by S. C. Stokes
“Defiant even in defeat,” the man answered. “It matters not. You have come as she predicted, and now you will die as I promised. But before you do you will witness the death of your only son. It was our mistress’s wish that you know hopelessness and pain, the inescapable consequences of angering the Mistress of Death.”
The man reached into the crib and hoisted the child into the air. As if on cue, the child burst into tears. Even at this distance, while he couldn't see the child's face Tristan clearly knew his son's voice. He'd heard that heart-wrenching cry more times than he could count—Tristan would know his son's voice anywhere.
“My lady asked that we wait until you arrived to execute your son. It is a shame that such a young child must pay for the sins of his father. But as you have pretended to the Crown, you must pay a price for pilfering our lady’s inheritance. Your son will die—but worry not—you will soon join him in the next world.”
Tristan watched in horror as the assassin raised a knife over his only son. At this distance Tristan knew there was nothing he could do. An army stood between him and his little boy, and he had come so far . . . only to fall short. Tristan willed his body to move but his feet wouldn't respond.
All the King could do was watch in abject terror as the assassin’s knife began to descend.
Syrion, on the other hand, sprang into action. Turning to Kalifae he shouted, “Get the boy.”
The sorceress understood Syrion's intention. Without further explanation, Syrion conjured a fireball and hurled it into the midst of the black-clad assassins before them. Surprise registered on the face of the lead assassin as he held the Prince aloft. With the time gained from the devastating distraction, Kalifae sprang into action. Weaving her hands before her, Kalifae opened a portal—but not a large gateway like those she and Syrion had used to walk between worlds. This portal was small, barely the size of the shields wielded by the King’s Guard.
It took Tristan a moment to register the presence of the destination, as the portal’s partner opened behind the assassin who clutched his child. As the portal materialized Kalifae wasted no time. She thrust her arms through the portal and grabbed the child with both hands. Before the assassin knew what was happening, Kalifae tore the child from his hands and pulled the boy through the portal. With a flick of her wrist Kalifae dispelled the portal and wrapped both arms around the distraught baby.
Tears flooded Tristan's eyes as he saw his son safely wrapped in the sorceress’s arms. Pain gave way to joy at the sight of his little boy's face.
“Kill them all!” the angry assassin shouted, realizing his intent had been thwarted. With one accord the Night Stalkers surged forward.
Tristan watched the tide of black flow toward him, and anger welled up within. Tristan hated everything about the assassins and all they stood for. Their recent actions only served to intensify that hatred. Turning to Syrion and the soldiers who stood behind him, Tristan gave a simple command: “Give no quarter. None of them leaves this place.”
The soldiers nodded their understanding. Syrion turned to Kalifae and the nephew he had never seen, clutched tenderly in her arms. He could see his brother in the child's delicate features. “Kalifae,” he started, “protect the child at all costs. We will attend to this rabble.”
Kalifae happily set about her task. For a moment she contemplated fleeing through a portal to protect the young one’s life. But she worried at the effect such a course might have if it went unexplained. The morale of the men around her was delicate—any upset could make the difference as the cloud of assassins descended upon them.
Kalifae chose a different course of action. Snuggling the child tight to her chest with both arms, she knelt down and sat cross-legged on the floor of the chamber as she began mouthing words of power. Purple energy pulsed around the sorceress as it wove an arcane ward. In mere moments the tapestry came together in a perfect sphere around Kalifae and the child. Kalifae was confident no man or blade could pierce her defenses, so now she sat, an island amid the storm that descended.
With the Night Stalkers closing in, Tristan had only moments to consider his options. He glanced at the sorceress sitting inside the arcane ward and hoped that it would hold—if the barrier failed his son was still in grave peril. If their forces remained in the doorway they would soon be surrounded on all sides, but withdrawing was also difficult. To flee through the catacombs risked triggering further traps or other unwanted surprises. Tristan also longed for the safety and security that would come from knowing no Night Stalkers remained.
Committing himself and his men's lives, Tristan raised his blade high. “Men of the King’s Guard, Men of the King’s Own . . . with me!” he shouted at the top of his lungs before advancing on his foe.
The soldiers surged forward, eager to stand by their King and avenge their fallen brethren.
Seeing Kalifae was safe provided the assassins could not advance, Syrion too set about assailing his foes from behind the relative safety of the King’s Guard. The Astarii continued to conjure and hurl fireballs into the dense mass of black-clad warriors. He knew he had only moments before the lines collided, at which time it would be far more difficult for him to make his presence felt. Casting spells into the melee risked injuring or killing their own soldiers, a sacrifice he was not willing to make. Assassins screamed as the coalescent spheres of flame hit home, incinerating dozens as the broiling mass of flames collided with the surprised assassins.
The lines met in a storm of steel. Assassins wielded their wicked blades with lethal proficiency. Night Stalkers are trained all their lives in the art of killing, and any hesitation by those facing them brought swift demise. The heavy armor of the King’s Guard deflected many of the blows, but others found their mark. The wicked blades of the kama found exposed limbs, and the swift-acting poison on the blades that created these wounds could make a superficial scratch paralyzing and deadly, the helpless victim collapsing and screaming in agony as the poison coursed through his veins.
Unfortunately for the assassins, they were used to practicing their art one-on-one, in darkness and shadow as they stalked their poor, unsuspecting prey. Fighting units of disciplined soldiers in the close confines of the torchlit cave, where there were neither shadow nor darkness to flee into, left them at a disadvantage. The King’s Guard and King’s Own were well drilled and proficient at working in close quarters with one another. In concert they drove back the assassins. The Night Stalkers were agile and swift, but their lack of armor meant that they would fall swiftly before the sharpened swords of their foes. Wounds that might have otherwise glanced off an armored warrior instead inflicted mortal wounds on the robe-clad assassins.
Tristan ducked under a strike that would have taken him in the neck, then deftly parried the assassin's other weapon, before drawing his sword in a lethal slash across his opponent's chest. Another assassin filled the space the fallen warrior had occupied moments before. He too fell swiftly as Tristan's long sword took him through the heart. Two more dropped in quick succession. The assassins were skilled but Tristan was a master swordsman—years of training under Balan's watchful gaze had honed his skills. His techniques were further sharpened by his experiences with the Guild beneath Belnair and then on the field of King’s Court. Syrion had cheekily predicted that the comforts of the Palace and marriage might cause him to grow old and fat. But since becoming King he had not put aside his old habits. He still drilled daily with the King’s Guard, ensuring that Syrion’s well-meaning jibe would not come to pass.
But nothing drove Tristan like the immediate threat to his family, to his son.
The assassins had supposed that Tristan would be an easy target. They were sorely mistaken. Inspired and energized by the presence of his son in secure protection among them, Tristan felt lighter than he had in weeks. The dark pall of shadow that had followed him since the attack on the Palace had finally been dispersed. With his mind clear he fought boldly and bravely for the life of his son, and for the lives of those who
followed him.
The assassins soon grew wary of the fearsome warrior in their midst. Wherever Tristan went their warriors fell. One, two, three at a time they would come, but they failed each time. To a man they were slaughtered as Tristan cut his way swiftly through their ranks. Tristan's eyes sought out one assassin above all others, the man who had held his son at knifepoint and threatened his life. Those who stood between the angered King and his foe fell swiftly.
The assassin must have seen the King's approach, for he changed his course to meet him. “Know this, King of Valaar—it is I, Miyamoro, who shall be your death. My only regret is that I didn't kill your wife when I had the chance. Then I would have been known for eternity as the man who ended the reign of the pretend King and his entire house.”
As the words sank into Tristan's heart his blood boiled.
“No!” he cried. “For all eternity you will be known as the imbecile who managed to fail not once, not twice, but three times in your dismal attempts on my family. You will not get a fourth—by nightfall you and your foul brotherhood will be utterly extinct. Can you not see how hopelessly outnumbered you are? You are outmaneuvered and trapped here as well, left by your mistress to die like rats in a barrel.”
“We may die here, but we will take you with us,” the assassin spat. “It is just as our mistress planned—you emptied the Palace and came here to die in a hole with us rats. You left the Palace weakened once more. Even now my mistress moves against it. Today you lose both your life and the throne. My mistress goes to finish what I started weeks ago. I hope you said goodbye before you left. Your woman won't be there if by some miracle you should return.”
Tristan advanced on the assassin. Miyamoro now had a sword in his right hand and a dagger in his left.
The soldiers advanced alongside their liege. They knew better than to interfere, but also knew that without aid Tristan would be buried in the throng of assassins still fighting for their lives.
Miyamoro was first to make his move, a slashing cut aimed at Tristan’s shoulder. But Tristan brought his longsword up to block the blade. Miyamoro followed through with his dagger, driving the blade toward Tristan’s ribs. Tristan sidestepped the thrust and grabbed the assassin’s wrist, then slammed his knee into it. Miyamoro grunted in pain as he let go of the knife and it went skittering along the floor of the chamber.
Miyamoro responded by throwing his weight into the young King before Tristan could regain his balance. The bulk of the assassin knocked Tristan off his feet and he hit the cold stone floor of the chamber. Miyamoro was on top of him in an instant, the relentless assassin delivering blow after blow, Tristan parrying as best he could while trying to regain his footing.
Tristan managed to raise himself up onto his knee only to find Miyamoro’s blade descending once more. Tristan blocked the savage slash but was rewarded by a brutal kick in his chest that sent him sprawling back onto the stones. Miyamoro used his strength to his advantage, raining down blow after blow. Tristan continued to block, but fighting from the ground was futile. Sooner or later his arm would give out and Miyamoro’s blade would find its target.
Tristan glanced about, looking for respite, but the King’s Guard about him were similarly ensnared in the melee.
As he searched for an edge Tristan’s eyes settled on an object lying off to his left . . .
Miyamoro’s knife.
Tristan blocked the next brutal blow and rolled to his left, scooping up the blade as he passed by it.
Miyamoro’s sword descended again. Tristan parried the blow with his longsword, swinging with all his might as he brought his blade from left to right across his body. The energy of Miyamoro’s attack caused him to overbalance and in that moment Tristan launched himself off the floor and drove the dagger deep into the assassin’s chest, so close to Miyamoro’s heart the poison did its work swiftly. Miyamoro collapsed, twitching spasmodically in agony.
Tristan regained his feet and looked down on the assassin still shaking as he died. Satisfied that the man no longer posed a threat, Tristan took stock of the scene before him. The assassins were losing ground steadily as the soldiers pushed them back. With their backs against the wall and nowhere to go, the assassins were fighting desperately. Syrion aided the warriors as best he could, healing those who had not succumbed to their wounds, and lending arcane aid to those still struggling against the last remnants of the Night Stalkers.
Kalifae still sat where she had begun, the Crown Prince clasped firmly in her arms, safe inside the ward she had summoned to protect them. Several crossbow bolts and daggers were stuck fast in the purple energy. The assassins had clearly attempted to breach her defenses but their power had been found wanting.
Marcus and Elaina entered the chamber and Tristan ran to them. “How did you fare?” he asked.
“We cleansed the other wings—no sign of the Prince—” Marcus said. “But we did find a few scattered pockets of resistance. They won’t be bothering anyone ever again.”
“We have my son,” Tristan answered exultantly. “Kalifae managed to snatch him before the assassins could do him any harm. Even now she protects him.” Tristan pointed to where the sorceress still sat ensconced in her magic.
“Smart,” Elaina concluded. “Better to be safe than to risk any harm coming to him in the battle.”
“Indeed—and now we must do likewise. Linea's life is in jeopardy.”
“What makes you think so?” Marcus asked with a concerned look.
“Something their leader said before he died. He seemed to believe that we were being lured here as part of some grand design. As you can see, Hitomi is nowhere to be found. It's possible that what we thought was our cunning was in reality our following of her carefully laid breadcrumbs. We abandoned the Palace and left it vulnerable to attack.”
“You mustn't be so hard on yourself, Tristan,” Elaina stated firmly. “We have your son back. If we had not come he would surely be dead.”
“We certainly do have him, and for that I am most grateful,” Tristan agreed. “I still fear for Linea and those we have left behind. If this is the force Hitomi left here in reserve, I dread to think of the number who even now move against the Palace. We must return with all haste and hope that they are able to hold until we can defend them.”
“But Tristan, King’s Court is two days’ ride,” Marcus stated. “If they left before we arrived here the Palace may already be under siege.”
“Be that as it may, we must try,” said Tristan. “There is little else we can do here”—he gestured to the room around them, littered with the corpses of the Night Stalkers and the soldiers who had died in their bid to rescue the Prince. Few foes remained, and those that did were vastly outnumbered. “Let us leave the King's Own to cleanse the remnants here—the rest of us must return at once for King’s Court.”
“Perhaps I can be of assistance,” Syrion suggested.
“How so?” Tristan asked, taking hope in his brother’s abilities.
“Kalifae has taught me much—where precisely in the Palace do you wish to return to?” Syrion asked.
“My chambers in the east wing,” Tristan answered, thinking of where Linea would be.
“Very well. Ready your men,” Syrion instructed, closing his eyes. Syrion visualized the richly furnished east wing and his brother’s chambers off the richly furnished hall. Tapestries of red and gold lined the walls and a plush red carpet ran the length of the hallway. Such luxury meant little for the Astarii but they were certainly useful for clarity of mind as Syrion focused his will on the desired destination. Opening his hands before him, Syrion traced a gateway in the air with his hands.
In the space before him, golden lines appeared, trails following the motions of the young sorcerer’s hands. In a matter of moments the lines formed themselves into a doorway, and when the lines connected they blazed brightly across their surface and the portal solidified before them. It was just as Syrion had envisioned—he could see the carpet stretching before him, and on t
he right he could see the doorway leading to the Royal Chambers and the nursery. An army of King’s Guard stood before the doors, weapons at the ready.
“You have already mastered the art of forming portals?” Elaina asked, a note of pride evident in her voice.
“I'm still learning, Mother, but Kalifae has taught me much these past few weeks. Hurry—I cannot sustain this indefinitely.”
Tristan took one look at the portal, then turned to Kalifae and spoke. “Kalifae, it’s time to leave this place—please bring my son. I'm sure his mother will be relieved to hold him once more.”
The sorceress nodded and the swirling purple energy that churned about her dissipated harmlessly. Kalifae rose to her feet. “Of course,” she said. “Do you wish to hold him?”
Tristan sheathed his blade as he looked at the son he hadn't held for weeks. “Please,” he answered, holding out his hands.
Kalifae gently placed the child in the young King's arms.
Tristan clutched his boy to his chest. Marius had settled somewhat in the sorceress’s embrace, though his eyes still darted about the chamber as the last sounds of battle echoed within.
Tristan turned to his first advisor, who had extricated himself from the fray. “Halmir, can you attend to matters here? I must return to the Palace. I will leave you with the King's Own, who are used to following your lead. The King’s Guard would chafe at forsaking their duty if they were to remain.”
Halmir nodded. “Worry not, sire. I will attend to the dregs here. Go make sure your family are safe. I will join you as swiftly as I can.”
Tristan shifted the infant into one arm’s hold and clapped Halmir on the shoulder, smiling appreciatively to his faithful friend. “Let us leave!” he declared as he charged through the portal, eager to see his beloved Linea and restore her son to her arms.
Chapter 30
King’s Court
Hitomi stalked toward the eastern gates of the Palace. It had been almost 2 years since she was last in King’s Court. Things were different then. The King's Council had been in power, exerting their influence to prevent the island from plunging into civil war. But their efforts were in vain and plunge it did.