The Throne of Amenkor

by Joshua Palmatier

  “You . . .” he spat. Blood speckled his lips, drooled from the corner of his mouth.

  And with that one word, filled with all of his hatred, all of his derision and anger, he died.

  His body toppled forward, sliding from the throne in a bundle, his face hitting the obsidian floor first with a dull thud, then shifting forward as the weight of his hunched body pushed him downward.

  He came to rest, arms still folded across his stomach but loosely, body slightly curved. Blood began to pool beneath him.

  I turned, sought out Erick. I needed to see his face.

  He stood, Baill and Patch beside him and slightly behind. He stared at Haqtl’s body, his eyes impassive, empty. Lost.

  To one side, the remaining Chorl tensed, raised their swords. I thought about those we’d held captive after Amenkor, about their suicides, about what Ottul had told us of the Chorl themselves, and knew that these would not surrender.

  “Baill,” I said. “Try to keep as many of them alive as possible.”

  He understood immediately. Shoving Patch away from Erick, who didn’t move at all, he barked an order to the rest of the Band. They closed in on the Chorl. I heard the Chorl battle cry, the strange ululations, piercing and sharp, heard the subsequent clash of swords, but I didn’t take my eyes from Erick.

  I moved to stand before him, noted that the shield that had protected the throne while Haqtl sat on it was gone.

  “Erick.”

  When he didn’t respond, I reached forward and caught his arm with my free hand.

  He flinched, his gaze dropping to meet mine.

  He looked . . . haunted.

  “Erick,” I said, squeezing his arm. “This isn’t over. We still need to stop the fighting in the city, the battle in the harbor.”

  For a moment, his gaze held, the haunted, empty look remaining, as if he hadn’t heard me. But then he shuddered, the tremor running through his body. He closed his eyes.

  And when he opened them again, the emptiness had been shoved into the background, replaced by the coldness of a Seeker.

  “How do you intend to stop it?” he asked.

  I looked to where the fighting between the Band and the Chorl had ended—none of the Chorl had survived—and caught Baill’s look.

  “We’ll need Haqtl’s body.”

  * * *

  We emerged from the Council building to find the Venittian and Amenkor forces searching through the bodies that littered the stone steps and the rectangular pool of water for survivors, slitting the throats of the Chorl and hauling the Venittians and those from the Band that had been wounded to one side, where Avrell and Brandan had organized a makeshift hospital. As soon as we exited into the early evening sunlight, Haqtl’s body in tow, a cheer roared through the plaza.

  Followed immediately by the dull thud of an explosion from outside the Wall, and a sizzling crack of thunder.

  Avrell moved immediately to my side, William, Brandan, Marielle, and Ottul behind him. A gash ran across William’s cheek, deep enough that it would leave a scar. Marielle and Ottul looked haggard and drained, but unharmed.

  All of them looked weary.

  “Where’s Sorrenti?” I asked Brandan, before any of them could speak.

  “Recovering,” Brandan said, his tone grim. He pointed to where Sorrenti sat with his back against one of the stone columns surrounding the body-clogged and bloody pool. “He woke a few moments ago, but he’s exhausted.”

  I remembered my own battle with the Ochean, remembered the sheer weariness I’d felt immediately afterward, and nodded. “What about Heddan and Gwenn?”

  “They’re helping with the wounded,” Marielle said.

  “We started triage as soon as the last of the Chorl were killed,” Avrell added.

  “Good.” I scanned the people of Venitte, saw one of the Protectorate approaching, stepping carefully through the dead. “Baill, get the Band ready. We’re heading toward the northern part of the city.”

  Baill moved away instantly, Warren and Patch following. Their piercing whistles broke through the moans of the wounded and the silence of the dead, the Band converging on the still standing black-and-red Skewed Throne banner.

  When the captain of the Protectorate drew close enough, I said, “The Chorl within the Council chambers are dead.”

  He nodded grimly, his eyes falling on Haqtl’s body, which the members of the Band that Baill had left behind had dropped unceremoniously to the ground. “Daeriun sends word that the Chorl at the gates have also been halted. Their priests and Servants caused massive damage in the first strike at the Wall, but he’s managed to overwhelm them with the Venittian Servants.” He shot a respectful glance toward Brandan, then continued his report to me. “He’s finishing off the last of the Chorl resistance there now, but there is still fighting to the north and in the harbor.”

  “My men are forming up to head to the north. We’ll join up with Daeriun at the Wall.”

  Before he could answer, someone said, “Ethan.”

  Everyone turned. I frowned at Sorrenti where he stood behind Avrell and Marielle and Ottul. His face was tinged an unhealthy gray, but I saw no sign of tremors.

  “Ready the men,” Sorrenti said. “We’ll be joining the Mistress.”

  The captain of the Protectorate nodded sharply, turned, then shouted an order across the plaza, men picking through the bodies glancing up.

  I caught Sorrenti’s gaze, but before I could speak, he bowed low and said, “Thank you. Haqtl had almost won. If you hadn’t intervened . . .”

  “I know.” At his frown, I added, “The throne had begun to change shape.”

  He nodded. “But you were right. In the moments before he began taking control, I touched Haqtl through the throne. Demasque and Parmati were working with him. He’d promised Demasque control of the merchants’ guild, not only here in the city, but for the entire coast. He’d promised Parmati rule of the city.” He grimaced. “He never intended to keep those promises. He wanted the coast for himself, and he thought the throne—and the Fire—would give it to him.”

  “Is that enough to convince Lord March and the Council?”

  His frown deepened. “Half of the Council is dead. But even then . . .”

  I shook my head, turned away. I was tired of Venitte, of their Council. “Never mind. We need to take care of Atlatik now.”

  Within moments, the Band and the Protectorate had formed two groups at the edge of the plaza, the Protectorate under Sorrenti’s command.

  “What about the harbor?” Erick asked as I began to make my way through the plaza, my entourage following, the escort from the Band carrying Haqtl’s body.

  “I don’t know. Let’s see what happens to the north first.”

  He grunted.

  As soon as I joined Baill, we headed out, Sorrenti and the Protectorate falling in behind us. We marched down through the streets and open gardens to the shattered gates of the Wall, gates that had suffered far more damage than we’d done to the Gutter’s gate to the south. Here, the arch of stone above the gate itself had crumbled and lay in ruins across the threshold, bodies crushed beneath the massive stone blocks, dust, and debris. A phalanx of Protectorate held the entrance, but parted as we approached, revealing General Daeriun, surrounded by a core of captains and male Servants.

  Daeriun turned. “Mistress. Lord Sorrenti.” Blood dripped from a wound in his scalp, and his uniform of blood-red and gold was stained with sweat and blood and dirt. He didn’t bother to wipe away the trail of blood on his face, his gaze falling onto Haqtl’s body instead. He frowned.

  “The threat in the Council chambers is gone,” Lord Sorrenti said, “thanks to the Mistress and the Band.”

  Daeriun grunted, taking in the black-and-red Skewed Throne banners behind me. He raised his eyebrows, but didn’t comment. “We’ve secured the gates here.”<
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  “You should also send a force to the Gutter’s gate,” Sorrenti said. “That’s how we got to the Council chambers. But we had to breach the gate as the Chorl did here.”

  Daeriun turned immediately, motioned to one of his captains without a word. A phalanx of men broke off from his forces and headed to the gate. “Anything else?”

  Sorrenti shook his head. “Nothing but Atlatik and the force in the harbor.”

  “Good. Let’s get moving.”

  Daeriun joined us, his captains returning to the army behind. We began to wind our way north through the Merchant Quarter, through streets littered with the detritus of the Masquerade, with bodies of guardsmen and citizens and Chorl. Furtive glances greeted us from the cracks in window shutters, a glimpse of a pale face that retreated quickly, nothing more. On the river, I could feel the citizens huddled within the buildings, could sense their fear.

  Then the sounds of battle grew clearer, sharper. Baill and Erick exchanged glances, and the escort at my sides drew close, a ripple of warning passing back through the ranks. Daeriun’s men tightened their formation as well, without a word from him, and Sorrenti’s stance shifted.

  I sensed a gathering of power ahead of us, felt it being released, heard the explosion of fire and the resultant reverberations on the river. I breathed in the bitter scent of the Venittian Servants’ lightning, glanced skyward to see columns of smoke rising into the air—

  And then we rounded a corner and the sounds of battle were suddenly too close, screams echoing off of the surrounding buildings, fire blazing from the cavities of doorways and windows, glass shattering in an explosion. Even as we halted, Erick and Baill pausing a pace in front of me, protectively, horns sounded and Lord March appeared on horseback, galloping straight for the Chorl, the Venittian army—mixed with the Amenkor guardsmen led by Captain Catrell—charging beside him. The Chorl answered with their ululating battle cry.

  The two met with a thundering crush of bodies and the clash of metal on metal. The disturbance on the river sent a wave scudding past me with a gust of wind. At the same moment, lightning forked into the Chorl forces from behind, some of it deflected by Chorl shields, the bolts striking the stone of the buildings nearby, rock splintering and melting. Fire arched up and over into the Venittian forces, the screams of the dying piercing through the sound of thunder, the explosions, and the clash of steel.

  I felt more than saw Daeriun and Sorrenti halt beside me.

  “How are we going to stop this?” Sorrenti said.

  I shook my head, frowning, then turned toward them both. “We need to show Atlatik, the Chorl captain, that Haqtl is dead. This entire battle—both here and in the harbor—wasn’t the main thrust of the attack. If he knows that Haqtl has failed . . .”

  Sorrenti nodded once, the gesture sharp and succinct. His color had improved during the march. “Then we need to catch his attention. His and Lord March’s.”

  Before I could ask how, he closed his eyes, drew a deep breath—

  And in the sudden stillness that enveloped us, the battle ahead somehow removed, I felt a gathering of power, an echo of a much greater force that tasted of the Stone Throne.

  A rumble began to fill the air, a sound that shivered up from the ground, into my feet, vibrating in my bones. It increased, the rumble escalating into a low growl, the stone beneath my feet beginning to tremble, then deepening and growing further, until the ground shook.

  Ahead, the two armies—Chorl and coastal—paused, men stepping back, glancing around at the shuddering earth, at the increasing roar—

  And then, with a dry, hideous crack, the earth split.

  Shards of stone flew skyward as the street where the two armies clashed suddenly lurched and splintered open, a jagged fissure—no more than a handspan across—ripping through the cobbles and buildings to either side. Men cried out, stumbled back from the opening, those closest to the crack thrown off their feet. All of the fighting ceased, both sides stunned.

  As the stone shards began raining down on the men nearest the fissure, dust starting to rise, Sorrenti sagged to the ground.

  I shoved Baill and Sorrenti’s guardsmen aside, knelt down beside him. Daeriun joined me.

  Sorrenti tried to lift his head, failed, and gave me a weak grin. “I think,” he gasped, coughing slightly, “you have their attention.”

  I stood, slowly, heard Sorrenti sigh before he lost consciousness, then turned toward the street ahead.

  Men were picking themselves up from the ground, scrambling back to their own lines. All of them were looking to the south. Toward us.

  Toward me and Daeriun, who stood at my side. Daeriun looked shaken.

  “Sorrenti did this?” he asked, too low for anyone but me to hear.

  I nodded, then raised my head. “Erick, Baill,” I said, and only then realized how quiet it had become, my voice overly loud. “Bring Haqtl’s body.”

  I moved forward, not glancing back to see who followed, aware that Erick and Daeriun stayed with me, that Baill and part of the Band hastily grabbed Haqtl’s body and closed in behind.

  I headed toward the banners marking Lord March’s position, noted that Atlatik’s own banners waited on the far side of the fissure opposite him. The Venittian men parted before us, the Amenkor guardsmen among them nodding as we passed, some signing themselves with the Skewed Throne, a few kneeling. They closed in behind us as we came upon Lord March and his own entourage, his men waiting, swords raised. He dismounted, his face bloody, beard matted with sweat and gore, his eyes black with anger.

  “What,” he demanded harshly, as I halted before him, “have you done?”

  I didn’t answer, bowing my head instead. “Lord March.”

  “She’s helped secure the Council chambers and the Wall,” Daeriun said into the silence. “And now,” he continued, when Lord March’s anger faltered, “she intends to stop the fighting here.”

  His gaze fell on me, his breath coming out in short gasps through his nose. His hand clenched on the hilt of his drawn sword, his armor creaking. The horse behind him snorted and stamped a foot impatiently. He looked over his own men, over the winged helmets of the Protectorate, toward Catrell and his nearest captain, then came back to me. “You can truly end this?”

  “I can try, Lord March.” When still he hesitated, I added, “Haqtl is dead.”

  He grunted. “Then try.”

  I tasted his doubt on the river, heard it clearly in his voice. But I turned toward the Chorl, toward the banners that marked Atlatik’s location, and without another word walked past Lord March and his retinue. I crossed the emptied area between the two forces, feet crunching against flagstones, paused at the fissure Sorrenti had created, stared down at its ragged edge a moment, then stepped across it and slowed as I approached the Chorl line. No one but Erick and Baill followed me.

  I halted ten paces from the Chorl, glared at their front ranks, at their blue-skinned faces, at their dark blue tattoos, at the vibrant clothes they wore over their armor, now dulled and sullied with dust and blood and sweat. They watched me uncertainly, their dark eyes seething with hatred . . . and a little fear.

  And I suddenly realized they thought I’d created the fissure, that I’d made the earth quake. And they knew what that force could do. They’d seen their homeland destroyed by something similar, seen their island slide into the sea beneath its force.

  I’d seen it, through the Ochean’s eyes in the moments before I destroyed the throne.

  I let them relive that memory for a moment, then drew in a deep breath and shouted, “Atlatik!”

  The Chorl forces tensed. I’d just drawn breath to shout again, when the group before me grew restless, men shifting out of the way as someone moved forward.

  Atlatik stepped through the front line, his bloodied sword held at the ready. I glared into his eyes, remembered staring into them after I’d def
eated the Ochean in Amenkor. He’d wanted to attack then, hadn’t wanted to back down. But Haqtl had convinced him to retreat. I’d seen him a few times before, through memory—Erick’s on The Maiden, and Alendor’s on a deserted beach—recalled the tattoos that swirled across his face, more dense than those on the other men. The bottom of one ear had been cut off, and his nose had been broken, making his already flat face appear flatter.

  He moved forward, came within five paces of me, two other Chorl flanking him.

  Erick tensed to my right, and Baill stepped forward on my left, both with hands on swords.

  I tasted the tension in the air, bitter, like sap.

  “What you want?” Atlatik growled, in broken coastal.

  “It’s over,” I said.

  Atlatik snorted, scowled, and spat to one side.

  I smiled, then motioned the Band forward.

  The men carrying Haqtl’s body shuffled forward and dumped the corpse on the ground between us. Both of Atlatik’s guardsmen stepped forward threateningly, but they halted once the corpse came to rest, head rolling to one side, his wound obvious.

  Someone among the Chorl gasped, said something filled with dismay, with horror, a concerned buzz spreading outward from the voice, carrying back through the ranks.

  Until Atlatik barked a command and everyone fell silent.

  He looked at me, looked into my eyes, and I saw him standing in front of the reed throne the Ochean had used in their homeland. She’d known then that the warriors would follow the priests, had known that the warriors believed in them, in Haqtl, in what he said. In order to control them, the Ochean had worked through the priests, had manipulated Haqtl to get what she’d wanted.

  Seeing their head priest dead had already sent a wave of fear through the Chorl forces, a ripple effect that Atlatik couldn’t hope to control. I could sense the unease of the warriors.

  And Atlatik knew it. I could see it in his eyes, in the clenching of his jaw.

  “It’s over,” I said again, more forcefully.