Draken sat up. “What?”
Halmar nodded his concurrence. “The storm was bad out on the bay, Khel Szi.”
Draken closed his eyes. He swallowed his grief. Not enough time now to mourn.
There will never be enough time to mourn them,
Bruche whispered.
“Can you stand, Khel Szi?” Halmar said, the words slurred by the rings in his lip. “The Akrasians are already attempting the wall since we’ve taken Elena captive. Your men need their prince.”
Thom’s head was bowed, but at Halmar’s voice he looked up. Tears glistened on his moonwrought mask.
Cold, ruthless purpose filled Draken. He had to get to Truls, to kill him if he could. If not for the people, then for Lesle. She had been the first casualty of this war, long before he’d known he was in one. He forced himself upright and waited until he was certain his voice would not fail him. Damp cold pricked at his bare chest as he pulled Elena’s pendant into place.
“Bring me my sword and some armor, and we’ll decide what to do next.”
***
Halmar, Thom, and Draken clutched heavy cloaks around themselves against the bitter chill. The torchlight cast shadows under their eyes and painted their grimy faces with an ugly pallor. Rather than climb the wall to see the battle firsthand, they’d decided to see what resources they had to do battle or, worse, withstand a siege.
Seakeep housed the large-scale weaponry: another battering ram and four wheeled ballistas, still pushed against the seaside battlements where Geord and his men had used them to sink the ship, and all useless against the Akrasians right outside Seakeep. He was glad they kept them from the Akrasians, but even without them, the servii would find a way to climb the walls or break down the gate soon enough, and once they did, there weren’t enough Brînians inside Seakeep to fight and win.
The large weaponry was intact, but everything else was ruined. Every cask in the basement storerooms had been punctured, every crate ripped open, every bag slashed. Grains soaked in spilled wine stuck to their boots like wet sand. Arrows and spears had been broken and tossed like kindling. Tiny scavengers scattered at the threat of Draken’s torchlight. He kicked at a split spear in frustration.
Damn Truls. We can either starve to death or kill each other.
The Mance King had executed war between the Akrasians and Brînians down to the last detail.
“Let me do it and be rid of the heir, Khel Szi,” Halmar said, in continuation of an argument. “We’ve a fair lot of problems just now and Geord’s an easy one to solve.”
Draken cupped his palms over his tired eyes, an old trick to reawaken them. A heavy mail shirt clinked over his sore arms and the borrowed plate and leather armor felt uncomfortable and stiff. “No one is killing anybody just yet, Halmar.”
“Geord will only betray you,” Halmar said. “He’s got loyals yet at Seakeep. They wait quiet to see which way the wind blows.”
He didn’t answer. A dangerous scheme close to what Halmar was suggesting had been percolating in his mind since the gods had spoken. He said nothing else. Perhaps Halmar would find a way to slip off and kill Geord, undetected, and the decision would be out of Draken’s hands. It already seemed the only real decision left was where to die.
I’m on Halmar’s side in this. Let him kill Geord. Fools all, Draken, your plan is—
It’s the gods’ plan, not mine.
They have forsaken and betrayed you.
“How long can we last?” Draken asked, more to ignore Bruche than from curiosity.
“They’ve not broached the walls yet, my lord,” Thom pointed out. “And things have quieted considerably.”
“Only because half the Akrasians are dead,” Draken retorted. And reports claimed the Brînians and the rest were going full bore at each other, fighting like wild things, like animals under the red glower of the Seven Eyes.
Thom lowered his head, and Draken looked away. He hadn’t meant to make the Gadye feel bad, but he couldn’t summon a comforting tone, not with the bloodbath outside.
All this just put off the inevitability of meeting with Elena. If she thought him a traitor now, what would she think when he told her his plan? He gripped Seaborn’s hilt as if it might provide an answer, but the sword seemed finished with advisement.
A polite treading on the stairs leading down to the storeroom interrupted them. A sentry, young and bony under his mail shirt, appeared and took a knee.
“Speak,” Draken said, when he remembered the Brînian soldiers wouldn’t address him without his permission.
“The Akrasians are scaling the walls, Khel Szi, and our arrows won’t hold them back for long.”
Draken gestured him upright. “Are they still attacking the city?”
The sentry nodded. “It’s full on battle out there.”
Draken felt his brows drop. “And Truls?”
“The Mance King has not been seen, but mysterious fires burn all over the battlefield. And...”
Draken nodded his encouragement.
“And the sea, Prince Draken. Blood Bay foretells our doom. The water is gone red.”
In any other circumstance, Draken would have argued against foolish superstition. But he’d met Truls. He’d felt the banes. He’d seen the magic and heard the gods. “Go back to the wall. Tell the men their gods may have forsaken them, but their Khel Szi has not.”
There was a moment’s quiet as the sentry dipped a knee and turned away. He looked slight from the back, despite his armor and cloak. His quiver of arrows looked too big for him. It wasn’t nearly full enough for the battle to come.
Ah, so you’ve learned to recognize a dead man when you see him
.
“Shut it, Bruche,” Draken said, garnering a curious glance from Halmar, but he hadn’t the time or inclination to explain about his swordhand. “Take me to Elena.”
Halmar led the way back up the steps. The gray stone walls in the stairwell flickered in the torchlight, and Draken reached out to touch one large spot of smooth iridescence.
“There are no prisons in the Keep?” he asked, breathless as they started the fourth flight of narrow, steep steps. A part of him wanted to stop and peek behind every closed door.
“He who wields life has no call to wield death.” Halmar’s smile was quick and distracted and he ran his hand over words inscribed on a dark tapestry as they passed it. It depicted a man on a throne holding a white sword across his knees. “From the history lessons of my youth. The Royal Tutor worshipped peaceful Shaim over Khellian. I wonder what he thought of Shaim as he died with the rest of your grandfather’s household.”
“How did you survive it?” Draken asked gruffly, pausing to scrape some solidifying clumps of grain and wine off his boot and catch his breath. His chest, sore from his fall, did not accommodate heavy breathing well.
“As his closest companion, I spirited your father to hiding during the attack.” Halmar paused at a barred door. “She’s here, Khel Szi.”
“And how did my father end up a slave while you did not?”
“It was the only way we could get him to safety, to Monoea. Truls helped us.”
Draken stared at Halmar.
“What?”
Halmar nodded. “Truls saved your father in exchange for a new Khel Szi. You. A child who might wield Seaborn when it failed to light for your father.”
The breath froze in Draken’s chest. It was several seconds before he could speak. He gripped his sword hilt tightly, preparing to draw. “You’re still loyal to my father.” The words were harsh, a challenge.
“No. I am loyal to the House of Khel,” Halmar said.
“The House, Lord Prince, and not simply the man,” Thom added, “if I may be so bold.”
“The Gadye speaks truth,” Halmar said, inclining his head. “I was very young when I aided Prince Khel, and I often wish it had not been so. I might have done something to stop King Truls. But still, do not judge your father too harshly. He is…was a difficult man. But he valued his House above all else. I think he left you in Monoea because he felt slavery was a better fate than what you would find here.”
Bruche eased Draken’s hand away from the sword and Draken nodded, satisfied. He wasn’t ready to give his father fair credit, but he hoped he could trust Halmar. “Take Geord to the wall. I’ll join you shortly.” He caught the guard’s arm. “And Halmar, if you were ever loyal to the House of Khel, this day is the day to prove it.”
“Aye, Khel Szi.” Not one twitch of curiosity marred his impassive face.
As Halmar and Thom turned away, Draken took deep breaths until he steadied, opened the door, and stepped inside. The room was lit by the red hue shining through the open window. Elena stood staring out, clutching a cloak around herself.
“I’ll forever think of silence as red,” Elena said without turning around.
“We’ve got to talk, you and I,” Draken said.
Elena did not turn toward him. “I assume you will use me to bargain a win from this battle, to get my troops to surrender. I hope you do it soon. They’re dying out there.”
“I’d have to get past King Truls to do it. Besides, your soldiers are not quite themselves. The banes have attacked, as Prince Osias warned. That’s why they’re dying, not because you’re locked in here.”
“I was not affected by these so-called
banes,
” she accused.
“Seaborn warded you against it.”
She finally turned to face him. Her eyes narrowed, but she did not answer.
“Right. Hate me if you like,” he went on, “and you can even try to kill me when this is all over. But for this fight we must be allies.”
“I will not work in hand with one who has betrayed me.”
“Do you remember what Prince Osias said? We must band together or we shall all perish. Truls is waging war on the gods and they need our help.”
“They’re the
gods
.”
“And Truls is about to use us to destroy them.”
“Show me your face.”
He ran a hand over his head, sweeping his hood back. She searched his eyes and frowned.
“You sent your sister to kill me,” she said. Every word was a stone in a wall.
Good. He needed her angry. He needed her furious with him. Hatred might make it go a bit easier. “No.”
“How can you deny it to my face—”
He thought of something Va Khlar had said and hardened his heart, angling for his father’s hated tone of careless disregard. “When I want you to be dead, you will be dead.”
She caught her breath. “How dare you? You swore yourself to me. Does that mean nothing? Will the gods not hold you to it?”
A strong part of him wanted to go on the defensive, tell her how the gods were making him forsake his oath to her in lieu of his bloodline’s oath to Seaborn. He was already Prince, with or without her support, and he knew everything his people, and hers, faced. Truls had drawn the line and the gods were pushing Draken over it. But he refused to explain himself to her, or to the gods. The time for reckoning was past.
“You said once you were willing to die for your people,” he said. “I thought you should know you’re about to get the opportunity.”
She lifted her chin. Even clothed in her filthy battle finery, her split riding skirt torn, and her boots bloody and scuffed, she still looked every bit the Queen she was. Her mail glistened like a thousand tiny stars over her rigid shoulders.
Even if she could someday believe he hadn’t betrayed her, he had threatened her. It was not something she would soon forget. If they survived, she would see him dead.
At least he’d be able to rest.
Draken turned and walked away from her, barring the door as he left. The sound of the latch echoed the death pall in his heart.
Chapter Twenty-Six
T
hom waited outside and accompanied him to the wall. Draken had to fight not to cover his nose as they climbed the steps. The foul scent of burning flesh rode the filmy, red-tinged air.
Things were calmer on the inland battlements than he expected, though Geord’s presence had attracted no little attention. The Brînians moved away from him, avoiding where he stood, his arms and ankles shackled, mouth gagged, held at sword-point by Halmar. Draken made sure things were in hand, and then turned his attention back to the field.
Smoke coated his airways, and the salty-sweet scent of blood and gore from the battle coated his tongue. Below, servii and Brînian warriors fought indiscriminately, attacking anyone at hand regardless of race. An explosion flared in the middle of the field. Draken fancied he heard the men’s screams. The dirt had turned to crimson-tinged mud. It might have been the moonlight, but Draken doubted it.
“Truls is starting the fires,” he said, staring over at the flame-dotted battlefield. “We must not be killing each other quick enough.”
“How will you kill him, Khel Szi?” Halmar asked.
Draken shook his head. “I have to get close to him.”
Fires flickered behind the walls of Brîn. The watchtower by the city gates burned, the smoke a moving shadow towering over the wall. Beyond, a great dome gleamed blood-red under the moons. Was it a temple or a palace? He didn’t know. He’d never even seen his own city, the one for which he’d died a thousand deaths, and would die for yet again tonight.
He strode away, staring forward, ignoring the warriors dipping their chins to him as he passed. He walked to where most of the Brînians had gathered: the battlements right above the gates, where his father’s body hung and where Geord waited.
Draken drew his sword. “You are a traitor to Brîn, the Royal House of Khel, and to me. I am your Szi. Kneel.”
Geord stared at him defiantly in his chains, knees locked, back straight.
Draken swung Seaborn, knocking the Heir’s head with the flat of his blade. Geord fell to the stone battlement and Draken pressed the point to his chest.
“Someone tell me why I should spare him,” he shouted.
“You shouldn’t,” Thom said, staring down at the half-lucid, bleeding Geord.
Without hesitation, Draken plunged the sword through Geord’s chest until it met the stone below. Geord rolled his head and cried out, but it gurgled in his throat. Draken felt nothing but the pull toward hateful inevitability.