior by the throat, high up, near the jaw, the other reached around to the back of his head, still holding his dagger, and then with a wrench—

  The Chorl’s neck snapped. I felt the bones break through Westen’s fingers, a crunch like a snapping twig, tingling in his skin. Then he let go, the body slumping back but remaining erect.

  Another fireball released. Fresh screams arose, another wave pulsing out on the river and through the crowded men. Black smoke, in two separate columns, began billowing into the sky.

  “Fall back! Fall back!” Tomus roared.

  Desperate, the other Seekers withdrew, hauling Tomus and Westen along with them. The Chorl surged after.

  “We can’t hold them,” Tomus spat. “There aren’t enough of us.”

  “What about the gates?” Westen growled, slicing across a Chorl warrior’s face, the man lurching back.

  “Still open!”

  Westen cursed. He fought a moment longer, considering, then said, “Fall back. At least a few more made it inside—”

  A horn broke through the roar of the battle.

  “What in hells?” one of the Seekers said.

  Westen turned in the direction of the horn, squinted against the smoke and fading sunlight . . . and saw a band of a hundred men pouring over the top of the nearest ridge, the twenty at the forefront on horseback, charging, carrying a tattered black flag with some type of red symbol on it.

  The attention of the Chorl shifted, away from the gates and from Westen’s group toward the new threat. And then the leading horsemen of the new group plowed into the Chorl ranks to one side.

  The Chorl line crumbled, then gave way as the rest of the force struck behind the horsemen.

  The Chorl were shoved forcibly back from the gates.

  Power built on the river, the taste of rage behind the effort, but this time I was distant enough from the source that I could see the river being manipulated, could gauge the direction of attack.

  Reaching forward through the Fire, I flung a shield up a moment before the fireball was released.

  The fireball hit the shield and exploded in midair, tendrils of flame skating down the shield’s edge into the Chorl ranks themselves. Shock coursed through the river, from the Chorl Servant, from the Chorl priest, tasting of fear. As the Chorl forces were pushed back even farther, attacked now on two sides, I felt the Chorl leaders hesitate. . . .

  And then another horn blew, this sound familiar: the sound of a shell being winded. Everyone in Amenkor had heard it when the second wave of Chorl ships had entered Amenkor’s harbor, the Ochean’s ship among them. It had sounded over and over as the ships rammed into the docks.

  But this time, it only sounded twice, the last note fading. For a moment, nothing changed. . . .

  Then the Chorl forces began to withdraw. They left a third of their men behind, either dead or dying.

  “Do we follow?” Tomus asked. His breath came in ragged heaves, his face drenched with sweat, his dagger coated with blood. All of those around him looked the same.

  On the field, the men who came under the black flag were harrying the Chorl as they fled.

  Westen shook his head. “No. We don’t know how many more Chorl there may be beyond the hills.”

  “But the others—” someone began to protest, motioning toward the other group.

  At the same time, the force beneath the black flag halted their pursuit, angling away, cutting across the fields in front of the walls, heading back where they’d come from.

  The red symbol stitched onto the black flag snapped fully into view and everyone around Westen gasped.

  Three slashes—one horizontal, two slanted vertically down and outward from that.

  The Skewed Throne. The symbol of Amenkor.

  Westen tensed, his gaze falling instantly to the figure on horseback in the lead.

  The group was distant, but neither Westen nor I could mistake the man who led them.

  “It can’t be,” Tomus said, his voice incredulous.

  Westen grew grim. “It’s Baill.”

  Inside the Fire, I felt rage envelop me.

  Captain Baill, the man who had backed the consortium of merchants that had almost torn Amenkor apart, the traitor who had helped Alendor steal supplies from Amenkor during the past winter, handing the food over to the Chorl. He’d escaped the circular plaza in the eastern part of the city, escaped the trap we’d set for him, and he hadn’t been heard from since.

  I almost reached forward, almost seized control of Westen and ran after him, ready to make him account for all of his actions, had already grasped the river, had begun to twist it, when Tomus said, “But that doesn’t make any sense. Why is he attacking the Chorl? Why is he helping Temall?”

  “And why is he doing it all under the name of the Skewed Throne?” Westen said. He turned to Tomus.

  The blond Seeker, blood matting his hair, looked stunned.

  Behind them, the last of Temall’s people entered the gates and a force of armed guardsmen streamed out after them, the man on horseback at the forefront heading straight for the Amenkor party’s position. Westen stepped forward, still reeling inside over Baill’s sudden appearance. The rest of the group ranged themselves wearily behind him.

  The men from Temall halted ten paces away, the man on horseback—gray-brown hair and trimmed beard, brown eyes, and a stern expression on his face—eyeing Westen first, then the others.

  “Who are you and where do you come from?” he asked, tone wary. His voice rumbled from his chest, grating like stone on stone.

  “I’m Captain Karl Westen,” Westen said, wincing slightly. The adrenaline was fading, the bruises he’d sustained during the fight beginning to throb. “We come from Amenkor, to warn you of the approaching Chorl.”

  The man snorted. “We know of the Chorl. Are you part of the Band?” He pointed with his chin toward where Baill and his group had vanished over the hillside.

  Westen frowned. “No. We were sent by the Mistress. The Chorl have attacked Amenkor, and we believe the Chorl are on their way back. We have no idea who . . . or what . . . this Band is, even though they fly the Skewed Throne.”

  The man’s eyes narrowed. For a long moment, silence reigned, broken only by the creak of armor and the clank of metal as the two forces fidgeted.

  Then, the man raised his head, glancing over Westen’s group.

  “Well, Captain Karl Westen, I am Justaen Pyre, Lord of Temall. I thank you for your help with the Chorl attack, but your warning was unnecessary. We know of the Chorl, of their seizure of Bosun’s Bay, and we’ve suffered under their raids for the last few months. But I can assure you that the Chorl have no interest in Amenkor.” He paused, leaned forward in his saddle.

  “They’re heading south, toward Venitte.”

  Chapter 6

  “Venitte?” Darryn said. He thought about this for a moment, th
en turned to the rest of those seated around the council table. “Then I guess we don’t have to worry. Amenkor should be safe.”

  Avrell snorted in derision, Darryn shooting him a dark glare, but it was Captain Catrell who spoke first.

  “Safe for now. But for how long? The problem was never where the Chorl were headed, it’s the Chorl themselves. We’re in as much danger with them conquering Venitte as we are with them coming straight for Amenkor. In fact, we’re in greater danger.”

  More than Catrell even knew. I exchanged a glance with Avrell and Eryn. Both of them had reacted the same way once I told them what Westen had learned from Lord Pyre of the Chorl’s movements, but for different reasons. Because of the second throne. If it was in Venitte, and if the Chorl gained control of it with the Skewed Throne destroyed . . .

  “What do you mean?” Darryn bristled. “Why should we help defend Venitte against the Chorl when we’ve barely survived an attack by them already? We’re still recovering. We can’t afford to help them.”

  Everyone at the table grew taut with affronted anger.

  Everyone except me. I understood what Darryn was saying. We’d learned the same instinct in the slums: survive at all costs. Which meant preserve yourself, don’t worry about those you’ve left behind. If the threat has focused its attention elsewhere, slink off to hide and nurse your own wounds, forget about the next victim, thank the Mistress that you’d survived, and focus on making yourself stronger for the next confrontation.

  But even in the slums I’d never been able to do that. Not after meeting Erick.

  Catrell glanced toward me, waited for a nod before continuing. Shifting forward in his seat, he said, “From a strategical standpoint, if the Chorl seize Venitte, they will have a base of operations that allows them access to virtually every resource they may need—food, lumber, stone—while at the same time putting them in easy reach of almost all of the sea trading routes. Right now, they have the Boreaite Isles and Bosun’s Bay. The Isles allow them to raid the trading routes, but there’s a wide swath of ocean between them and the mainland. They can’t patrol that lane and expect to catch all of the trading vessels that sail through it.”