Kingdom Blades (A Pattern of Shadow & Light 4)

by McPhail, Melissa

  Dark forms emerged from the trees into the moonlit clearing, while other shadows were approaching through the steam rising from the hot springs. “Lo, is that him?” a voice asked in the desert tongue, the accent distinctly Saldarian.

  “It has to be,” another said, “he’s just as described. Fortune favors us tonight, men.”

  Trell counted twenty in a glance. Twenty against one. He let out a slow exhale.

  “Take him,” the leader growled.

  Trell rushed them first. He felled one man with a crosswise blow that split his chest and another with a slash through the shoulder that nearly severed the arm. Then he broke for the river.

  “I said take him!” the leader snarled.

  Four shadows chased Trell through the luminous mist. He found flat ground near the river and fought all four, using elbows and feet as extensions of his blade. One man fell back with a broken nose, the second with his thigh opened to the bone. The last two worked in concert, jabbing and slashing at him, trying to find a lapse in his guard. The cortata sang counterpoint to their motion. Trell blocked high and low, dodged and sidestepped, perceiving in the cortata’s melody where their swords would come at him.

  He drove one of them backwards into the river, and the dark water swept him instantly away. The last attacked with a furious cry. Trell blocked an overhand blow, spun underneath it and brought up his blade across the man’s back. A kick sent him sprawling into the river, and the Taran hungrily swallowed him, too.

  Trell jumped over one of the steaming pools and found his footing on a narrow strip of land that ran between the hot springs. There, they couldn’t all swarm him at once. He moved through two more forms of the cortata, keeping the pattern active. Elae sang in his thoughts, riversong in his ears.

  In the darkness beyond the rising steam, his attackers were shouting at each other. Elsewhere in the night, a lone horn bellowed. Trell clenched his jaw. He’d wanted to be in camp with his men when the attack came.

  More forms resolved out of the mist. Trell exhaled a slow breath, infused it with determination, and lifted his blade to meet them.

  ***

  Loukas n’Abraxis walked the edge of camp with hands shoved in his pockets and his thoughts as far away as sleep’s embrace. He always had a hard time finding his rest whenever Tannour’s tent lay only a dagger’s throw from his own.

  That night he’d found it especially difficult, what with the entire company now knowing he’d trained in the cortata, and this after so many years of feigning uselessness with a blade.

  Everywhere Loukas went, he heard men whispering his name. Rather than endure their evident speculation, he sought solitude by the river. Eventually he found a rock overlooking the dark water and seated himself there, hugging his knees.

  He could still feel the piercing stare Tannour had leveled him when Trell had told the company Loukas would be teaching them the Adept dance of swords. But what else could he have done, save what the A’dal required? Tannour demanded impossible things of him.

  —“You’re always doubting me.” Tannour let go of his hold on the rock and hung by one arm to cast Loukas a level look, disturbing in its candor. The chimney of stone they were climbing fell away fifty paces below their twelve-year-old feet.

  Loukas winced up at him. He wished Tannour wouldn’t hang like that, where the slightest slip of fingers would cast him to his death. He himself had both hands and feet firmly driven into every available crevice, and still his heart was pounding. He wetted his lips, which were dry from the climb as much as from the fear that kept trying to drag his eyes downward. “I don’t doubt you.”

  “You think because I’m not learning to speak as many languages as you, or dance swords like you, that I’m not as smart as you.”

  “Don’t be absurd. I know how smart you are. Just because I’m asking you to hold tighter onto the damned rock doesn’t mean I don’t think you’re smart. Fiera’s breath, you’re so touchy.”

  Tannour was still hanging by one arm, but now he was grinning at him. “You Avatarens, so high and mighty.”

  Loukas scowled at him with twelve-year-old aggravation. “Just climb, won’t you? I don’t care how you fethen do it—”

  “That was quite a show you put on today.”

  Loukas started at the near voice, which registered to his ears as keenly as his own. He let out his breath and glanced to Tannour, then swallowed tightly and looked back to the river.

  “Loukas n’Abraxis, Avataren prince, combat engineer, speaker of nine languages, expert dancer of blades…” Tannour was leaning against a tree with his arms crossed and gazing at him with that calculating half-smile, the one that always made Loukas feel empty inside—the one he used to punish him.

  Loukas flicked a look to him and away again. “What was I supposed to do?”

  “I don’t know…think of something brilliant. Isn’t that what you’re always claiming the A’dal brings out in you?”

  Loukas clenched his jaw. “Your words, not mine.”

  Tannour arched a brow in dark humor. “They’d be yours if you spoke with any candor.”

  Loukas flashed him a spiked glare. “And how am I meant to speak candidly and still hide all of your secrets?”

  “Is that what you were doing today? Hiding my secrets?”

  “Fiera’s breath, Tannour.” Loukas made fists at his sides. “I would the river had never risen sometimes.”

  He expected Tannour to bristle at this comment—it was the one they lobbed at each other when frustration made fools of their tongues—but Tannour only exhaled a slow breath and shifted to lean back against the tree. “That would’ve been easier, wouldn’t it?” He pushed hands in his pockets, and his raven brows performed a show of ponderous contemplation. “Never owing each other anything, never caring…the path proving false.” His blue eyes found Loukas’s. “But you’d still be a prisoner of your pride.”

  Loukas gnashed a curse between his teeth. Fethe, but Tannour could ply him to the ends of his wits. He was seeking some retort that didn’t make him seem utterly contemptible when Rami came storming down the path.

  Tannour caught him in his arms, fast as the wind. The boy yelped and reared in a wild horse panic.

  “Easy, lad.” Tannour steadied Rami beneath his hands. “What’s got you so spooked?”

  Rami tried to pull free, but Tannour was deceptively strong. Loukas knew this better than most. “The A’dal says men are coming!” Rami gave the Vestian a frustrated glare. “Let me go! I must warn the others!”

  Tannour released him, and Rami bolted off down the path.

  Loukas stared at Tannour feeling oddly short of breath. “How can the A’dal know such a thing when you don’t?”

  But Tannour had already gone to that place Loukas could never follow him. “Get your sword, Loukas,” he murmured tightly. Then he vanished into the trees.

  ***

  Rolan Lamodaar had just concluded some personal business in the woods and was returning to his tent when Trell’s young valet, Rami, came barreling into him.

  “Whoa—” Rolan grabbed the boy before they both lost their feet. “Where’s the fire, walad?”

  Rami’s brown eyes were wide as saucers. “The A’dal says bad men are coming, Sidi. We must wake the company!”

  Rolan gave him a once-over, decided he was telling the truth, and inwardly swore. “Come with me.” He dragged the boy through the camp to a particular tent, swept aside the flap and stormed inside. “Raegus!”

  Raegus shot upright on his cot. “What the fethe—”

  Rolan shoved Rami forward. “Tell him.”

  “A’dal says bad men are coming!” Rami spurted.

  Rolan tossed a shirt at Raegus and ducked out of the tent, dragging Rami in his wake. Outside, he centered the boy in front of him. “Where’s the A’dal?”

  “By the river.”

  Rolan pointed down the line of tents. “Wake the men—quietly—and tell each of them to spread out and wake the others. Everyo
ne should meet at the center of camp.”

  “Balé, Sidi!” Rami darted off.

  Raegus emerged from his tent, belting on his sword. “The men?”

  “Rami’s waking them.”

  “What’s this about an attack?”

  “You know as much as I do.”

  “Well, fethe.” Raegus looked as if he’d been enduring too many long weeks being teased by the strumpet Sleep. He cast a wary look off into the trees. “Who do you think it is?”

  Rolan grunted. “Does it matter?”

  Raegus looked him over. “How is it you’re so prepared?”

  Rolan was still fully dressed, with both daggers and scimitar at his belt. He grinned at the other man. “Inanna favors me.”

  “Fethe, if you don’t have the most irreverent tongue of any man not long for this world. You must be favored of the gods with the things you get away with saying.”

  Rolan rested a hand on his sword. “I will live to see my name avenged and that unwholesome get of a gout-eaten camp whore, Radov abin Hadorin, disgraced.” He leaned towards Raegus meaningfully. “Inanna has shown me this vision.”

  Tannour came jogging up wearing so many straps and weapons he looked like a pincushion for knives. He was carrying the scarf that usually wrapped his raven head, so Rolan clearly saw the three lines of tattooed script running down the side of his neck. He never had learned what the symbols meant.

  And he had no idea how the Vestian had donned all of that gear so fast. “Blood of Inanna, man, do you sleep like that?”

  Tannour’s pale blue eyes flicked to Rolan with their usual calculating gleam. Tannour was one of those who made Rolan never want to turn his back on him, despite his promising vision from the War Goddess.

  “What’s this about a supposed attack?” Tannour was absently checking his knives in their various sheaths. “And how did they find us? The scouts haven’t crossed anyone’s path in days.”

  “A’dal says so, so it must be.” Raegus shifted his gaze past Tannour and motioned someone else towards the center of camp.

  “But who’s out there? What have they come for?”

  “Besides our heads?” Rolan inquired.

  “We don’t know, Tannour.” Raegus looked back to him with impatience hardening his gaze. “All we know is what the A’dal told us.”

  The Vestian flicked an assessing look between Rolan and Raegus. “Where is the A’dal?”

  “By the river.”

  “What’s he doing there?”

  “Fethe if I know, but it must be important or he’d be here.”

  “Then shouldn’t we—”

  “What we should do, Tannour Valeri, is prepare for attack like the A’dal instructed.” Raegus pinned Tannour with an uncompromising stare. “Get the men to the center of camp and see to their readiness.”

  Tannour regarded him with evident frustration. “How can ready ourselves when we have no idea what’s coming at us?”

  Raegus blew out his breath. “Inanna’s blood, Tannour—go find out then!”

  Tannour gave him a sarcastic bow and loped off.

  “Fethen princes.” Raegus glowered after him. “What I wouldn’t give to have two hundred men who simply followed orders.”

  Rolan cast him a sly half-smile. “I follow your orders.”

  “Sure,” Raegus looked him over vexedly, “so long as my orders align with what you’re already planning to do.” He looked past Rolan, ostensibly to someone trying to gain his attention, whereupon he nodded brusquely to them and muttered to Rolan, “The men are assembling. Let’s go.”

  ***

  Tannour moved as wind through the darkness, invisible in his black garments and with his head wrapped in a shroud of concealing silk. With his eyes bound to blindness, he’d learned how to listen to the night; he knew the language of Air. Now, as he moved silently through the forest, alert and listening, Air’s currents spoke of a host coming up from the south. They were almost upon them.

  So the prince was right.

  How by the Ghost Kings had Trell val Lorian learned of this approaching force? Tannour seriously doubted their illustrious prince kenned the language of Air.

  Vibration and waves, breath and motion—Tannour read the air’s disturbance and noted that a small company had split off from the larger group. He concealed himself behind a tree and waited for them to pass. Then he stole towards the main host approaching.

  Sensing they were closing in, Tannour caught the limb of an oak and swung himself silently up onto the limb. He moved into concealment and crouched there, listening to Air’s whispers. Soon dark shapes began passing beneath him, as a school of fish through shadowed waters; and like bad fish, Tannour recognized their stink. Saldarians.

  He counted their number with increasing enmity. This had to be the same force they’d been chasing for weeks in their game of cat and mouse.

  As the last of the Saldarians passed beneath his limb, Tannour lowered himself headfirst and then somersaulted soundlessly down. A few steps and he had his quarry around the neck and a push-dagger piercing the side of his neck.

  Incapacitate-trap-interrogate.

  Tannour clapped a hand over the other’s mouth. His hand flashed down for two quick jabs to the man’s back, low and fierce, and stifled his scream while supporting his fall.

  Tannour instantly straddled him. One hand pressed hard across the Saldarian’s mouth while another whisked, exchanging daggers. He spun a skorpjun blade through his fingers, angled it just so, and slipped the razor steel fluidly between the man’s ribs. Only a strangled cry disturbed the air, it’s wavelength too low to carry far.

  One had to be careful when wielding a skorpjun dagger so as not to let the wickedly hooked tip stab the heart; but inserted just so, twisted just so, the needle end caused the heart to palpitate viciously and brought a frantic sense of impending death unlike any other experience on the living paths.

  Tannour knew this first-hand, for his instructors had used the technique on him, that he might properly respect its power.

  He twisted his skorpjun blade just so.

  The man beneath him screamed into Tannour’s hand. Tannour brought his mouth close to his captive’s ear. “Who sent you? Answer me and the pain goes away. Cry for help and it gets much worse.” He removed his hand.

  “…Kifat,” his captive rasped.

  “Kifat. Who is that? A Nadoriin?”

  The man shook his head, his eyes squeezed tight from pain. “…We…we…”

  “Wielder?”

  His captive nodded. “…Shamshi—” a sudden wail broke for freedom.

  Tannour clapped his hand across the Saldarian’s mouth again. “This Kifat. He’s Shamshir’im?”

  His captive nodded fervently as he struggled for breath.

  “Located where—Tal’Shira?” Tannour followed a hunch. “Khor Taran?”

  Again, the Saldarian nodded. His tearing eyes begged mercy, while his body shook beneath Tannour’s binding thighs. He sucked in his breath in halting gasps.

  Tannour squeezed the man’s jaw to make him pay attention. “Who’s the target?”

  His captive sucked in a shallow, shuddering breath. “…prince…”

  “Which prince?”

  He had to repeat the question three more times before the Saldarian found his answer.

  “…Dannym.”

  A parade of curses marched silently across Tannour’s tongue. How by the Two Paths had these bastards learned the prince was traveling with their company? They’d met neither hide nor hair of anyone since Trell had joined them.

  Tannour considered his choices. Always the Two Great Paths spread before him: hal’alir with its bright boulevards and mor’alir with its shadowed alleyways. The moment called up ghosts of memory shouting violent threats; his ears still bled from that vitriol. Ephemeral chains bound him far more soundly than iron. The path had chosen him, but he hadn’t chosen the path.

  He focused back on his whimpering captive and probed him with
a few more questions to uncover anything else he knew. Then gaze and decision narrowed to a point. A final thrust of his skorpjun blade pierced the man’s heart.

  The Saldarian arched in a soundless scream.

  Tannour brought his lips close to the man’s ear. “For speaking true, the Great God of the Black Sky shall bring you quickly to the Ghost Kings.”

  A flick of his wrist slipped his dagger out of the man’s heart. Then he was up and running on the wind before the Saldarian’s last sigh fled his chest.

  ***

  Trell sidestepped a thrusting blade and slammed his down over his assailant’s, hoping to dislodge his hold or at least jar him off balance, but the man recovered smoothly and came at him anew.

  Trell danced back along the narrow bridge of land fending off powerful blows. A luminous fog had risen, confining visibility to the man directly before him. He had no idea how many others remained.

  Even with the cortata, he was tiring. How many had he cut down—not merely dispatched but battled and bested with determination clenched between his teeth? His lungs felt aflame and his arms oddly insubstantial, as though their muscle was formed of chaff instead of flesh. Was it nine men now that he’d killed? A dozen surely remained.

  A blade flew past his nose. Trell veered back and brought up his weapon to block it. Steel clashed, scraped, separated. The river shouted a constant warning, mixing with the echoes of fighting from elsewhere in the night.

  Trell’s attacker pressed him in a retreat. This opponent was stronger than the others, more skilled, and far fresher for the fight than Trell. Backing across the uneven path, the prince lost his balance, and the man’s weapon slashed his side.

  Trell stumbled back, drawing his opponent after him. Luminous mist swirled in his wake. His side was already on fire. Somehow he managed to complete another form of the cortata.

  The other growled and charged at him. Trell sidestepped blade and attacker. An elbow to the latter’s kidney had him staggering. A punch to his jaw forced him to one knee. Trell ripped the man’s sword from his hand and kicked hard. His opponent toppled backwards into the hungry river.

  Trell sucked in a shallow breath. The maneuver hadn’t done his side any favors. It was throbbing, protesting the least motion now, and blood was gluing his shirt to his flesh.