King (25 page)

“Infinite . . . ! Majesty, don’t run!”

 25 

S
calns!

Caitria gaped at the creatures. Even if Ela hadn’t warned her, she would recognize them from childhood lore—manuscripts, sculptures, drawings, and her writing master’s stories. But no secondhand account matched these beasts in the flesh.

Their guttural liquid snarls. The venom slopping from their gaping, jagged-toothed red jaws. Their powerful red-leathern bodies revoltingly graceful and pitiless, the scalns tore into the pack of soldiers who’d threatened Ela. Slashing, clawing, biting . . . spilling blood before their victims could draw swords. Caitria shut her eyes, too aghast to move.

The men’s terrified shrieks and cries lifted beyond any torment she’d ever imagined. A stench permeated the air, as if the dying men’s flesh had already begun to decay, and the odor’s thickness filled Caitria’s nostrils. Suppressing the need to vomit, she gulped, then slapped both hands over her mouth, stifling her inward screams. Quelling her impulse to run. Stay! She warned herself. Hush! Scalns chase anything that flees. Any raw, moving flesh becomes scaln-fare—her studies had taught her that much. But how had her peaceable studies come to such dreadful life? This could not be real!

Trembling, she fought her instinct to run, and her thoughts babbled in frantic cadence, be-still-be-still-be-still!

Needing support, she gripped Ela’s shoulder. The men’s screams lessened now, replaced by heart-wrenching groans and the throaty sounds of feasting scalns. Caitria shut her eyes tighter, sending tears down her face. As she wept, she felt Ela shudder, the movement accompanied by a telltale sob. Caitria leaned toward Ela, hearing her gasp, “Infinite, who is like You!”

Then, as Caitria opened her eyes, Ela straightened, her strength seeming restored. She looked over her shoulder at Caitria, calmer, though her eyes and face shone wet with tears. “Wait here. I’ll return.”

Lifting her eerily bright vinewood staff, Ela walked directly toward the tumult of scalns and dying soldiers. What was she
doing
? Madwoman! She’d die too! Caitria covered her eyes, her stomach knotting so hard she wanted to scream. “Ela, no! Infinite, save her!”

Beside her, Commander Vioc hissed in disbelief. “She’s stalking death!”

Would the scalns turn against Ela? “Oh no, don’t! Please! Infinite . . . ?” Caitria peeked between her fingers, ready to close her eyes the instant the scalns charged, before the inevitable happened and Ela died.

But Ela planted the glowing staff in the bloodied grass and yelled, “By the Infinite’s Holy Name, He commands you to depart!”

As one, the ambush of scalns shrank back from Ela. Then, hissing and snarling, they fled from the encampment, their movements sinuous and sure, touching none of the survivors. Only the men who’d threatened Ela were dead or dying in the shorn field, their bodies stained crimson by blood and by the lowering sun.

Now Commander Vioc followed Ela, though he halted a short distance from the bodies, his frozen stance betraying shock.

For a brief time, Ela stood before the scene of slaughter, her head bowed, the branch’s glow softening to the metallic sheen of moonlight. As if unable to bear the sight of such carnage,
Ela turned, her cloak and robes aswirl with the movement. She hurried to Caitria again, appearing so ill that Caitria was sure the prophet would collapse.

Just before she reached Caitria, Ela stopped and knelt, hugging her vinewood staff and trembling violently.

Caitria kneeled beside her, an unnatural hush closing about them. The surviving soldiers stared—their faces carved with fear. Closing her eyes to the men, Caitria hugged Ela tight and cried. Praying. To the Infinite.

In the stone-walled, firelit hall, Akabe surveyed the cache of weapons. Forty-two swords, thirty daggers, twenty pikes, and seven battle-axes. All were serviceable soldier’s armaments with keen-edged blades and sculpted ivory hafts, their silver pommels shining in the firelight. As for the coins, Akabe reached for a thin oval of silver. A stylized sun gleamed at him, its rays interspersed with the curling script of Belaal. Akabe’s stomach tightened.

Cait and Ela had been taken across the border.

Kien crouched beside him, studying the weapons, then turning a coin between his fingers. “Bel-Tygeon’s troops took our wives.”

“I agree.” Well-enough. Bel-Tygeon’s soldiers must be halted. As soon as his men returned, Akabe would muster them for a sortie into Belaal. He gathered the telltale coins and dropped them into his money pouch, not bothering to look at them or count them. “There ought to be enough silver here to last us for a few days, if not a week.”

“Us?” Kien tossed the oval coin to the stone floor, its thin bell-like tone drawing Akabe’s glance. “Again, sir, I’m not leaving this place and neither are you.” As Akabe drew breath to argue, Kien said, “You are no ordinary man trying to rescue his wife. You are Siphra’s king. You must serve Siphra above yourself and the Infinite above all—and
He
commands us to stay here!”

Akabe gritted his teeth at the reminder . . . then against the force of his own rebellion. He froze, stunned. When had he turned
against the Infinite? What had he become? A ruler who trusted his own power more than his Creator’s sovereignty. Guilt swept at him like a spiritual torrent, threatening to bring him down. Horrified, he pleaded, “Infinite . . . forgive me!” He’d brought this upon himself and his friends with his own pride—his sin against his Creator. What could he deserve but death?

Even so, Infinite, save Caitria and my friends. I’ve brought them down with me. . . .

Kien approached now, his voice lowered with concern. “Majesty? What is wrong? Why are you—”

A tap at the hall’s broken door halted Kien’s interrogation. Riddig leaned inside, his white hair in disorderly spikes, his eyes wide with tension. “Sirs! Your weapons!”

Akabe straightened. Infinite? Had Bel-Tygeon’s men returned? Or had the Ateans found them? Heart thumping, Akabe checked his sword and joined Kien, grabbing extra daggers, his frustration welling to a murderous fury. They rushed across the hall and sidled through the broken, leather-lashed door, Akabe’s prayers quickening with their pace.

Outside, the deepening dusk revealed shapes in gray and black. Akabe stared, his eyes adjusting to the dimness. There. Two cloaked figures entered the gate, black against the grayed gloom beyond. Now lurking at the gate’s left, Scythe huffed, then lunged toward the moving cloaks. A man yelled and fled. The other backed against the wall like a trapped animal, screaming, “No! Wait! Augh!” The man’s cry heightened as Scythe clamped down on his arm and lifted him off the ground.

Before Scythe could fling away the unknown enemy and shatter him like a clay flask, Kien raised the Azurnite sword and bellowed, “Stop! Bring him here!”

Grumbling warnings despite his full mouth, the destroyer carried the dangling form across the yard and dropped it in a limp heap before Kien and Akabe. Kien rested the Azurnite blade over their adversary’s throat, then nudged him with a booted foot. “Unconscious, sir. Unless he’s dead.”

Riddig Tyne unsheathed his dagger, bent and sliced open the man’s sleeve. Even in the dimness, Akabe saw the unmistakable black-etched coils covering the man’s bicep. An entrenched Atean.

Riddig huffed, “He’s alive.” He removed the assassin’s belt, using it to bind his feet as Kien removed the fallen man’s weapons.

Akabe retrieved a coil from his horse. Riddig wrapped the Atean’s cloak cocoon-snug and bound him with fiercely cinched knots. “That should restrain him. I’ll tend his wounds if need be.”

Casting a wary glance at the gate, Akabe said, “Thank you, Riddig. Continue your watch with Scythe. Kien and I will call you when we’ve dealt with this man. Alert me when our other men return.” What was taking them so long? Disquieted, Akabe crouched beside their prisoner.

Obviously guessing Akabe’s intent, Kien grabbed the Atean’s booted feet, ready to carry him inside the tower.

In the fortress’s kitchen, the bruised, cloak-swathed man glared up at Akabe, his dark eyes glittering in the firelight, revealing all the hatred of a man within arm’s reach of an unattainable enemy. Aware of Kien lurking to his left, his Azurnite blade readied, Akabe smiled. “I wish we could talk under more agreeable conditions.”

“Conditions will be agreeable only when you’re dead!” The Atean worked his mouth as if preparing to spit. Kien swung the flat of his glistening blue weapon against the man’s lips so swiftly that Fightmaster Lorteus would have gloated. Though Kien stopped short of actually striking, the startled man flinched.

Akabe leaned forward and scowled, baring his teeth at the traitor. “Attempt a phlegm shot and I’ll stuff a live coal up your nostril! Trust me, I’m in a foul mood and will be only as merciful as you allow. Attack us in any way and I’ll reciprocate with the most savage methods your fellow Ateans used on my men in the Snake Mountains!”

As Kien lifted his sword, Akabe nodded at their now-hushed
prisoner. “Better. Let’s keep this civil, shall we? How did you know I was here?”

“It’s become known that you’re the son of Aythan Garric.” With a smirk that made Akabe long to gut-kick him, the man added, “Most of us saw through your ploy.”

Akabe muted his reaction, praying the other Ateans were defeated or lost in the DaromKhor Hills. To gather knowledge, he retorted, “But some of you were killed today!”

The prisoner’s expression darkened, betraying knowledge of Atean losses. Good. This man was a wellspring of information compared to previous assassins. Not a professional killer.

Kien shot Akabe a conspirator’s glance. He nudged the Atean with a booted toe. “Did you see all the skulls before the gate? They died this morning. Impressive isn’t it? Forty-two swords.” Kien nodded at the nearby cache of weapons. “We’re looking forward to adding more.”

Their prisoner paled visibly. Akabe scowled. “How many men accompanied you here?”

The Atean looked Akabe straight in the eyes, but his face tensed and his nostrils flared. “Twenty!”

“Liar!” Akabe studied the man, certain of his conclusion. “Only two of you made it this far after your confrontation with my men.” For tonight at least. “Otherwise your entire horde would have attacked us outright while we were in the yard.”