The Bloody Throne, page 57
No barbarian could stand against an Emperor, could they?
In a dark though no less luxurious robe smelling of ceduan, somewhat inelegantly creased from storage and improper tying, the ruler of all Zhaon set out to look for his wayward dam. As he crossed the threshold of the imperial closet, the Great Bell’s thumping halted between one stroke and the next.
Its tenders had either been struck down, or found they must fight.
Third Mother Luswone was making an awful gurgling sound as they hurried through garden after garden, cutting through an outbuilding, negotiating stone stairs with some difficulty, crossing the pretty colonnaded walk where the First Queen had often perambulated in autumn—mostly to keep it from being used by her rivals, it had often been said. Gamnae’s jatajatas slipped more than they should and her head was stuffed with cloudfur, that terrible feeling of light airiness making it difficult to think. If she focused upon Luswone’s blue silk wrapper she didn’t have to.
Then the likewise awful stuttering pattern of the Great Bell halted, almost knocking the breath from her afresh.
“It’s stopped,” Mrong Banh said, blankly. The sunlight was pitiless, all the usual discreet laughter hiding in his expression had fled, and Gamnae realized he looked old.
He never had, before. He cast a nervous glance past the colonnade as a babu water-clock thump-thocked nearby, and made hurrying movements with his hands.
“So it has,” Princess Yala answered, quietly. She was breathless, too, and that was disturbing. “Were they ordered to, or…”
“Barbarians,” her kaburei gasped, finally able to give her tidings. She clutched at the back of her mistress’s dress; it didn’t seem like the new princess noticed. “I saw them, coming back from the laundry. They are inside the Palace.”
“Let us hope it is only one or two.” Kihon Jiao grunted slightly as they left the colonnade behind and crossed a pretty arched garden bridge—why, just along the pond-bank there Kurin and Makar had played “duel” sometimes with hau-tree switches, and the gazebo floating over another pond lensed with the green leaves of padflowers had seen many of Sabi’s sathron practices.
Barbarians didn’t belong here.
“Shall I carry her for a while?” Mrong Banh hopped from foot to foot; his rope sandals did not quite match—one with a blue fabric twist across the instep, the other with dark brown—and his topknot was slipping sideways.
“No need,” the physician said, shortly, conserving his breath. Luswone’s breath bubbled again, and her eyes were half-lidded, glittering through her thick dark lashes.
I am sorry I thought it. Gamnae’s throat filled with a sob; she glanced at Princess Yala, who drifted behind and a few steps to Kihon Jiao’s left.
Yala’s right hand was invisible, held low in her skirts, and her head kept turning. She was attempting to keep watch, Gamnae realized. The kaburei held her mistress’s skirt like a child in a crowd, the girl’s leather-wrapped braids knocked askew. Two bright spots of fever-color stood high on the girl’s cheeks; a slim tendril of Yala’s hair had come free of her braids and brushed the princess’s cheek. Gamnae’s own hair was probably disarranged too.
“Do you…” Mrong Banh’s shoulders hunched. Lady Su and Lady Hansei took great sobbing breaths, clutching each other. The two Golden had vanished, where had they gone?
“Yes,” Yala said. Her quiet tone did not alter. In the silence of the Great Bell’s cessation came screams, alarums floating from other directions, and a persistent edge of burning. “Smoke. The Tower—its door can be barred, and the sides are tiled, yes? It may not burn.” Her Khir accent rubbed through the words.
“There is a cistern upon the roof.” Banh braced Kihon Jiao as the physician staggered, his sandals slipping.
Honorable Kihon made no sound, just settled Luswone more firmly against his back like an elder brother carrying a sibling.
“At least that,” Yala said grimly, and halted so suddenly her kaburei ran into her back. “Perhaps you should help carry Third Mother, Banh.” Her chin rose, and as the Khir lady half-turned, Gamnae saw a greenish gleam held against her pale silken skirts. “I hear hoofbeats.”
Kihon’s legs moved faster. Gamnae hurried alongside him, wondering if she should take his arm. Now that Yala had said it, she heard the hoofbeats too.
And they were growing closer.
TIME TO KILL
The sun became a bloody disc as it fell, thunder rumbling in the distance as an autumn downpour gathered strength to the northeast. The scouts returned with news harvested both from fleeing peasants and the sight of a pillar of smoke in the distance.
Zhaon-An was besieged. The Horde had invested the city except the northern fen-girdle; it was unclear whether the walls had been breached. There was much smoke from inside said walls, though; that had turned the sun’s eye into the bloodshot gaze of a god who had drunk too much sohju.
Kiron and Takshin viewed the embattled city from the relatively high promontory near Jiyua-An, the ancient town that had collected upon the trade route south and west of the city itself. Even the belt of thread-creek marshes to Zhaon-An’s north proper held a few columns of rising smoke, more from cooking fires than anything else; the wall there, cradling the back of the Palace and the baths with a protective arm, would be a daunting proposition.
He could hope the barbarians did not know about the culverts of the Palace baths.
Proud-nosed Suron, to Takshin’s right, let out a long soft half-whistle of wonder, his head tilted as if he watched a play. “So many of them.”
“A Horde.” Kiron’s face was alight; there was a gleam to his dark eyes Takshin knew well. Behind them, the forces of Shan and Anwei spread through forest and field, their way suddenly eased since the flood of refugees had eased considerably. “Where is the long-eye?”
Buwon, on his king’s other side, produced the lenses and the cylindrical leather case; within moments, Kiron was scanning the battlefield in more detail. “They do not expect us,” he commented. “All their attention rests upon rapine.”
“The gates—south and east?” Takshin did not ask for the farlooker, but his hand itched for it and the wind brought a breath of burning to him. His eyes threatened to water, focusing hard to pierce the distance.
“I cannot quite…” Kiron exhaled sharply. “If that is the south gate, ’tis breached. I cannot tell how badly.”
“The soldiers are eager.” Buwon squinted heavenward, checking the angle of the sun. “Some had family in the capital, others—”
“Hist,” Suron said, and stood in his stirrups, his head cocked. “Listen.”
Faint noises rode the breeze.
“Gongs,” Kiron said. “Trumpets. Someone is fighting to the north west.”
“Probably Zakkar Kai.” Takshin’s heart leapt with useless hope; that was the price of caring about anything, the world took the opportunity to snatch and trample it. If she was harmed… “Perhaps he received word.”
“I hope so.” Kiron handed the long-eye to Takshin, who hated being robbed of half his sight while using the cunning invention, but put it to one eye anyway, closing the other with an effort.
As usual, there was a moment of disorientation; when he could make the images through the lens sensible the red-hot knot in his guts tightened another fraction. “The southron gate is indeed breached, and they work to widen it,” he said. “When can we attack?”
“The field, there.” Kiron pointed. “By the beginning of afternoon watch, I should think, if we use the gongs to tell the entire army. Perhaps they will meet us, though, so… I mislike attacking while daylight leaves us.”
Takshin lowered the leather and lenses. It was, militarily speaking, correct doctrine. Night-hunting was for small groups, harrying bandits and other prey; a night battle without a full moon was an invitation to disaster. It would be a simple enough matter to slip through barbarian throngs into the city by night and find his Yala, though.
Simple, though not easy.
“Well?” Kiron’s head turned; he leaned forward slightly, looking past Buwon to the silent, broad-faced man in tasseled leather half-armor, riding a dun horse ugly enough to be suspected of having some other quality useful to a fighting man lurking in his cob head and strong, inelegant legs. That mount looked, in fact, very much like the Tooth, and the knot in Takshin’s belly wound itself into another ship-knot. “Honorable Keitan, what say you?”
The elected leader of the Anwei mercenaries—their method of dropping stones into piles to choose the general they would follow for a particular campaign was strange, but Takshin supposed any custom surviving from the Second Dynasty was bound to be—studied the terrain for a moment with his own farlooker. When he spoke, the soft lilt of the great harbor city and its rich hinterland turned the Shan dialect into a song. “If we may enter the city before nightfall, better chance the next day.” He glanced to his own left, where an adjutant slightly younger but very much like Kai’s faithful Anlon shrugged, leaning upon his pommel.
The rest of Kiron’s bloodriders were either strung along the promontory or hurrying their particular part of the army along. It would take time to arrange them, but the roads this close to Zhaon-An were good, the farmland mostly level, and the field where they could weather any Tabrak charge enticingly close.
Kiron was silent for another few moments. Thin sharp sounds drifted from the battered city. How much of it was burning? Did Yala sense her husband close by? And Kurin, what was he doing?
At least his elder brother would fight to retain the city, and might even risk his own skin in the process. Yala would be brought into the palace complex; the walls there could hold for some while.
“The wind is with us,” Kiron said. He did not look at Takshin; there could be no intimation that he was founding the decision upon his battle-brother’s obvious impatience. “Raise the banners—no gongs, no trumpets. We aim for that field, but if they will not offer battle we shall fall upon their backs and drive into the city itself. We begin at the start of afternoon watch.”
“My king.” Buwon bent slightly in the saddle; his horse wheeled and he cantered down the rise to begin the process, the entire army fermenting like a pot of stiffened curd. The head of the Anwei mercenaries glanced again at his adjutant.
“We shall hold the left flank, or die,” he said, formally. “Such is our contract, Suon Kiron, King of Shan.”
“So it is, Honorable Keitan. May your horse be swift and your blade deadly this afternoon.” Kiron nodded, and the leader took himself off much as Buwon had. “Can you wait that long, Shin?”
Why do you ask? I must, so I will. “Of course.” The words stuck in his throat, but a little more waiting would gain a much greater chance of what he sought. Had he not, after all, won Yala in that fashion? Let her be well, Heaven. Let her be alive, and unharmed. Or I swear… “Surprise is an advantage, and should not be thrown away before its time.”
“Indeed.” But Kiron’s brow had wrinkled. “The Horde has never acted thus. Perhaps they have gone mad.”
“Who would not, living as they do?” Now that it was decided, a familiar chill settled over Garan Takshin. The cold was an old friend, and he welcomed it.
All he had to do was wait until it was time to kill.
BAR THE DOOR
It was a group of three barbarians, their furry trousers melding into their horses so they appeared one single monstrous being instead of a fourfoot cousin carrying a burden. Blue paint streaked sweat-runneled over skin pale as mourning, and their hair of strange, outlandish colors—straw, straw with a reddish tinge, dark without the undertone of rich blue or red proper hair should have—was pulled into high, clay-stiffened crests. They did not pause upon seeing fresh prey, but spurred their mounts forward, and everything within Garan Yala, once Komor Yala, shrank to a single small point.
“Go!” she screamed, as she never had in her adult life—a noblewoman did not cry aloud so even during a hunt. She realized she had spoken in Khir and cursed herself before repeating it in Zhaon, again as loudly as possible, her yue’s greenmetal hilt cool against her sweating fingers. “Fly! Reach the Tower!”
Third Mother Luswone made a terrible gurgling noise, Gamnae let out a short piercing scream, and Kihon Jiao staggered into a run, Mrong Banh forgetting his reticence and grasping the physician’s burden from the other side, helping as much as possible. Su Juhna and Hansei Liyue reeled after them; the younger girl had lost her jatajatas and fled barefoot.
The riders charged, hooves clattering. Yala streaked forward too, her skirt tearing free of Anh’s fist. The yue was all but useless against a rider on horseback—but she was Khir, and knew how to startle a fourfoot cousin.
Which would force the attackers to deal with her before pursuing the slower prey. Or so she hoped.
“Hai!” she yelled, darting at the lead horse—a fine deep-chested chestnut with a black mane and scars upon his withers, a sad intelligent gaze saying he deserved a better rider. The beast, used to fleeing creatures, was momentarily confused; Yala half-spun, jabbing her greenmetal blade—how ridiculously small it looked now, a tooth-cleaning splinter against the wide wicked hookblades—at the second beast, the large black gelding she knew she had to dissuade. The rider might be in command or not, but horses tended to follow others they knew and trusted no matter what the two-leg lords upon their backs demanded, especially in unfamiliar surroundings.
And she did not think the Tabrak often gallivanted through water-gardens.
She heard her own voice as if from very far away, screaming words she had no idea she could even pronounce without blushing, let alone hurl at armed intruders inside the palace complex of mighty Zhaon. A hookblade whistled down, and as it had before, the yue saved her.
Not the blade, too small to be of use. But she crouched, dropping into the lowest of the defensive postures, her skirt tearing even more as her left leg slid out straight and her right bent deeply, muscles used to stretching being called upon for even greater flexibility. “Ahi-a!” she screamed again, the cry for a hunter whose bolt had not gone astray, and the hookblade whistled over her head. Her hairpin skittered away along a paved walk as she surged upright in a rush, darting forward to jab at the black gelding’s nose.
The horse reared, and she was vaguely aware of another shout, something whizzing past her.
It was a stone. Yala danced back, avoiding wild hoof-flails, and the thought that she was attacking three Tabrak threatened to overwhelm her.
Another missile streaked past. Once before, Anh had held off an assassin by throwing tea-crockery; now she had scrambled to the margin of the pond and was grubbing at ornamental stones, tearing them free of sucking mud and hurling them with a peasant girl’s coney-hunting accuracy. A scrap of Yala’s skirt hanging from her hand made a crude but effective sling; the girl cried aloud again, a fresh rock whirling over her head, clad in almost-mourning-pale silk. The missile flew with a whistle, pelting the rider upon the chestnut’s other side.
Yala had no time to cheer or to command the girl to flee. The rider upon the chestnut shouted something that sounded foul indeed, and there was a curious blow along the outside of Yala’s left shoulder.
It was the tip of his hookblade, digging just past her sleeve and into flesh; she took the only move she could, throwing herself to the left, almost under the black gelding, which let out a loud whinny and reared again.
One of those hooves could shatter her skull, and she would never worry about dishonor, Zakkar Kai, Zhaon, or anything else ever again. Would her father’s shade greet her, would she ride the Great Fields since she had died in battle?
At the moment, Komor Yala did not care. She was only an eye, a hand, a collection of limbs bent upon a single purpose—to give Kihon Jiao time to carry his burden to the tower, to give Gamnae, Liyue, and Junha time to gain that safety.
And give Mrong Banh enough time to bar the door.
The Iejo’s great doors, normally familiar enough to be invisible, were aflame.
Garan Sensheo spat a bright crimson wad; the hookblade hole in his guts was a nail through a beetle’s carapace. He enjoyed mounting bright-shelled things upon pins and witnessing their tiny dying movements, but it was not fit for a man.
Or an Emperor. He had struck that torch-tossing barbarian down, but the second one had pierced him and now he wondered if he should have buckled on some armor.
He backed up the Iejo’s steps, the hurai upon his right hand slippery with yet more hot blood, both his and others’. The barbarians were everywhere; did they not know whose house they were fouling?
You have not been practicing, little brother. It was Makar’s voice, and the hole in his belly didn’t sting as much as his brother’s fist that morning—had it really only been that summer? So much had happened.
“Filthy beasts.” His voice was a shriek. “You killed Makar!”
Oh, they had killed many more. Why, set next to their accomplishments, Sensheo’s seemed rather paltry indeed. The fire breathed against his back, painted wood and hangings fueling it—they did their work well, these motherless, stinking dogs.
There seemed to be a thousand of them, but perhaps it was the veil over his eyes. His head felt empty, but paradoxically full of something fluffy and loose—cloudfur before it was spun, perhaps.
A barbarian ran from the flaming mouth of the Iejo, almost colliding with Sensheo. The bastard carried a brand, waving it aloft as he whooped with fiendish glee; the Emperor of Zhaon fell hard, his vision darkening.
He barely felt it when they ripped the double hurai from his fingers, one of them picking up his bloody sword and examining it closely. A whistle ribboned through the smoke—the signal for plunder or resistance, calling upon the Horde to congeal around it like the swelling around a splinter.
Moments later, a broken body rested alone upon broad stone steps before a burning palace.
CRY OF AN ASHANI
The rain had found Zhaon-An, battle-madness was upon Ashani Daoyan, and he did not care who he struck down. It was perhaps a mercy no Khir or Zhaon were before him, for his entire world had narrowed to the killing.
