Imperial Traitor

by Mark Robson

  Cowering as she ducked back inside, Rikala dashed into her tiny kitchen and dived under the table, where she remained, quaking and weeping uncontrollably. The noise of the falling debris was terrifying as death and destruction rained down across the city. To Rikala it seemed as though the Creator himself had decided to shatter the mundane life of Shandrim with a thunderbolt from heaven. Whatever had caused this, one thing was sure – life would never be the same again. Anyone who survived would recall the day of the great cloud of devastation.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  One second Reynik was on his feet, talking tactics in hushed tones with his father in the corridor outside the Great Hall, the next he was flat on his face, convinced the end of the world had come. A series of rumblings, smashing and crashing noises followed, along with hysterical screams and panicked shouting emanating from the Great Hall.

  ‘What in hell . . .’

  A quick glance around revealed that no one had managed to stay on his feet through the explosive quake. His father and the other Legionnaires were all scattered across the floor like so many twigs shaken from a tree by high winds. Even Calvyn, whom Reynik expected to still be upright through some magical means, was sprawled flat on his back. No one appeared badly injured, though Calvyn’s face had suddenly lost all its usual colour and vitality.

  ‘Master?’ he mouthed, his voice not audible above the noise from the Great Hall, but the word clearly formed on his lips.

  Reynik leaped to his feet and ran to Calvyn’s side. ‘What has Jabal done?’ he asked urgently, grabbing the young acolyte by the hand and helping him sit up. ‘What’s happened, Calvyn? What has Jabal done?’

  ‘Master . . .’ Calvyn whispered again, his voice thick with sorrow and tears forming in his eyes. He gave no outward sign of having registered Reynik’s presence. His body was limp with grief and his eyes distant. Reynik realised the futility of his questions. He would get no quick answers from the magician. Calvyn was in a deep state of shock. Reynik tried shaking him, but without success. Calvyn could not help.

  He turned to Lord Kempten. The Emperor Designate did not appear hurt. His glamour disguise was gone. Instinctively, Reynik glanced down at his own appearance. All the glamours had dissipated. The explosion must have had magical repercussions, he realised. Calvyn was in no state to reform them, but it no longer mattered. The time for disguise was past.

  ‘Are you ready, my Lord?’ Reynik asked urgently. ‘It sounds like pandemonium in the Great Hall. Shand only knows what’s happening in there. If you’re going to take control, then you need to do it now.’

  Kempten nodded. Lutalo and the other Legionnaires were all scrambling to their feet. They gathered in a defensive group around Lord Kempten and were ready within a matter of a few seconds.

  Reynik gave his father a brief nod and stepped through the doorway into the chaos beyond.

  At first it was hard to make sense of the mess. There seemed altogether too much debris for the relatively small hole in the roof and the larger hole in the end wall above the altar. It was only when Reynik focused on the huge chunk of masonry that had crashed down in the centre of the dais that he realised it had not fallen, but had been hurled through the end wall of the hall from elsewhere.

  ‘Good grief!’ he uttered as he scanned the vast hall. One of the great pillars had crumbled and fallen right across the middle of the audience. By some miracle, the section of the roof that it had supported had not caved in, but was sagging precariously. Reynik’s instinctive assessment was that it was poised to come down at any moment. Noblemen were scrambling to pull friends and loved ones from under the debris, but for the most part the pieces of stone were simply too heavy to move. Others were dithering, or running for exits, or simply sitting, held in mesmerised thrall by the shock of the moment. The pained screams of the injured joined with the wailing of those cast into instant mourning at the sudden, crushing death of those nearby. The sounds echoed and rang around the hall in a way that accentuated the panic and pain of the moment.

  Tremarle was clearly visible in the middle of the chaos. He was one of the few actively trying to coordinate efforts to free a nobleman trapped underneath one of the smaller sections of fallen stone. It took a moment or two for Reynik’s searching eyes to find Shalidar, but then his eyes came to rest on his sworn enemy.

  ‘Shalidar mustn’t get away,’ he said quickly, already in motion before making the conscious decision to attack. ‘You must protect Lord Kempten, father, but if I fall, do what you can to see Shalidar stopped.’

  The assassin was halfway across the Great Hall, clearly looking to escape through one of the side doors. The first thing that Reynik noted was that he was limping, but either the injury he had sustained was a minor one or it was not a fresh wound, for he looked to be moving with relative ease in spite of his uneven gait.

  ‘Stand and face me, Shalidar!’ The shout was loud enough to cut through the chaos and confusion. Shalidar froze in his tracks. The assassin’s face instinctively twisted into a sneer of contempt. Reynik closed the distance between them quickly, bounding and vaulting over fallen masonry with determined purpose.

  The assassin’s eyes narrowed as he recognised his adversary. His sneer twisted further to become a snarl of anger. It looked for the briefest of moments as if he might make a run for the side door. The indecision was clear in his eyes, a flicker of uncertainty before accepting the challenge.

  Reynik noted the fleeting inner conflict with a sense of satisfaction. Shalidar was not so sure of himself now, he realised. It was one thing to attack someone on a dark street with the advantage of surprise, but to face a determined, talented fighter, who knew exactly what to expect from the encounter was a different prospect.

  Across the Great Hall, another had frozen at Reynik’s shouted challenge.

  ‘Leave my son be,’ Tremarle called out, alarmed by the sight of Reynik bounding through the debris with a murderous expression on his face. If Reynik heard the call, he gave no indication of it.

  ‘Your son, Tremarle? You have no sons.’

  The response came from the dais, and Tremarle was quick to identify the speaker’s voice.

  ‘Kempten! I heard whispers that you were still alive, but I gave them little credence. What is it to you if I have adopted Shalidar as my son? And what is the meaning of all this? If you wanted the Mantle, you could have taken it. You were the named heir,’ he said, gesturing around at the devastation of the Great Hall with a look that spoke of personal injury.

  ‘You’re making a fool of yourself, Tremarle, though I suspect you’ve done so unwittingly. Shalidar has used you. Don’t you see it? You’re too wily to have let his profession escape you. You know who he is – what he is. But did you know that it was he who killed Danar?’

  A clash of blades rang loud through the silence that followed Kempten’s last statement.

  ‘Shalidar killed Danar?’ Disbelief was heavy in his tone and evident in his expression, though it quickly wavered in the face of Lord Kempten’s steady gaze. His misgivings about Shalidar’s hidden agenda had troubled his heart for some time, but this? Bile rose to the back of his throat as he recognised the truth in Kempten’s eyes. The realisation that he had fallen victim to the very worst kind of deception hit him with cruel force.

  Shalidar timed his attack with precision. He waited until the critical instant when Reynik committed to hurdling the final piece of fallen masonry between them. As Reynik leaped, Shalidar palmed and flung one of his knives. The blade flashed through the air, the finely-honed steel streaking with deadly accuracy towards the centre of Reynik’s torso. The young Legionnaire saw the blade leave Shalidar’s hand and in that second his mind and body accelerated, the world appearing to slow as the adrenalin spike in his system provoked an entirely new turn of speed.

  With a spectacular twist mid-leap, Reynik somehow arched his body such that the blade passed by, missing him by the finest of margins. In that moment, his entire consciousness seemed to reach a new leve
l. He assimilated details that under normal circumstances would never have been possible: the fine ebony handle of the blade as it zipped past, the brushing sensation of its passage and the flashing expression of disappointment on Shalidar’s face. Every detail etched itself into his mind.

  With a catlike sensitivity to the force of gravity, Reynik managed to complete his twist and land on his feet, though he was not at all in balance as he hit the floor. He fell forwards and tucked into an acrobatic, twisting roll that he had learned from Femke. In a flash he was back on his feet, his momentum intact and his desire to engage with Shalidar burning more fiercely than ever. His mind and body lurched back into its normal speed of thought and reaction. With his blade in the guard position, he rushed forwards.

  Shalidar did not allow his flash of disappointment at failing to stop his adversary affect him. With his customary grace, he whipped out his sword and adopted a strong, defensive stance to meet the oncoming Legionnaire.

  The first exchange was both vicious and blindingly fast. Reynik launched a flashing attack in a deadly combination of hard, accurate strokes. To his surprise, Shalidar’s previously evident limp disappeared and he defended with apparent ease. Displaying the neat efficiency of a master swordsman he deflected each of Reynik’s blows, remaining in perfect balance throughout. If Reynik had not seen the assassin’s limping gait before shouting his challenge, then he would have thought he was facing Shalidar in top physical condition.

  Sparks showered from the clashing blades and the ring of steel on steel suddenly became the only sound in Reynik’s ears. All else faded out of existence as his world shrank to a bubble containing just the two of them. Their deadly dance was everything. In his mind it became an entire cosmos of whirling order and chaos: good against evil, light battling the darkness, right striving to overcome wrong.

  Lessons with the gladiator, Serrius, had improved his swordsmanship out of all recognition from the raw skills he had possessed as a freshly-graduated Legionnaire, but he was no blademaster – not yet at least. His opponent, however, had honed his skills with a sword over years. Shalidar fought with confidence and a fire in his eyes that would have made even the best of swordsmen blanch. Reynik did not allow the assassin’s gaze to distract him. He did not notice it. Instead he did exactly what Serrius had taught him to do – focused on the centre of his opponent’s torso, watching for the tell-tale shifts in balance that would allow him to anticipate his opponent’s moves. At the same time he kept his own balance and poise as perfect as he could make it.

  After the first exchange, the two protagonists began to circle. Reynik could see that the assassin was favouring his right leg, but his limp had definitely lessened since engaging in the fight. No doubt the pumping adrenalin would be dimming the pain, he thought as he watched for another opening.

  From beginning the fight on the defensive, Shalidar switched to the offensive during the second exchange. His sudden lunge was well disguised. Reynik barely had time to react, but his sharp reflexes and his newfound balance served him well. He deflected the blade and whipped a cross cut in response, which was quickly parried. Another rapid string of ringing blows ended with a momentary stalemate, as they finished with swords locked hilt to hilt in a muscle-twitching struggle of strength, each looking to gain the advantage of position.

  Face to face, Reynik could no longer totally ignore Shalidar’s fiery gaze.

  ‘Prepare to die, Wolf Spider. You’re no match for me.’

  ‘I’ll see you rot in hell first,’ Reynik growled in response. He shoved away hard and swung at Shalidar’s neck. He was blocked. He struck again and again, testing Shalidar’s speed of reflex with every swing, but he could get nothing past the assassin’s defences. Worse, the counter-attacks were becoming harder to fend off. Twice in quick succession he barely deflected counter-strokes that unchecked would have landed mortal blows. Femke’s misgivings suddenly appeared well founded. It was clear that he was outmatched. Unless he could find a chink in Shalidar’s defence quickly, then he was unlikely to survive the encounter.

  An idea formed. He attacked again, concentrating on upper body, neck and head, eventually drawing Shalidar into committing to a vicious cross cut at neck height. With his weight on his back foot, Reynik spun through ninety degrees, swaying his upper body away and underneath the blade, whilst his front foot lashed out in an explosive kick. He was aiming for Shalidar’s front knee in the hope of damaging the joint, but in his enthusiasm the kick landed high, glancing off Shalidar’s right thigh. In a flash he was back in a defensive stance from which he deflected Shalidar’s return stroke.

  The glancing kick had not landed well, but the gasp of pain from Shalidar told Reynik all he needed to know. He had found the man’s weak spot. The assassin’s reaction had been out of all proportion to the strength of the contact. The pain in his face was genuine.

  Reynik gave a nasty grin at Shalidar’s discomfort, but he was not given the luxury of enjoying the moment long. The assassin attacked again, this time with a dazzling pattern of strokes that Reynik found even his reflexes and instincts could not totally counter. The fury displayed on Shalidar’s features was no longer contained, but Reynik was unaware of it as he was reduced to purely defending with no thoughts of counter-attack. The blinding barrage of lightning-fast strokes began to take their toll. In quick succession, he felt stings on his sword arm, his chest and his right thigh. None felt serious, but each would be sure to sap his strength.

  The assassin did not let up the pace, but continued to press forwards, determined to make his kill. Their blades clashed again and again in what seemed like an endless ringing of metal on metal. A sudden change in tone and a feeling of imbalance in his blade gave Reynik no more than a half second warning before his sword broke two hand spans from the hilt. He tried to leap backwards to gain space from Shalidar, but in doing so he tripped over a piece of fallen masonry and fell crashing to the floor.

  Shalidar was over him in an instant. Reynik saw the eyes of his nemesis flash with triumph as he raised his sword for the killing blow. He lunged, but somehow Reynik twisted and, using the remains of the broken blade, turned Shalidar’s sword sufficiently aside for it to miss him and strike the stone floor.

  ‘Die, damn you!’

  Shalidar shifted to strike again, but suddenly straightened and started to turn, his eyes widening with the shock of unexpected pain. Reynik did not hesitate, but launched upwards with all his strength and rammed the remnant of his blade into the assassin’s belly. Shalidar gasped again. His sword fell from his fingers as he staggered back. He turned. To Reynik’s amazement there was a dagger stuck deep in the middle of the assassin’s back. He shifted his focus beyond Shalidar, fully expecting to see his father. Instead his eyes met those of an unexpected ally – Lord Tremarle. Lutalo and two other Legionnaires were approaching fast, but it was the would-be Emperor who was standing behind Shalidar.

  ‘Why, you old fool?’ Shalidar gasped as he sank to his knees.

  ‘I just learned that you killed Danar, you merciless son of a bitch. How you had the gall to sit at my side as my adopted son, I shall never know.’

  Lord Tremarle drew his sword and stepped forwards. Reynik looked away as the old Lord gave a snarl and swung his blade in a lethal arc at Shalidar’s unprotected neck. The sound of the impact was horrible. Reynik doubted he would ever forget it. He wanted to vomit, but his pride would not let him. The one thought in his mind was that it was over – finally. With Shalidar dead, he could go back to his life with a sense of peace.

  An ominous creaking far above him snapped his mind back to the present. Even as he looked up to the roof, high above, there was a loud cracking noise and it began to collapse. Great beams detached, followed by huge areas of slated roofing, all accelerating with deadly momentum. It was an awe-inspiring sight, the implications of which took but a fraction of a second to sink in.

  ‘RUN! Lord Tremarle! Father – run!’

  Reynik was on his feet and sprinting as he h
ad never done before. Another surge of adrenalin fired his body into action, drawing deep on reserves he did not realise he possessed. Behind him, the Legionnaires scattered whilst Lord Tremarle looked up and froze in fascinated horror as a great section of the roof detached and fell towards him in what seemed like slow motion. Those who saw it happen said afterwards that at the last second before impact he threw his arms wide as if to embrace his fate. The huge weight of falling debris crushed him instantly.

  A final running dive carried Reynik clear. He landed hard and rolled some distance before coming to rest against the side wall of the Great Hall. A wave of dust and splintered slate scattered in all directions. He huddled in a ball with his arms protecting his head, as splinters rained against his back and legs.

  The rumbling crash settled to the occasional clatter of odd pieces of slate falling or settling. There was still some echoing noise in the hall. The survivors were still whimpering, and the injured still crying out for help, but the sounds of them seemed subdued in the aftermath of the collapse. Cautiously, he unravelled his body and rolled over. Tears formed in his eyes as he peered back through the settling dust cloud. He knew instantly that Lord Tremarle had not made it clear. The old Lord had saved his life, only to lose his own just a few seconds later. It did not seem right that he should suffer such a cruel twist of fate.

  After a moment, Reynik looked around the Great Hall again. His father gave him a shaky wave from where he was regaining his feet and dusting himself down. All the visible evidence suggested that Lord Tremarle was just one casualty amongst many today. For the first time since the quake had thrown him from his feet, Reynik started to think outside of his immediate circumstances. A slow, creeping sensation of horror coiled around him as his mind finally made the connection between the explosion and Femke.

  ‘Oh please, no!’ he breathed. ‘Not Femke . . .’

  Even as he uttered his plea, Derryn and Lady Kempten stumbled into the Great Hall through one of the nearby doorways. The Lady looked dishevelled, but composed. A trickle of blood ran down the left side of her face, originating somewhere under her hair. Despite her physical appearance, however, there was no mistaking her for anything but nobility.