Smoothing her luxuriant stole, Prusias leaned close to whisper in the smuggler’s ear. “And I was told your door would be left unlocked. But alas, it would not yield. Perhaps tonight I’ll have better luck.”
With a chuckle, he sat across from her and peeked at the warm croissants as a servant set down a basket. Madam Petra turned away from him, casting her gaze upon the armies camped across the river, at the thousands of tents and pavilions dotting the frozen, snow-choked landscape.
“Is something going to happen, then?” she asked wearily. “They’ve been camped there for weeks. I’d assumed you were collecting rent.”
“Not rent, my dear. Casualties. This accursed winter’s destroyed everyone’s harvests. There are food riots here in Blys, so you can imagine the state of things out there. Rowan’s trek was frightfully slow. Don’t forget they made landfall almost six months ago. It took them five months to march five hundred miles and set up their little camp. Five months of brutal cold, dwindling supplies, and constant harassment by my braymas along the King’s Highway. While that miserable goblin clan brought them some supplies, it’s not enough. They’re eating their horses. Belts and shoes will be next. I don’t know about you, but I wouldn’t want to be camped by vyes when they get too hungry …”
“What are they waiting for?” said Madam Petra.
“Well, they’re making a show of building siege engines and trying to cut off my trade,” Prusias chuckled. “But I’d imagine they’re hoping more allies will show—they’ve been promising the moon to any who will listen. Some minor braymas have gone over to their side, but no one important. But Lord Grael—you remember him, my pet—is going to sweep this rabble from my steps.”
The smuggler sniffed. “I should have brought my opera glasses,” she mused, squinting at the distant tents.
“No need,” said Prusias, gesturing at a team of Workshop technicians who were emerging with screens and equipment. “You’ll be able to see whatever you desire.”
“If that’s the case, why are we sitting here in the cold?”
Prusias laughed. “No technology can replicate the roar of a live battle. There’s nothing like it. We’ll hear the din all the way up here.”
“You’re very brave to get so close.”
Prusias’s smile faded. “Careful, my dear. You really must be more careful.” His attention fell upon Dr. Barrett, the technician he had requested. “Good morning, Dr. Barrett. I trust we won’t have any technical difficulties today.”
“No, Your Majesty,” replied the engineer, setting up a large screen by their table. “But if issues arise, perhaps the lady will once again lend us her jewelry.”
The king’s eyes fell upon Madam Petra’s torque, that slender horseshoe of hammered, coppery lymra about her neck. It was more valuable than any jewel—than anything in his treasury—and Prusias knew perfectly well who it really belonged to. The king’s hand drifted to the bandages upon his face, to the aching wounds they concealed.
“You’ve never shared how you came by such a remarkable object,” he remarked.
“I made a bargain with its former owner,” the smuggler replied.
“Are you afraid to say his name?” Prusias chided.
“Of course not,” said Madam Petra coldly. “Max McDaniels.”
Dr. Barrett glanced up from his work when the Hound’s name was mentioned.
“Did you know him, too, Dr. Barrett?” inquired Prusias.
The engineer blinked. “I … yes, I suppose I did. I met him the year I graduated from Rowan. He was just a boy then, of course.”
“Just a boy,” Prusias chuckled. “Have you seen him lately?”
“No, Your Majesty. It’s been several years.”
“The boy’s all grown up. Let’s see if we can locate him, shall we?”
The king sat back as the engineer turned on the monitor, selected a camera from along the outer battlements, and panned across the distant armies. The camps really were a squalid sight, a veritable slum of steaming ditches, muddied snow, broken wagons, tents, and gaunt figures huddled about campfires for warmth. Rowan’s people looked wretched while the Raszna appeared little better. Prusias had never seen such enormous vyes—some were larger than ogres—but they appeared considerably less fearsome slouched against their great wains, thrusting gobbets of frozen gray flesh at whatever was caged within. Grael was right: These enemies were more liable to beg than to fight. The turncoat braymas at least had some style—colorful silk banners, gleaming armor, and mounts that didn’t look like they were going to keel over. But they were too few. One good charge and this pathetic “siege” would be over. One of the largest tents came into view, a grand pavilion flying Rowan’s banner. Several people stood outside its opening.
Prusias smacked the table. “There he is! Zoom in and focus the damn thing.”
The image steadied and sharpened as the central figure grew larger. There he was indeed: Max McDaniels, tall and grim, conversing with none other than David Menlo by the entrance to the Director’s pavilion. The pair appeared oblivious that an attack was coming. Prusias’s pulse quickened with excitement. The demon’s blue, feral eyes drifted to the weapon in the Hound’s hand. Prusias had felt its sting as a sword, but now it was attached to a spear shaft, its accursed blade still sheathed from view. Long seconds passed before he realized the technician was addressing him. Glancing up, Prusias cleared his throat. He found his mouth had gone dry.
“What?” he rasped.
“Would you like me to lock this camera on him?” repeated Dr. Barrett. “It will go where he does.”
“Yes,” said Prusias immediately. “Bring other screens, but keep this one on the Hound.” The king turned abruptly to Mr. Bonn. “Fetch that snake from the Atropos. I want him here immediately.”
The imp relayed the order to a page, who promptly wove a hurried path through the king’s arriving guests as they stepped out onto the terrace. He nodded at Lady Praav, ignored her imp’s greeting, and turned back to Madam Petra.
“So,” he continued, “you were going to tell me how you acquired that torque. It must be quite the tale.”
“Nothing so extraordinary,” she replied. “He needed my help to bypass proper channels and acquire something he couldn’t afford. I demanded the torque as collateral.”
“And what did he acquire?”
“Iron,” said the smuggler. “That iron from Zenuvia your kind finds so distasteful. The boy used it to equip his troops.”
“Dragon iron,” Prusias mused. The stuff was positively hateful. It bit far deeper than ordinary metals—could wound even a greater demon. When this war was over, he’d have every scrap collected and sunk to the ocean floor. Still, the stuff was not nearly as rare as the material of which the Hound’s torque was made. Prusias suspected Madam Petra knew that very well. He decided to play a game.
“What would it take for you to part with it?” he asked.
She frowned. “It’s not for sale.”
“Come now,” said Prusias. “A smuggler knows that everything is for sale. I have the souls to prove it. Thousands of them, my dear, each trapped in a jewel until its owner dies and the soul belongs to me.” He leaned forward and grinned like a mischievous schoolboy. “The only question is price. Would you part with that torque for a thousand gold pieces?”
“Of course not.”
“Ten thousand.”
“You’re wasting your time.”
“I see,” Prusias chuckled. “Let’s try a different currency—one more relevant to mortals and mothers.”
“What’s that?” said the smuggler, forcing a tight smile.
“Time. Would you trade that torque for a day with your daughter?”
The smuggler’s smile faded. “A day with Katarina?”
“Correct.”
“Nonsense,” she scoffed. “You’d have to return her to me and allow us to go free. We’d require lands, servants. The torque is worth that and more.”
“But that’s not what I
’m offering,” said Prusias, grinning sadistically. “I’m offering one day with your daughter. You’ve probably squandered hundreds, but I’m wagering that a day with Katarina has far more value than it used to. After all, this would be a day when you could hold her once again, stroke her hair, and tell her that you love her … no matter what might happen. That sounds like a very valuable day.”
As Prusias watched a tear trickle down the smuggler’s cheek, he realized these were his favorite moments with humans—those occasions when the fragile creatures were torn between want and need, love and greed. Emotions played upon the woman’s exquisite features in subtle, intoxicating combinations. All her life, Madam Petra had chosen the pretty bauble. Would she do so again? Prusias watched intently as her emotions intensified. A decision was coming.
“He’s here, Your Majesty.”
Prusias turned to see Mr. Bonn with a rumpled, frightened Atropos representative. “Did we wake you up?” he inquired pleasantly.
“I must confess I was sleeping, Your Majesty.”
“Are the quarters I’ve provided adequate?”
The handler swallowed. “They are, my king.”
“Good. I’m glad you’re comfortable. Tell me what you see on that screen.”
The camera showed Max McDaniels walking through the camp and stopping to converse with some armored vyes who hailed his arrival. Two even embraced him.
The handler cleared his throat and plucked nervously at his skinscrolled chin.
“That is Max McDaniels, Your Highness.”
“Yes, indeed. The very target you’ve been hired to eliminate has been camped outside my walls for over a week. Is this news to you?”
“It is not, my king. We assumed he was dead because the compass we use to track him ceased working for several weeks. When it indicated he was alive and traveling, the clones interrupted another mission and resumed their pursuit. They were closing in on him near Enlyll when the revolts began and he disappeared. The next they saw him, he was leading an army of vyes out of the mountains. But rest assured, my king, the assassins are tracking him.”
“Why would I need them to track him, you idiot? There he is!”
The handler held up his hands. “I understand that,” he said cautiously. “But the target is surrounded by an army. If you wish the assassins to risk such a low-probability strike, we can certainly honor those demands. There’s a chance they may succeed. However, it’s far more likely they would be detected, encounter overwhelming opposition, and we would lose not only the clones but also the artifact Your Majesty entrusted to them. If that happens, they cannot perform the other task you have hired us to do.”
Prusias smoldered. He was tempted to throttle the oily little snake, but the snake wasn’t wrong. It would do no good to squander these assassins on a foolhardy attempt. The clones were far too valuable as was the stone knife they carried. They had caught the Hound before. They would do so again. He needed to be patient.
“Enjoy the show,” Prusias muttered, dismissing him without a second thought. Looking past the handler, he saw that the terrace was now teeming with nobles eating, drinking, and gazing curiously at the many screens set up throughout. Dabbing a drop of blood from a bandage, Prusias glanced at Mr. Bonn’s pocket watch and rose from his chair. Conversations ceased as all eyes fell upon the king.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said. “Today is a special occasion. As you know, my enemies have gathered from near and far, traveled thousands of miles and endured countless hardships for the privilege of dying at my doorstep. How obliging of them.” The king paused for laughter, forced though it was. “While their efforts are appreciated, you can see for yourselves that the poor wretches are suffering. Today, the legions of Lord Grael, our esteemed Duke of Malakos, shall put these upstarts and traitors out of their misery …”
Right on cue, a horn blew. Its call was faint, its origins distant, but there was no mistaking that sound. It had terrified quarry for thousands of years. It came from a rakshasa hunting horn.
As the horn faded, another took up the call. And another. And another. Hundreds of horns. Thousands of horns! Even at these heights the sound saturated the air, triggering a cascade of shattering icicles throughout the city.
Going to the railing, Prusias looked down to see windows and doors were being flung open as the king’s startled subjects sought to see what was amiss. And from the city’s lowest tier, the soot-grimed districts that housed his expendable workers, plumes of oily black smoke rose lazily into the red sky. The rabble would riot over anything—arena matches, opium prices, and food rations. Now they were rioting over sound. Prusias chuckled. Some would embrace any excuse to burn down their houses.
As amusing as Prusias found his ghettos, he was far more eager to gauge Rowan’s reaction to Grael’s horns. He glanced at the viewing screen. The Hound had ceased his conversation and was staring at Prusias’s city with a hard, contained expression. The lad’s eyes darted here and there, as though trying to pinpoint the source of that terrifying call. His searching gaze found no enemies approaching. Lord Grael’s legions had assembled in secret behind the capital, shielded by the surrounding mountains. When they came into view, it would be to cross the bridges and cover the final stretch—the open country where their mounts would acquire the murderous speed and momentum to overrun everything in their path. Even now, Prusias thought he sensed a slight tremor running through the terrace railing. It felt like a mild earthquake.
His enemies could feel it, too. Gazing out, Prusias saw that their camps were a frenzy of motion—tents ripped down, soldiers fetching their weapons, and Raszna leading great batlike creatures down the ramps from their wains. For all the activity and commotion, Prusias had to admit there was very little panic or chaos. Despite their wretched condition, his enemies were disciplined. Even now, he could see infantry formations taking shape, spears and pikes glinting in the thin hints of sunlight that penetrated the sagging clouds.
It really was marvelous to watch events unfold from such a vantage. Whenever Prusias was in the midst of a battle, his world was an explosion of light and sound, bloodlust and rage. From a distance, however, a battle was nothing of the sort. From these heights, the patterns and movements resembled something choreographed, a dance of opposing geometries. Prusias could not think of anything where the contrast between watching and doing was so profound and yet both were so enjoyable.
The atmosphere on the terrace was growing electric. Most of his guests abandoned their tables to crowd along the terrace railing to witness the moment when Grael’s legions would gallop into view. Only Madam Petra remained sitting. She slouched low in her chair, arms folded across her lap, while she stared blankly ahead.
“You’re going to miss the show, my dear.”
She did not answer.
Prusias caught a snowflake on his tongue, gazed up, and saw that more were coming. Many more. Let it come, he thought. And let her sulk! Seizing a bottle of champagne, he tipped its contents into his mouth and welcomed the bubbles in his belly. He smacked the railing and glanced at Dr. Barrett’s screen.
The Hound was mounted now. He rode upon a barded warhorse, cantering along the front lines of infantry, roaring encouragement to Rowan and Raszna alike. Prusias would not have needed a camera to locate him anymore; the Hound’s aura was visible even from this distance—a shimmering radiance that surrounded his person and was growing brighter every second. The lad wore no helmet, carried no shield. His only armor was a light mail shirt. His only weapon was that awful spear. It was unsheathed now, and Prusias knew the blade would be wailing, keening for blood. Standing tall in his stirrups, the Hound raised it high, brandishing the weapon for all to see.
The effect it had was chilling.
Every soldier, every Raszna—even the rebelling braymas—raised their lances and swords high and screamed in answer. As Prusias beheld his enemies and the frenzy overtaking them, he realized Grael had been wrong. No one would be running away this day. These soldier
s would fight.
A spasm of hatred passed through Prusias. His hatred of the Hound ran deeper than any he had nurtured throughout his long existence. The intensity puzzled even him. The two had history, of course, but he had history with others, including Bram. The Hound had given him his wounds—a perpetual humiliation—but Prusias had despised him long before that. The demon suspected its true origins went back to the Arena where Bragha Rùn had won so many victories. How the crowds had adored, even worshipped, him …
Prusias almost laughed. Was he merely jealous? Jealous of the youth’s grace and prowess? Could it really be that simple and petty? Perhaps it was. The king was a political animal, a master of leverage and manipulation who expanded his power through calculated risks—risks borne by others. Prusias glanced at Madam Petra’s torque. The Hound had bartered a priceless treasure to save a few brief and worthless lives. And there he was, young and handsome, leading his own troops into battle, an Achilles at Troy. Wiping crumbs from his beard, the demon glowered at the screen and felt his hatred deepen.
“There they are!”
The cry had come from Lord Yrkün. Prusias looked out just in time to see Grael’s legions burst into view. They came from the north and south, two separate columns of heavy cavalry. Each streamed around the mountains, racing at a furious gallop that made their banners snap in the wind. It was a magnificent spectacle, one that caused the entire city to cheer as Grael’s legions thundered over the great bridges and spilled onto the opposite bank. Once on open ground, the horses ran even faster. Displaying exceptional skill, the cavalry changed formation at full gallop. The two columns scattered and then closed ranks to form murderous wedges—wedges designed to obliterate everything in their path. Prusias held his breath as the two formations began to close in a swift, steady convergence upon the enemy.
And yet … those enemies were not responding.
Prusias gripped the rail tightly. Something was wrong. A hundred thousand horsemen were bearing down upon them and they had yet to take a defensive posture, ride out to meet their opponents, or even flee. He glanced up at the screen. The Hound was sitting astride his horse, flanked by Rowan and Raszna captains. A formidable-looking group, but they were not leading a charge to meet Grael’s legions. They were waiting for something …
The Red Winter Page 38