John Betancourt: The Dawn of Amber

I gave a derisive snort, not enjoying the idea. That hell-creatures should be here in Kingstown, behind our lines, seemed unlikely. And yet Dworkin certainly appeared to know more about them than King Elnar’s own agents. Nobody on our side knew where they came from originally, or how many they numbered—they had swept down from the north a year ago in a vast horde, destroying villages, murdering men, women, and children alike by the thousands. King Elnar had marched his army against them at once and fought them to a standstill. But slowly, over the months, their numbers swelled and they advanced on us again and again, driving us ever back, until presently they controlled half of Ilerium.

How did Dworkin know so much, when our own agents knew so little? I found it disconcerting to say the least. And it raised more than a few danger flags in my mind.

I tried to take a mental step backward. It was a trick I had taught myself, to try to see more than what was readily apparent. Who was Dworkin, really? What business could possibly have taken him away in the midst of the Scarlet Plague, when every country in the world had shut its ports to our ships?

I suddenly realized then how little I actually knew about my “uncle.” When you are a child, you take adults for granted. Dworkin had been a part of my life for so long, I had never thought to question his origins or his business or even his phenomenal skill with a sword, for he had certainly been on par with any master I had trained with in the last decade.

As I leaned against Helda’s house and pulled on my boots, I studied him. His strange clothing, his long absence, his swordsmanship, and his ability to keep track of me… I could only reach one conclusion: he had to be a spy. But for whom?

At least he seemed to fear the hell-creatures. No man who has looked into their slitted red eyes, or fought against their wickedly barbed swords and fire-breathing horses, can come away unchanged.

I finally decided that he had to be working for one of the neighboring kingdoms. And they had good cause to fear—if the hell-creatures continued their advance, they would control all of Ilerium within the year, and then they would be free to attack Tyre or Alacia or any of the other Fifteen Kingdoms.

“Where is your carriage?” I asked, taking back my sword.

He looked to the right, down the street. “I hear it coming now.”

I loosened my blade in its scabbard and stood straighten. Clearly Dworkin had gone to a lot of trouble to track me down—I had made doubly sure nobody knew where I would be sleeping tonight, from King Elnar to my orderly. And clearly, from his unceremonious pounding on the door, Dworkin truly did fear for my life.

But why should my life be in danger? I frowned. I was but one of a dozen lieutenants under King Elnar… a well decorated hero, true enough, but hardly a pivotal figure in the war. It didn’t make sense.

The clatter of iron-shod wheels on cobblestones slowly grew louder. Dworkin exhaled heavily and seemed to relax as an odd little carriage sped around the corner half a block away.

I gaped at it. It was shaped almost like a pumpkin, with smooth curved sides that might have been made of milky glass, and it glowed with an eerie phosphoric light, illuminating the whole street. Strangest of all, it had neither horses to pull it nor a driver to steer it, though it had an empty bench on top.

Magic.

I’d seen a few itinerant sorcerers visit King Elnar’s court over the years, but such were few and far between in this part of the world, and usually their magics were more flash and fancy: parlor tricks and elegant illusions to delight ladies after dinner. For Dworkin to have a sorcerer of considerable power at his disposal showed how important his mission here must be.

I’d had some little acquaintance with magic myself over the years. As a boy, I’d discovered I had the ability to change the features of my face when I concentrated on it, and I’d practiced secretly until I could make myself look like almost anyone I’d ever met. When they found out, both Dworkin and my mother had strongly discouraged this talent. And since such tricks are little use in combat, I’d barely even thought of it for years.

As the carriage neared, white lace curtains at the side windows fluttered briefly. I thought I glimpsed a woman’s pale face peering out at us, lips blood red and eyes dark. Could she be steering it from inside?

“Hurry,” Dworkin said urgently, taking my elbow and propelling me toward the carriage. I quickened my pace to keep up. “We must—”

At that second, the building behind us exploded. The force of it knocked me flat to the ground, and I scrambled awkwardly to my feet, palms and elbows and knees all stinging from scrapes on cobblestones.

Unbelieving, I stared at what remained of Helda’s house. Emerald flames shot a hundred feet in the air. The whole building, from stoop to attic, blazed with an unholy green fire. I had seen its like before on the battlefield—sometimes hell-creatures hurled fiery missiles at us, and they burned with those same green flames.

The heat was incredible. From somewhere inside I heard a woman screaming. Helda—I had to save her!

I started for the door, but Dworkin caught my arm and yanked me to a halt. His grip had iron in it, and I could not wrench away despite my own great strength.

“Obere, no!” He had a crazed, almost desperate look in his eye.

“I love her!” I screamed. “I love her—”

“She is dead!” He had to shout to be heard over the roar of the flames.

Above the conflagration, the roof suddenly fell in with a grinding crash. Green sparks streamed up toward the night sky. The whole building began to sag, threatening to collapse inward as the support beams burned through.

I staggered back, imagining her soul flying up to the heavens. Ash and embers began a gentle, hot rain on our heads.

Dworkin.

He had known, somehow, that this attack was going to happen. How?

Whirling, I grabbed him by his silk shirt and with one hand raised him a foot off the ground. It’s an impressive trick at any time, and over the years I’d taken the fight out of a dozen barroom brawlers by one-handing them into the air, then tossing them out the nearest door or window as though they weighed nothing. “Do you know who is responsible for this?” I demanded, shaking him. “How did you know the hell-creatures would attack here tonight? Who are you spying for? Is the king in danger?”

He broke my grip with a sudden toe to the stomach that sent me reeling back, gasping for breath. I hadn’t been hit that hard since the time a horse kicked me during the battle at Sadler’s Mill. Dworkin’s blow would have stunned or perhaps even killed most men, but I shook it off and came up growling, ready for a fight. My blade hissed from its scabbard as I drew it and pointed the tip at his face.

“I knew an attack would come against you tonight,” Dworkin said warily, staying beyond my reach. “But I did not know what form it would take.”

“And the king. How is he involved in this?”

“He is not… yet. The hell-creatures are searching for something. King Elnar is just in the way. Now, do not be a fool, my boy. You are alive because of me. Had I wanted you dead, I could have left you in the house to burn.”

I hesitated, looking at the house, unable to deny the truth. She was dead, my Helda, my sweet little Helda—she was dead, and there was nothing I could do about it now, except make an offering to the gods who guard the underworld.

Then Dworkin’s head jerked to the side and he stared, tense all over, like a rabbit about to bolt. In that second, I heard the horses too. There were perhaps a dozen, perhaps more, approaching fast. I pivoted, sword ready.