William King - The Queen's assassin

A chamberlain was summoned. Rik wasted a minute waiting for him, and then told the guards he could not wait. The matter was deadly urgent. Reluctant to shoot him or restrain him, they accompanied him deeper into the Palace. Rik was glad he knew the way.

The corridors were quiet. No one was abroad in this wing of the Palace. “Is it normally like this?” he asked one of the soldiers.

“I don’t usually come here,” the man responded. He was clearly nervous. His visitor was important but his actions were highly irregular. He was not in the mood for small talk.

They headed up another flight of stairs into the Queen’s Wing. “Surely there should be guards here?” Rik said.

“There should be Household troopers,” the soldier agreed. Rik’s worried tone was affecting him now.

“You, go and get more troops now,” Rik told one of the soldiers. “You, come with me.”

They pushed on deeper into the Palace. All around them it was quiet as the grave.

At least the mist had started to clear, thought Sardec, and then wished it hadn’t. Up ahead he could see a horde of the walking dead. More and more were erupting from the hard earth around him, their bodies covered in graveyard dirt, their heads and shoulders covered in snow. Sardec did not like to think of the horrible energy it must have taken for them to reach the surface, or the evil magic that had aided the process.

There were scores of the animated corpses now and more appearing every heartbeat. They were in every state of decomposition. Some were fresh and pale. Some were worm-eaten and decomposed. Some were mere skeletons with strips of flesh clinging to them. In every eye green witchfires flowed. Every face turned to look at the oncoming soldiers. Sardec wished that he had a lot more troops.

In the midst of the swarming, shambling host was a cleared area among the tomb stones. Within that area were great barrels the like of which they had found in the cellars of the grave robbers’ house. In the middle of the circle were a group of cowled figures. Black robed, looking like monks.

“Ready your weapons, men,” Sardec said. “Prepare to fire.”

Jaderac was a little surprised to see so many soldiers. He had expected the Nerghul to kill most of them. After all, it was night, and it was in its environment while these men were not. Then he saw the tall silver masked figure standing amid the green-tunicked men and their rather familiar looking officer and he knew exactly what had happened.

“Asea,” he shouted. “This is a pleasant surprise. I thought I was going to have to hunt you down, and now I find you have come to me.”

“Lord Jaderac. Well met. And I do believe that is Lord Sardontine too. What a strange place you have chosen for your little get together. I see your skill at necromancy has greatly increased over the last century.”

Jaderac did not like how confident she sounded. She had the arrogance of the First, just like Malkior, and he had always found that grating. “You are about to witness exactly how much it has increased. I will sweep this city clean of your soldiers. By the end of tonight there will be no Talorean army in Halim.”

“By using such weapons you have already lost. Do you think the rulers of the other nations will stand by and see a return to the practises of the Wars with Shadow?”

“I doubt they will have much choice.” She was trying to keep him talking, Jaderac thought, waiting for help to arrive. Did she not realise that the same thing applied to him. With every passing heartbeat the size of his own legion of followers increased. He glanced at the wand in her hand. Chained lightning danced within it but he was safe within the circle of protection they had created. It would keep out her magic just as easily as it kept out the undead.

“I can see you are not going to surrender,” said Asea. “A pity. We shall have to take a more difficult path. Weasel, kill him.”

Jaderac saw a tall thin scruffy looking man raise a long rifle and aim it at him. He felt a brief thrill of fear but felt certain that the circle would deflect the man’s aim. He had worked potent warding spells into it.

“Kill them all,” Jaderac ordered the army of the walking dead. His eerie followers shambled towards the soldiers.

Dead Terrarchs in the uniform of the household guard lay on the Palace floor. The sentry beside Rik muttered something that might have been a curse or a prayer. Rik pushed at the door gently. It swung open. There were more dead men within. Dead women too. Maids and ladies in waiting lay sprawled across the carpets, blood pooled around them. Rik’s heart sank. He knew where this trail was going to lead. He had arrived too late. The voices gibbered in his head, fear maddened, blood-lusting.

He sprang forward, sword in one hand, pistol in the other, racing along the corridors that led to the Queen’s chambers, jumping over the corpses. His spell-augmented speed was such that he soon left the remaining guard far behind.

The door at the end of the corridor was open. It led into a luxuriously appointed bedchamber. The body of Kathea lay sprawled on the bed. Her eyes were open. A dagger was buried in her breast. A tall figure, garbed all in black stood over here. A hood covered his head, when he turned a scarf obscured the lower half of his face, but Rik still knew him.

“Malkior,” he said. The tall figure made a courtly bow.

“If it isn’t my illegitimate offspring. I must say I am surprised and gladdened to see you. I had expected you to be food for the Exarch by now. You must tell me how you escaped it.”

Rik stared at Kathea’s body. He remembered her alive and well. He had rescued her from the Serpent Tower only for her to die here in her own chambers. A terrible rage sparked within him. “I killed the Quan, just like I am going to kill you.”

He raised the pistol.

“A simple plan, like all the best ones, but I was rather hoping for something more specific.”

“We had our little chat. That was enough for one lifetime.”

“Be sensible, boy. You can’t beat me. I have been doing this for more than a thousand years.”

“It’s time somebody did something about that.”

“And you have elected yourself. How noble.” Even with his sorcerously enhanced senses Rik barely saw Malkior move. His form seemed to elongate and suddenly he was standing in front of Rik. A slash of his black-gloved hand knocked the pistol from Rik’s grip.

“I told you, boy, you can’t beat me. Azaar himself when he was whole would have struggled to do that, and you are not him.”

Rik drew on the power within him, and increased the intensity of his own spells. He sprang away from Malkior, towards where the pistol had fallen. His body throbbed with power. He was aware of everything. The smell of urine and faeces from the corpse. The faint drops of blood congealing on Kathea’s breast. The approaching footsteps of the soldier running down the corridor.

“A nice trick. I see Asea really has been teaching you. And so much power too. You did not possess that when last we met — or have you the trick of hiding it?”

Rik drew his blade and lunged, hoping to take Malkior off-guard. His speed was like that of a tiger, yet the black clad figure eluded him easily. There was a cracking sound as another blow sent his knife spinning. Pain surged through Rik’s hand. His wrist was bent at an odd angle. Broken, he realised, even as he invoked the spell to control his agony.

“You know,” said Malkior conversationally, “I am really glad you are here. It’s almost as if there is a God and he is smiling on me.”

Rik backed away, holding his wrist. It was his right one. His concealed pistol was still there and he fumbled to get it free. “Why do you say that?”