by J. V. Jones
As soon as the man left, Kylock picked up the cup he had drunk from. He held it by the base, careful not to touch the rim, and carried it out of the tent. Slipping around the back, he tossed it onto the fire. He would drink from nobody's cup but his own.
Quickly, he returned to his position in the folds of the tent. His lip twisted into a sneer as he watched Vernal greet the Halcus warlords. There was much arm grasping and back patting, and even a little good-natured banter. Kylock clearly heard Vernal inviting the men into the tent. Lord Tymouth shook his head and said something that silenced all present immediately. Kylock felt a measure of foreboding. His eyes slanted across to the far side of the camp, where another waited in the shadows. Kedrac, son of Lord Maybor, and Kylock's most trusted companion, raised his arm in acknowledgment of the glance. It was a small gesture loaded with meaning. Wait, it said, let us see what this latest development brings. Kylock was well pleased: Maybor's son was keeping his nerve.
Three horsemen approached the camp. Two carried torches, the third, the figure in the middle, was misshapen, one shoulder clearly higher than the other. Kylock sucked in his breath. It was the king.
Hirayus, King of Halcus. Hunchback and tyrant. Feared by his enemies, worshipped by his people. Forty of his fifty years had been spent on the throne. At the age of ten the physicians pronounced him too weak to survive his eleventh year. The only reason he lived today was to spite them. Hirayus was a legend in the north. His determination, his willpower, and his single-minded devotion to his country had made a giant from a cripple.
The warlords turned to meet him, swords drawn in respect, blades pointing to the earth in subjugation. Vernal came forward. Words were exchanged. Hirayus dismounted his horse.
On the far side of the camp, Kedrac's hand was up. Kylock returned the motion, arm wavering with apprehension. The king was not supposed to be here. Tymouth had been chosen to handle the peace negotiations. Tymouth and the warlords. Kylock drew deeper into folds. His heart was racing. The silk around his fingers was as warm and wet as the womb. He couldn't bear it. Pulling the gloves off, he threw them onto the ground. As the cool night air dried the sweat from his fingers, Kylock grew calm. So the king was here. Did it really make any difference?
He turned his attention back to the negotiating party. Vernal was escorting Hirayus into the tent. Any minute now they would be expecting him to follow.
Wood smoke stole into his nostrils and Kylock was glad of it. The smell was almost cleansing. The king had come to parley; that meant at least another company on the lee of the hill and double that amount concealed around the camp. Nothing that couldn't be dealt with. Hirayus probably thought he had done a clever thing by turning up here unannounced. Kylock lifted his fingers to his nose: his mother's stench was still upon them. Hirayus had not been clever at all. In fact, he had just made the biggest mistake of his life.
Out came Kylock's hand from the shadows. The pale skin reflected the moonlight like glass. His long elegant fingers were stretched full out, his palm faced outward toward Kedrac. Slowly, very slowly, he tilted his palm downward to face the ground.
Even as shadow took the place of moonlight upon his flesh, Kylock heard the archers stringing their longbows. He heard swords being drawn from leather and the movement of men leaving Kedrac's tent. The cry went up and the carnage began.
One hundred barbed arrows were loosed upon the tent. They ripped through the fabric as if it were linen. The instant the arrows met their target, the swordsmen went in. Their orders were simple: kill all who remained alive. Kylock heard the screams of men and horses, he heard blade clashing against blade. In the distance the noise of battle began as the two Halcus companies tried to gain the camp. None would reach here alive. In the distance, on the hillsides and in the woods, his men were closing in, taking out Hirayus' archers one by one.
Kylock stepped out into the moonlight. The action in the negotiating tent was drawing to a close. The fabric flapped no more. Kylock took a torch from its metal stand and walked forward. The last of the swordsmen emerged . from the tent. He met the eyes of his king. "All are dead, sire."
Kylock nodded. Drawing close, he set the torch against the tent. The fabric was ready for the flame, catching light on first contact. It crackled and blazed, spreading upward in sheets. He backed away, better to admire the fire. "Burn brightly, this night, King Hirayus," he murmured. "May the flames of your corpse be a warning to the north. Kylock has not done with you yet."
END