The Throne of Amenkor

by Joshua Palmatier

  Then I caught a glimpse of Sorrenti, of his dark hair, neat beard, his sharp eyes squinted in anger and desperation.

  Reaching forward with the river, I shoved the few people between us and his guardsmen aside, clearing a path. Brandan turned defensively as the Venittian guardsmen cried out, hands raised. I couldn’t see what he’d done on the river, but I could feel the prickling sensation of power against my skin, making the hairs on my arms and neck stand on end.

  As soon as he saw me, recognized me, his hands lowered and he barked an order, catching Sorrenti’s attention.

  The two sets of guardsmen merged. Our forces doubled, they pushed back against the crowd, formed a rough circle of space to give us breathing room.

  “We have to get to the gates,” Sorrenti said immediately.

  “We’ll never make it. The crowd between here and there is too thick. Unless you know a different route.”

  Sorrenti scanned the plaza, swore softly beneath his breath.

  “Where is Lord March?” I asked. “Daeriun?”

  He caught my gaze, concern flickering there for a moment. “Assuming he wasn’t assassinated like Lady Casari, you mean?” he asked, but he shook his head. “I don’t know. Lord March doesn’t usually arrive at the Fete until later, so he may still be inside the Wall. Daeriun would have been in the city somewhere.”

  “Would he—” I began, but then another thud rippled through the river, somehow more hollow, more distant.

  I turned toward the sound with a frown, felt Sorrenti, Brandan, and Erick do the same as, belatedly, a whooshing roar echoed up from the harbor. Followed by another. And another.

  Familiar roars. Ones I’d heard before . . .

  “That’s not coming from the Wall. Nor the northern part of the city,” Erick said.

  “It’s coming from the channel,” Sorrenti said. “From the northern channel.”

  And then I recognized the sounds. Not ones I’d heard before.

  But ones Cerrin had heard, fifteen hundred years before, when the Chorl had first attacked Venitte. The sounds of the Chorl Servants’ fireballs echoing within the walls of the channel as they destroyed the houses and estates on the cliffs.

  I felt my chest tighten at Cerrin’s remembered pain and loss, felt his sickening hollow grief clutch at my stomach, and I clenched my jaw tight against it, fought it back.

  “The Chorl are attacking from the sea,” I said. “They’re coming up through the channel. And if they get through, they’ll hit the port.” I turned toward Erick. “The Chorl learn fast. They failed in Amenkor because they didn’t seize control of the throne. They relied on a single assault from the sea.”

  “And they did not expect much resistance,” Erick added. “They didn’t expect you to be prepared.”

  I turned to Sorrenti, the tightness in my chest increasing with urgency, with the tingling need to move, to do something. “They’re attacking on three fronts. They’re trying to keep you occupied with the forces to the north and the ships coming in from the west, while the real threat—Haqtl and the priests—attempt to take the throne.”

  As the realization sank in, Sorrenti’s face grew taut. His lips pressed together into a thin line and his shoulders settled.

  “We can’t do anything for the port,” he said. “We have ships guarding the channels. They’ll have to hold them off. And we can’t help at the gates to the Wall or to the north. We’d never make it there in time. We’ll have to leave that to Daeriun and Lord March, if they’re still alive.” He looked toward Erick. “But we can do something here.”

  Erick nodded.

  “We have to get to the Council chambers,” I said forcefully. “Haqtl will head straight for the throne. If he reaches it, if he touches it . . .”

  Sorrenti frowned. “We’ll never get a chance unless we can escape the plaza. And that won’t happen unless we can clear out the Chorl and get the citizens of Venitte out of our way.” When I didn’t immediately agree, he added, “There are protections in place around the throne. It will take him time to get through those. Haqtl won’t be able to simply walk in and find it.”

  I glared at him a moment in frustration. “Very well. But if Haqtl does reach the throne before we do, if he does touch it, you have to fight him, Sorrenti. Fight him as long as you can. And if you have to—”

  He cut me off with a sharp gesture, a slash of his hand. “I know. The Seven have already informed me.”

  Then he turned toward his guardsmen, stepped over to the commander of the Protectorate, and began giving orders.

  “We don’t have enough men to defeat the Chorl here,” Erick said quietly. “There were over a hundred.”

  “But there weren’t any Servants or priests that I saw,” I said. “And we have Marielle, Heddan, Gwenn, and me. And Brandan Vard. And perhaps Ottul.”

  He snorted, shaking his head. But he didn’t say anything.

  I bristled, but reined in my irritation. He hadn’t seen the Servants fight in Amenkor, hadn’t seen firsthand what they could do. And he hadn’t seen Brandan fighting the Chorl ships when they attacked at sea.

  Then we were moving, pushing forward through the seething mass of the crowd as people tried to flee the death the Chorl wielded behind them. The guardsmen formed up into a tight wedge, Sorrenti, Brandan, Erick, and I at its base, as we cut through the press of bodies, toward the center of the plaza. As we moved, I pulled my dagger free, sank deeper into the river, Reached forward—

  And felt an eddy lash out, far to the right.

  From Marielle’s direction.

  “Marielle and the others are already fighting the Chorl!” I shouted to Erick, motioning to the right, trying to be heard over the increasing screams as we drew closer to the slaughter. Erick nodded, the crowd pushing hard into the wedge, the guardsmen shoving back with enough force to topple a few of the people, their faces panicking as they slid underfoot. For a brief moment, the density of the crowd doubled, the scent of sweat and blood sharp.

  And then the wedge broke through into the Chorl ranks.

  The reaction was instantaneous. A ululating shriek pierced the air, shivered down my spine even though I’d heard it uttered a hundred times on The Maiden and in the streets of Amenkor. For a single moment, I saw Erick hesitate, draw back from the noise with a wince and a look of horror, of remembered torture—

  But then his face slid into the cold, calculating mask of a Seeker.

  The mixed group of Amenkor guardsmen and Venittian Protectors lurched forward with a wordless battle cry, swords raised, and hit the blue-skinned Chorl with a force that I felt on the river, a strength that tingled through my skin, through my bones.

  I sank into the sensation, wrapped its warmth around me, and stepped forward.

  A Chorl warrior lashed out with his sword. I forged a shield using the river, thrust the strike aside and plunged the dagger into his chest, above the edge of his armor, in and out, the motion sharp and smooth. Moving past his startled, tattooed face, his body falling to the side, I slashed through the next man’s arm, felt the blue-purple cloth of his shirt tear, felt the dagger bite and score the hardened leather armor beneath. He shrugged the cut aside, grinning maniacally, thrust forward toward my exposed stomach.

  But I’d already stepped aside, angled toward him, into the space alongside his sword.

  His grin faltered a moment before my dagger took him in the stomach.

  He slumped into me, shocked, and I caught him, spun him slightly before jerking my dagger free and letting him fall.

  Behind me, I saw Sorrenti, his sword bare and bloodied. I saw the shock in his eyes, saw the momentary flicker of respect, of newfound wariness—

  And then he turned, sword rising to meet another Chorl’s attack. He caught the warrior’s sword, metal ringing against metal, then thrust the man back.

  I spun, dove back into the fight,
thrusting forward, spinning back, slicing across arms, across thighs, across faces, feeling the Amenkor guardsmen and Venittian Protectorate roaring and cursing and dying on all sides. But the Chorl were dying as well, bodies making the footing treacherous, blood making it slick. I felt power gather and release on the river to the right, tasted Marielle’s touch, Heddan’s, even Gwenn’s. Felt a wall of force being erected, but at our backs, and realized they were keeping the Chorl from attacking the remnants of the crowd, protecting the people as they tried to flee.

  But there were too many Chorl. Over a hundred against perhaps a third of that. The Protectorate in the plaza had been scattered. We weren’t a cohesive force.

  Behind the front line, the Chorl rallied, fell back to regroup from the sudden attack, and then they pushed forward in a concerted effort.

  They shoved our defensive line back almost a full ten feet when they struck.

  The guardsman beside me cried out as he took a wicked cut to his arm. Gasping, he clutched the wound with one hand, staggered to the side. The Chorl moved in, grinning.

  I sliced across the face of the warrior before me, forcing him to halt, and on the return slash I plunged the dagger into the other Chorl warrior’s back as he bent over the injured guardsman. Wrenching the dagger free, I whirled, kicked outward with my other leg, and caught the Chorl I’d slashed across the face in the stomach and dropped him to the ground.

  Sliding back into position, I felt a different surge on the river, saw blazing fire arc up and out, and felt something cold grip my throat, cutting off my breath.

  The fire came down, trailing smoke—

  And exploded in the center of the Chorl warriors.

  Screams erupted, followed instantly by the acrid scent of burning flesh.

  I grinned.

  Ottul.

  The Chorl’s sudden press forward faltered. Into the hesitation, I felt the crackling release of raw power and lightning forked down from the sunlit sky, blindingly bright, edges tinged with purple, followed almost immediately by a tremendous crack of thunder that reverberated through the ground, through the air, pressing against the skin of my face. The lightning struck the Chorl line, danced down its length, men juddering as it touched them. An acrid bitter scent permeated the river, tasting of metal and rain, followed almost instantly by the black smell of burned flesh. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Brandan smile, a vicious smile of triumph, before his expression slid back into cold calculation.

  The Chorl advance halted completely, and the guardsmen around us grabbed the advantage.

  I pushed forward with them, dagger rising and falling, blood slicking my hands, my face, mingling with the sweat. Smoke burned in my nostrils as more fireballs arched out over the field, and lightning continued to sizzle down from the empty sky, its metallic flavor mingling with that of ash and char. I sank into the flow of the fight, into the eddies of the river, felt answering pulses from Marielle, Heddan, and Gwenn as the two forces drew closer together. Time slipped as I became lost in the rhythm—

  Until someone touched my shoulder and I spun without thinking, dagger cutting in hard and sharp—

  I scented Sorrenti at the last moment—the dry dust of ancient paper—nostrils flaring even as I readied for a killing blow.

  I stilled, the effort to halt my motion sending a twinge through my gut, through my shoulder and upper arm. The dagger stopped a finger’s breath from his neck and he froze, head tilted away.

  “It’s me, Varis,” he said. He had one hand outstretched, the one he’d used to touch me, but he withdrew it slowly. “It’s over.”

  I glanced around, saw the guardsmen and Protectorate gathering close, some clutching wounds, others holding a fellow guardsman upright, all of them weary. Brandan held a hand across a nick on his forearm. Marielle led the rest of my entourage closer from the opposite edge of the plaza, Avrell and William at her back, the others behind, her face set, her clothes stained with blood and sweat. The sun stood almost directly overhead, and the plaza itself was empty of revelers.

  Or almost empty. A few of the men who staggered or limped toward our position through the bodies of the dead weren’t guardsmen. Some of the Venittians had thrown their masks aside and joined in the fighting.

  I turned back to Sorrenti, pulling my dagger away carefully.

  Sorrenti sighed and straightened, one hand rising to rub the skin of his neck where my dagger would have fallen. He left a smear of blood behind. Someone else’s blood.

  Behind him, Erick grinned.

  Before Sorrenti could speak, a loud boom rose from the harbor.

  Everyone turned.

  There, in the deep blue water that flashed in the sunlight, shrouded by plumes of smoke, ships battled. At least two ships were burning, sails nothing more than sheets of flame. Even as we watched, fire arched up and out from a Chorl ship, shattering in the mast of one of Venitte’s traders. A man fell from the rigging, clothes burning.

  “Is that the Defiant?” Erick asked, coming up beside me. Any trace of satisfaction was gone from his voice, and I could feel the guardsmen and Venittian citizens gathering behind us, a row of grim faces.

  I nodded. “And the three refitted Chorl ships that we brought with us.”

  “I think I see the Reliant as well. I can’t imagine Tristan missing out on a sea battle.”

  I glanced toward Sorrenti. “The throne.”

  Sorrenti met my eyes, then turned toward the Wall, toward the gates.

  Smoke rose from the northern city in thick clouds. Even as those on the plaza shifted to look, Avrell, Marielle, and the others from Amenkor joining me, a building collapsed, embers and cinders rising in a furious cloud, like crazed red gnats.

  Closer, the Wall itself had been broken. Jagged white stone glared in the sunlight where the gates had once stood. I could see men on what remained, still fighting, throwing stones and cauldrons of oil and fire down onto those below, could hear the echoes of battle, faint but unmistakable, filtering through the streets and rising to the plaza. But the Wall had been breached.

  The sight sent a ripple of despair through all of the Venittians on the plaza, a shudder I felt on the river. Shoulders slumped, and faces grew pinched and tight. Swords lowered, grips loosening.

  For a moment, the plaza was still, silent. A breeze gusted from the harbor, carrying with it the stench of smoke.

  Then, from the distance, a horn rose, a long clear note that reverberated in the air.

  Before me, Sorrenti’s shoulders tightened and he straightened, listening.

  The first horn faded, but it was answered by another, and another, coming from two different sections of the city.

  Sorrenti spun toward me, and hope softened the harshness of his face. “Lord March, Daeriun, and Lady Tormaul. They’re outside the Wall. Daeriun is headed toward the gates. Lord March and Lady Tormaul are headed toward the northern precincts.”

  “What about the gates?”

  “Hard to tell,” Erick muttered. “From here, it looks like they’ve already been taken, that there’s only a token Venittian force trying to hold them back.”

  “But Daeriun will have some of the Venittian Servants with his forces, as will Lord March. If he reaches the gates . . .”

  I glanced at the men around us, then swore beneath my breath. We had barely fifty men, counting Marielle’s force and the citizens who’d joined us. And a significant number of those men were wounded. Catrell and the other Amenkor forces would be with Daeriun or Lord March, would rally to the horns. And Captain Bullick and his crew were occupied in the harbor.

  “We know Lady Casari is dead,” I said. “What about the other Council members?”

  One of the guardsmen stirred. “Lord Aurowan is dead. I was part of his entourage. We stayed with his body until we heard the fighting.”

  “Lord Boradarn as well,” someone else said. “He was
killed as we reached the plaza.”

  “That’s three of the Council members lost so far,” Sorrenti said grimly. “Perhaps more. I haven’t heard any horns sounding for any of the others.”

  “I saw Lord Dussain being dragged by his men into the safety of one of the buildings,” said one of the revelers who’d grabbed a sword and joined us. “He was wounded, but still alive.”

  Sorrenti nodded. I could see the tension in his face, the indecision.

  Taking a small step forward, I said, “The throne.”

  He met my gaze with a glare. “The Chorl already control the gates of the Wall. How do you propose we break through with less than fifty men?”

  I narrowed my eyes at the scathing tone in his voice, but said quietly. “I don’t intend to storm the main gates. Let Daeriun retake the main gates. We only need to get to the Council chambers, to the throne itself.”

  Sorrenti’s brow creased in confusion.

  “The Wall has more than one gate,” I added.

  Sorrenti’s eyes widened in sudden understanding.

  “The Gutter’s gate.”

  * * *

  Sorrenti gathered all of the guardsmen and Protectorate together, passing quickly through the ranks, inspecting all of those with wounds, ordering some to stay behind to protect those too badly wounded to go with us. All the while, horns sounded to the north, distorted by the gusting wind, mingled with the hollow fwumps of fireballs from the harbor to the west. At one point, both Sorrenti and Brandan stiffened, heads turning toward the north, eyes distant. After the space of a breath, they traded a glance, Sorrenti returning to the organization of his men. Brandan caught my gaze, answered my unasked question tersely, “The Venittian Servants have joined the attack.”

  Before I could answer, jagged lightning flashed down from the sky into the buildings to the north, followed by ragged booms of thunder. At this distance, the lightning was almost beautiful, without the crackling intensity and prickling sensation against the skin, without the metallic scent that made me want to sneeze.