SIXTEEN

STALKING A KING

My idea was quite simple — to enter the Maisirian camp and make King Bairan come to me.

Then I’d murder him.

In the ensuing madness, I might even have a chance to escape.

“Three men,” Kutulu said. “Who?”

“Myself. Yonge, for he’s the best scout we have. For a third man, I’d like to have the archer, Curti, but he can’t move that well. I’ll take Svalbard, for even one-armed he’s more dangerous than anyone I know with a full set of limbs.”

For an instant, I thought Kutulu wanted to volunteer, but logic prevailed in his calm mind, and I was able to avoid embarrassment. Instead, the problem came from another quarter.

“You’ll need a magician, to ward off casting spells from their War Magicians,” Cymea said.

“Not you,” I said, instantly understanding her drift. “And you’re the only wizard I have here. The way I plan to approach the king can’t be done by more than three, and two would be best.”

“You’ll be naked to their spells,” Cymea said fiercely. “And die like a fool.”

“Some say I’ve lived like one,” I said. “No.”

“Yes,” Cymea said. “You’ve told me how you plan to get into the Maisirian camp. I’ll go with you, then drop off before your attack. I’ll be close enough,” she said, her voice excited, “to ward off any castings that might reveal your presence.”

There was merit to her words. A sorcerer would vastly increase the chance of success. It would be best if I took a combat-experienced magician instead of Svalbard, but I had none such with my raiders nor, with the exception of Sinait, with the army.

I thought of asking Cymea what would happen if the Maisirians found her, but we both knew the answer. It would be terrible, and the best she could hope was a swift death. Then I thought of a rather gruesome option.

“Very well,” I said, which got a look of surprise from both Cymea and Kutulu. “You can go. But there’ll be a fifth. Curti. And he’ll have orders that neither of you is to be taken alive.”

“I wouldn’t allow that in any event,” Cymea said. “But someone to guard my back when I’m mumbling nonsense and waving my hand around is a good idea. What are the chances of this succeeding?”

I thought honestly. “One in twenty … no, one in ten.”

“Better than some we’ve faced,” Kutulu said.

“Better than most I’ve seen,” Cymea agreed.

Kutulu looked at me for a long time. He licked his lips, began to say something, then pressed them together and hurried out.

“That man likes … maybe loves you,” Cymea said. “Not in a sexual sense.”

I thought of telling her about Kutulu’s former adulation for Tenedos, and how the once-emperor had betrayed that love, but didn’t. Cymea started to leave, then turned back.

“I sense … I feel … something strange about your idea,” she said. “This is more than just a maneuver, a tactic, to you.”

“It is.”

“You hate Bairan.”

“I do.”

“I think I need to know why,” Cymea said. “Not from curiosity, but because your feelings must be masked by my magic, or they might be sensed too easily by the enemy.”

I took a deep breath. So I was going to be forced to tell my story yet again.

“Sit down,” I said.

It took far less time than I’d thought, for I didn’t go into the details. Cymea was familiar with the type of spell the azaz had cast on me, although she’d never seen its casting. It wasn’t as painful in the telling as before. Perhaps Karjan’s murder was lying less heavily; perhaps the long process of becoming self-shriven was under way.

When I finished, I’d drained the tin pitcher of water beside me and almost wished for wine. I couldn’t look at Cymea, so I don’t know if she was staring.

“I sensed something, as I said,” she said. “Nothing that terrible, though.”

I looked up then and saw her face, pale with anger.

“What a monstrous bastard he is!” she said.

“Yes,” I agreed. “And no. He’s no more than a king, no more than anyone who has nobody to answer to, nothing over him, except the judgment of the gods when he dies, and who even knows if they exist?”

“They exist,” she said. “I believe in them.”

“I’m not sure I do. Not anymore.”

She picked up her sword belt, started toward the door.

“You sensed something, eh?” I said, trying to end this on a lighter note. “The man who falls in love with you had best be faithful, for a cheat will evidently meet a swift doom by his own feelings.”

She stopped, didn’t turn.

“The man I choose will never look at another woman,” she said, “because I’ll keep him so happy he won’t have the time or energy for anyone else!”

I tried to keep a straight face, failed, and am afraid a bit of a snicker came.

She started to stalk out, stopped once more, still didn’t turn. “Did that come out as arrogantly as I think?” she said. “I’m afraid so.”

“Oh hells,” she said, then laughed. “So much for grand exits.”

“I could never manage them either,” I said, then I started laughing. Strange merriment from two who were most likely going to die unpleasantly in the next few days.

• • •

My strategy was very simple: If we were able to kill King Bairan, what would his now-leaderless armies do? I’d seen how tightly they were controlled during the war, and how, if leadership was absent or removed, the Maisirian soldiery would flop about like so many headless chickens.

From what Bakr had told me, this invasion wasn’t popular, only favored by the king. Without Bairan …

• • •

Cymea asked how, if we were successful, or if we were exposed, I intended to get out of the Maisirian camps.

I hadn’t much of a plan, other than scouring the map for possible routes, so I told her, “My stealth and my terror will give me a plan at the proper time. I hope.”

“You definitely need a sorcerer,” she said firmly. “Or a caretaker. Look you. Why can’t we get out the same way we go in?”

“I thought of that,” I said. “But I’ve no way of knowing how long the stalk will take. The best we can do is try to get outside their lines to the assembly point I’ve set on the map. Hopefully there’ll be horses there, and a couple of men waiting, and then we can ride away into Kallio.” I stopped. “You know, when I came up with that plan, it sounded somewhat feasible. Now …” I didn’t say anything more.

“I can enchant something, give it to Kutulu, and it’ll respond to my signal,” Cymea said. “I’ll also need spittle and a bit of blood from everyone. And I’ve already set up amulets that’ll guide us like compasses toward that assembly point.”

“I thought magic was going to be supporting me, not taking this whole thing over,” I said.

“At the proper time, the best always rise to the top. Like cream.”

“Or pond scum,” I added.

She made a face, hurried away, and I went back to my maps, thinking perhaps it was very well Cymea hated war so passionately. She was beginning to behave like that most fearsome of all soldiers, a born warrior.

• • •

We used the Seeing Bowl to scout the target area three times; I then forbade it as the attack date grew closer, for fear of alerting Bairan’s magicians. I noted, close to the target itself, an overgrown topiary garden for a hiding place. Cymea also noted it, and said, thoughtfully, “I may be able to do something there that’ll surprise you.”

“Like what?”

“Now, if I told you, it wouldn’t be a surprise, would it?”

• • •

Once before, at Sidor, I’d flummoxed the Maisirians by marching into their midst quite openly. I proposed to do much the same thing again, with only a slight variation.

One of Cymea’s Tovieti had told us of an old road that led to Renan, abandoned for some twenty years and forgotten. Parts of this road had been used to make up the new, improved route, which was perfect for my intent.

Again, we’d attack at full strength, and at dusk we made ready to leave the castle. This would be the last time any of us would see it, no matter which way things went.

My plan was to attack the Maisirians, and the assassination team would use the confusion to infiltrate to the target. If we were successful in killing Bairan, or if we were forced to abort, a second feint would be made by my raiders as cover for us to get out.

Then the entire force was to withdraw through a given series of assembly points into Kallio.

I hoped that the five of us would be able to rejoin them somewhere along that route.

The Time of Rains had come to an end, and the Time of Change brought sharp, cold wind whistling.

“Well, Kutulu,” I said, “you’ve always wanted to command soldiers … now you’ve got your chance.”

“I can only hope I do well.”

“If you don’t, we’ll all see you on the Wheel,” I said.

“Then I’ll do well for certain.” He looked at his horse. “As I said once before, one of these days I’ll find a profession that doesn’t require the use of these monsters.”

The five of us would ride at the head of the formation, and I’d command the initial attack. Curti and Cymea were dressed as Maisirian shamb, officers low-ranking enough to be ignored by their superiors, but still to be kowtowed to by any lower-ranking soldier, the rest as Maisirian calstors, warrants but not of any particular importance. The uniforms had been taken from Maisirian dead and altered to fit by Curti, who surprisingly had quite a talent with a needle, thread, and scissors.

The three who’d go after Bairan carried bows, short but powerful recurves used by the skirmishers and by jungle hunters, slung on our backs, short swords and daggers. In our pockets we carried the round iron pigs so useful as hurled weapons or clenched in the fist.

As I pulled myself into the saddle, Svalbard clapped Curti on the back.

“Here we go again,” he said. “Death or glory, eh?”

“Something like that,” Curti muttered, sounding uncharacteristically glum.

“Come on, man,” Svalbard said. “Cheer up, I wager I’ll pass you running when the shitting and shooting starts.”

“I’ll see you again,” Curti said. “But not in this life, my friend.”

He mounted, and Svalbard, without replying, did the same. We rode out from the castle for the last time.

• • •

I’d planned to leave the three prisoners we’d taken, two Maisirian officers plus Bakr, tied with ensorcelled ropes inside the castle, but Cymea had taken me aside and said, “If you really want them to live on, I’d not leave them bound inside these walls. That which is dead, but not dead, might be tempted.”

I thought … hoped … she was being overly sensitive but still had the three taken to the creek down from the castle and lashed to trees.

I ordered the column to halt as we passed and rode over to Bakr. The other two Maisirians were deathly pale, obviously certain I’d butcher them now rather than leaving them the slightest possibility of escape.

Bakr tugged at his bonds. “You’re certain your witch, your nevraid, didn’t make a mistake?”

“I hope not,” I said. “But if she did, I’ll visit this place when there’s peace and make sacrifice to your bones.”

“Don’t try to be clever, Shum á Cimabue. But I wish to thank you for treating me honorably as a captive, even though you didn’t provide me with a woman. I would have given you one.”

“Didn’t happen to have one around,” I said cheerfully. “Dreadfully sorry.”

“I’ll forgive you,” Bakr said. “But let me ask something: You talked about when peace comes. What will you do then?”

“I don’t expect to live that long,” I said, suddenly somber. “Come, man! Be foolhardy! Assume you do make it. What then?” I shook my head, no thought coming.

“Typical soldier,” Bakr said. “Whyn’t you cross the border, though Irisu alone knows what the borders will be like after the fighting stops, and I doubt if he’s certain.”

“What, and become a Negaret?”

“Of course,” he said. “Call yourself by another name, and no one in Jarrah will give a rat’s ass who you really are. Join my lanx for a year, maybe two, then I’ll stand you for a lanx of your own the next time we gather for a riet. Then you’ll be as free as I am, living your own life with no one to answer to but the gods and yourself in the mirror. Bring that wizard you’ve got as your woman if you want. She’s pretty and seems not to mind living like an animal. Eh? Is that not an attractive proposal?”

I thought of several responses, but my horse stamped impatiently.

Without a response, I saluted him and rode back to the column and on toward the Maisirians.

I was glad Cymea hadn’t heard the last part of his words, suspecting she’d rage at any fool thinking she’d do anything with anyone that wasn’t her idea.

Then I wondered at myself, even thinking about her.

• • •

The old road was choked with brush, and it took a bit of pushing to force our way to it. Then the rutted way was open, and we rode up it, in a column of twos, as it wound around rolling hills.

About three leagues inside the Maisirian lines, we stopped.

Cymea dismounted, drew figures, and sprinkled herbs. “They have watchers out,” she said when she finished, “but it’s as if they’re atop a hill, looking here and there, so far seeing nothing, I think, for I sensed no alarm. It’s interesting that so far the Maisirians haven’t done any of the great magic you told me they worked during the war.

“Maybe that azaz you told me about had the only real talent, or maybe he got rid of others who were equally gifted and used only hacks in his corps. But that’s only a theory.

“I think a real problem with their magic is they aren’t using local materials, but rather the herbs and such they brought from Maisir, so their spells aren’t as effective as they would be with matter more easily able to call to its own, plus they’re feeling a bit insecure in foreign lands. Great magic requires some arrogance, since you’re forcing your will on stubborn matter or even more stubborn people or demons.

“Also, maybe they’re doing it by rote, the way you told me their army usually does things.”

A horse nickered, and Cymea grimaced.

“I’m babbling, aren’t I? It’s because I’m scared.”

“Who isn’t?” I said. “Let’s go.”

She smiled wryly, and I had the sudden, odd urge to kiss her.

She looked at me for a moment, as if expecting something, then remounted, and I told the point men to go cross-country until we cut the new road.

When we did, we rode brazenly down it, with two outriders in front, lances held high with scraps of cloth tied to them, like banners. We looked like a company of Negaret or light cavalry returning from a scout, or so I hoped.

We were challenged once by sentries, and I shouted some gobbledygook in Maisirian. That must’ve been enough, for no one shot at us or sounded an alarm.

We rode deep into the valley’s center, our target a series of stables for remounts that looked, in the Seeing Bowl, lightly guarded.

Beyond the paddocks were tents, temporarily unoccupied as far as we could tell, and then the estate King Bairan had commandeered.

I was about to call for the trot, when the lead rider pulled up abruptly. If we hadn’t been riding in extended order, we would have banged into each other like a line of stones a child pushes over with a finger.

Sometime in the past few hours, after the last scout had withdrawn through the lines, somebody’d built a sawhorsed barricade of logs across the road and topped it with thorny branches.

Why this unexpected roadblock? Did it mean they knew we were coming and had set an ambush? If so, it was badly laid — they should have let us ride unknowing into the killing zone before springing the trap.

“Four men,” I ordered. “With ropes. Pull it away.”

The barricade was quickly dragged back. No arrows sang about my head, and we remounted and rode on.

I signaled for the trot, and our horses moved eagerly, seemingly as anxious to end the suspense as any man.

The paddock was just ahead, and, as ordered, my men took out the first of the two packs they carried inside their jackets, out of the weather.

Cymea had used spells of contagion and similarity. Three or four of my raiders knew how to whittle out whistles from wood, and so details had been sent to scour the banks of the nearby river for lengths of willow for them. Each of these whistles was given a spell by Cymea. Then the whistles were cut into bits, and each fragment had been given a third spell that afternoon, so the second spell was invoked when water touched them.

These bits were hurled into the paddock, into the mire beneath the horses’ hooves, and as they struck they began whistling, but not the cheery whistle they should’ve made, but a shrill dissonance, like the warning of ravens, but louder, harsher.

The horses reared in fear, pawed at the air, and pulled away from their picket lines. The shrilling grew louder, and the animals panicked, and ropes broke, and the horses stampeded wildly. This I hated doing, for sometimes I think I love horses better than men. But I threw my pouch with the others.

We went into the gallop, toward the tents, and again I shouted an order, and the second packs, these fire-twigs, were thrown.

“Kutulu! Take command!” I called, heard him shout acknowledgment, and I pulled out of the formation with my four, and we rode hard down the tent row, away from the clamor and madness as my raiders cut a swath through the Maisirians. The enemy was a bit more watchful than before but still seemed fuddled that we’d dared to invade the heart of their camp. Only two men ran in front of us, and they went down as we passed.

Ahead was the grand estate of King Bairan, and we galloped toward it. The estate was surrounded by stone walls, as white as the buildings within. We slid out of our saddles, grabbed our kit, and clapped our horses on the withers. They nickered reluctance, were struck again, and this time they trotted away.

Two hundred yards on either side of us, around curvings of the wall, were the main gates, and I heard the shouting of sentries as the guard was reinforced.

“Go,” I ordered, and Cymea and Curti ran back into the maze of tents. I thought — perhaps hoped — she took time for a glance back before she vanished.

I used Svalbard’s cupped hand as a ladder to get to the top of the wall. There was no glass or embedded knives — Urey had been a fairly peaceful land before the wolves came. I braced, gave Yonge a hand up. He eeled over and dropped to the ground. Svalbard braced a boot on the wall, came up with me, and we went over into the estate.

I took a moment to establish the manor’s layout in my mind. On either side of me was the long main entrance road, a C-shaped curve from gate to gate whose midpoint was in front of the main building. Ahead was the still-uncut wheat that stretched for a third of a league, then what I thought were wells, then the topiary garden in front of the mansion. To my left, east, were fruit trees and then vineyards. To the right, or west, were more wheat fields and then stables, with outbuildings to the side. There were long barracks for workers to the rear of the main building, then orchards and more fields until the rear wall of the grounds.

The sounds of battle were dying away as my raiders fell back through the lines.

Yonge crouched a few feet away, blackness against lesser dark. I came up beside him and scribed a question mark in the air.

“They’ve plowed the field around the wall,” he whispered. “Maybe for planting, maybe to show footsteps. You lead; I’ll clean the track.”

I obeyed, moving slowly, crouched, toward the wheat field. Svalbard stepped where I did, Yonge to the rear in a duckwalk, smoothing our footsteps in the turned earth.

Half a dozen times we froze as riders holding lanterns high galloped into the estate, no doubt reporting on the raid. Then we reached the wheat, and Yonge took the lead, showing us how to move quickly through the rows, bending back the shoots we’d touched, zigging so our track toward the mansion wouldn’t be obvious to anyone looking down, either from a tree, rooftop, or magically.

We had to move quickly, before the dew came, for we’d then draw a most obvious line as we shook the moisture off the plants.

I hoped to be in position, across the fields and hiding somewhere in the garden, waiting King Bairan’s arrival, within two hours.

We’d made it two-thirds of the way through the field when disaster came.

I hadn’t dared sending Cymea’s magic over the area for two days.

In that time, they’d begun to cut the wheat.

Now there was several hundred yards of open land, the scythed plants no more than knee high, between us and the gloom-ridden garden before the main building.

But it wasn’t so gloomy that I couldn’t see sentries pacing back and forth outside the garden.

I considered cutting through the wheat toward the entrance road and chancing a shot from there when Bairan came. But it would be too far a shot to chance, and Bairan would be in a carriage. All that would happen is we’d be killed without accomplishing anything.

Yonge and Svalbard waited, perhaps expecting I’d abort. Instead, I went to my knees, and began crawling, moving slowly, but ever aware of the swiftly passing night.

It was agonizing after a dozen yards, muscles not used to this strange exercise, hands bruised by the stubble, deadly after that. We crawled on, and I became aware the night was ebbing and the world was gray.

I crawled on, Yonge and Svalbard behind me, but now on my belly, moving one knee and hand up, then the other, then the first, over and over.

Overcast dawn came, and the wind whipped cold. I was soaked from the sodden ground and wanted to rest, but knew I mustn’t.

My hand moved out, and something hissed.

I became stone, turned my head, and stared at the small green serpent. It was no more than a forearm in length, but I knew it for the deadly viper it was. Its tongue flickered in and out, perhaps in alarm, or perhaps that was its way of sensing its surroundings. There was no movement to my rear, and I was grateful for Yonge and Svalbard, who’d learned years ago to never question a patrol leader’s movements, no matter how strange.

The snake’s mouth opened farther, and its fangs gleamed white, but I never moved or breathed.

The serpent slid forward, across my arm, and my nerves screamed as it slipped down my side, then turned, and coiled away through the remains of the wheat.

My breath came out with a gasp, and I’d not realized I’d been holding it for what, an instant, a month, a year?

Very suddenly I was shaking, and then the shaking was gone and I was calm again.

I crawled on toward the garden.

Where was King Bairan? Surely he must’ve been told of the latest raid and was riding toward the valley, unless my pinpricks had become familiar and he no longer bothered to consult or rail at his generals.

I didn’t know, and there wasn’t anything I could do but crawl on.

We heard voices, sharp commands in Maisirian, other, lower tones I couldn’t make out. I didn’t know what was happening but pressed close to the ground, motionless.

I heard footsteps, looked up to the side, and saw two Maisirian soldiers, not ten feet distant, looming high like giants. They were chattering away about the night’s raid and how one of them had almost gotten a clear chance at one of those bandits, had fired anyway, and perhaps he’d struck one, although he’d heard there were only one or two enemy casualties.

“They’re like fucking ghosts,” his companion said. “I don’t think they’re out there in front of us at all. I think they’re hiding in secret caves here in the valley, and all our magic is looking in the wrong direction.”

“Surely, caves,” the other scorned. “That’s why I see you volunteering for patrols outside the line every day, out where they aren’t, where it’s safe.”

“I said that’s what I think,” the other growled. “And I’m no more a fool of a volunteer than you are.”

“It isn’t right for the king’s own guards to get themselves killed on some shitty little patrol,” the other agreed, but they’d passed on, and I could hear no more.

The other voices grew closer, and now I could tell they were speaking in the Ureyan dialect. They were close, very close, and then a bare foot came down on my hand. I looked up, almost came to my feet, staring into the shocked eyes of a boy no more than ten or eleven. He wore ragged clothes, a crudely cut canvas jacket against the chill, and held a scythe. He was one of the workers harvesting the wheat, guarded by the Maisirians.

My other hand slid to my dagger. I could have come up like the serpent who’d almost struck me, brought the boy down, and killed him without a murmur, without a struggle. Then we could have either pulled out or gone on, hoping his corpse wouldn’t be found for a few hours.

But I didn’t. I stared deep into his eyes, wished I had the powers of a wizard, and murmured, “We fight for Numantia.” I hoped he’d discount the uniforms we wore.

He showed no sign of understanding.

“Go. Don’t report us. Please. We are Numantian soldiers on a secret mission.”

Again, nothing, then he edged around me, always facing me, waiting for death. I knew he was going to run, going to start screaming, but he didn’t. He backed away a few steps, then turned and walked on.

I was lying on my side, looking after him, and saw Yonge and Svalbard staring, waiting for orders. I motioned. On toward the house.

Yonge bared his fangs at me, but obeyed, and we crawled on, muscles screaming, still waiting for the guards to begin shouting.

Then we reached the end of the badly harvested land. There were three artesian wells in front of us, and I heard the purl of the water, saw it bubble out of the brick pools, and felt the parch in my throat. I looked for the sentries, but there was no one. Either the guards were out with the harvesters, or the mansion’s garden was only posted at night.

I came to a crouch, went forward like a rockape, hands almost brushing the ground, and was down again behind the brickwork. Yonge and Svalbard were beside me, and for an instant our guard slipped, cupped hands splashing water into our mouths, and I can seldom remember a sweeter drink.

But that was only for an instant, and then we slid into the garden, its paths winding through the tall bushes, once carefully sculpted, now abandoned. I could still recognize some of the topiary, dragons, lions, elephants; others were overgrown or fantastic beasts I didn’t know. All were evergreens and gave good concealment.

We hid, and there was now nothing to do but wait, praying that boy wouldn’t change his mind.

An hour passed, then another, and I knew Bairan wasn’t coming and everything had been wasted, when guards began scurrying back and forth around the house, and officers shouted orders, and the men formed up and were marched back toward the estate’s entrance, leaving two, no four, guards at rigid attention, and three or four officers pacing anxiously.

We slipped through the garden closer to the mansion. Bairan’s carriage would come up the drive in front of us, and he would dismount and go up the steps into the building.

In that instant, we’d fire, and kill a king.

We readied bows, nocked arrows. As I’d been trained, I began breathing deeply, calming myself. I held out my hand, and it was rigid, still.

Horses’ hooves made a drumroll, and cavalry trotted around the bend, then past us. Three carriages came next, one very ornate, drawn by six matching, beautiful bays, the other two not much more than ambulances.

The carriage stopped, fifty feet away, and our bows came up.

The door opened, and a cloaked figure started out.

Our bows were drawn, aimed, as King Bairan stepped out.

In that instant, just before loosing, one of the king’s equerries jumped down from the carriage’s driver’s bench, between us and our target.

Svalbard growled, not realizing it, a lion cheated of his prey, and I looked for a chance to shoot, any chance, no matter how feeble, seeing once more that imposing figure, half a head taller than I, hawk face hard with power and arrogance, and gods be damned, there was no chance, no way, we’d lost our opportunity, and I dropped the bow and jumped out of my concealment, into plain view in front of the horses for an instant, then behind a bush at the mansion’s steps, up them, and through the open, unattended doors, all eyes on the king and his courtiers prancing before him.

The hall was large, leading straight through the house, and chambers led off it. I saw a curtain, jerked it open, saw hanging cloaks, and was inside, pulling the curtain across, mind seething, lungs gasping as if I’d run for leagues. My dagger was in one hand, smallsword in the other.

Voices grew closer, and I knew one of them, that confident rumble, then others, agreeing, some lilting in fear, some soothing, and they were close, very close.

I tore the curtain open, and a man shrieked in terror, screaming like a woman, and King Bairan was standing no more than three feet away. He’d unclasped his cloak, and an aide was lifting it off his shoulders.

He saw me, and his mouth opened. I’m not sure, but I think he remembered me, knew me, and I leapt across the distance like a tiger, and Yonge’s silver dagger buried itself to the hilt in his guts, and I drove it upward, turning the blade, feeling it tear and rip his heart open.

Bairan made a terrible noise, a gagging groan, and blood gouted from his mouth into my face, and I kneed him away, pulled the blade free. A fiercely bearded man wearing the emblems of a rast was pulling at his ornate sword, and he died, and I was running toward the door.

Standing beside it was Ligaba Khwaja Sala, once almost my friend, and I think he knew what I had to do, for he was the best Maisir had, their hope with their king dead, and my blade flickered through his throat under his moustaches, and he spun and fell, and I was out the door.

A sentry saw me, waved feebly with his pike, dropped it and fled.

“This way,” I shouted, and Yonge and Svalbard ran toward me. All behind was screams, shouts, frenzy, and I paid no mind but ran for the side of the house, running for its rear, hoping to break away in the confusion, my mind drumming over and over, he’s dead, the king is dead, Karjan is revenged … I am revenged … the bastard is dead, the king is dead …

Bugles hammered to my left, and the king’s escort turned back, and, lances leveled, was in a ragged line, charging away from the drive after us. All of us knew better than to run from a horseman, and so we stopped, spread out, steel in hand, ready to take as many of them to the Wheel as we could.

This was the end, but it was a warrior’s end, and who could die more easily than a soldier who’d slain his country’s greatest enemy?

I felt the smile on my lips and felt a strange, singing joy I’ve known but seldom, as the first rider’s lance drove toward me.

I brushed it aside with my sword, stepped forward, and sliced his horse’s throat. The horse screamed, went to its knees, pitching the rider into a tree, and there was another rider beside me, and I drove my sword into his side, and he rolled out of the saddle, and now there was a whirl of horses and men, the cavalrymen taken aback at the temerity of three men attacking an entire squadron. But the surprise would last only a moment, and then we’d swiftly be returned to the Wheel. I had time to wonder how Saionji would judge me, would judge the killing of Bairan, but there were two men coming at me, swords flashing.

Then came the coughing roar of a lion. I flashed a glance to the side and saw the great beast as it leapt completely over me, onto the back of a horse, its claws ripping the rider away, but the beast was green, green as grass, and behind it an elephant, also green, trumpeted its challenge and rumbled forward, trunk coiled, then hammer-striking a cavalryman out of his saddle with it.

The horses, untrained around elephants, went momentarily mad, kicking, bucking, stampeding. There were soldiers afoot, but there were other beasts attacking them, tigers, strange winged snakes, claws, fangs, all of them green, and this was Cymea’s promised surprise, her magic had animated the topiary bushes, as great a spell as any I’d seen cast by the greatest of wizards, the Seer King Tenedos.

Other beasts were roaring out of the garden, boars, enraged gaurs, and I shouted to Svalbard and Yonge, and we were running. Blood was trickling down Yonge’s arm, and Svalbard was favoring a leg, but we ran hard, behind the mansion, cutting behind the stables and through the orchards. One farmworker saw us, thought about shouting alarm, dove into a pig wallow instead.

I heard distant shouting, which would be my raiders feinting again against the Maisirian positions, but only a feint, intended merely as a diversion to help our escape, and then the back wall was there.

We scrambled over it and ran for another mile, then slowed to a walk, sheathing our weapons, as we came on another camp, trying to look like no more than Maisirian soldiers heading for a post somewhere. We tried to look solemn, but were hard-pressed to not laugh, not caper like fools.

We’d done the impossible.

We’d killed the king of Maisir and his most trusted adviser. Now all we had to do was the impossible once more and escape with our lives.