Spirit of the King (20 page)

Graymon stayed hidden until he no longer heard wagon wheels clattering along the track, then remained hidden a few minutes more. When he thought it safe, he crept out of his hiding spot, the blanket wrapped tight around his body. He didn’t know the area, but knew enough to realize that, if the wagon headed one way, he should go the other. He looked back down the track, dreading the walk into the darkness, but nothing in the forest lining the road could be worse than the dead men. At least in this direction, he knew his father was there somewhere, and his nanny. He took a step down the track, then stopped, his attention grabbed by the crackle of the cook fire the soldiers hadn’t extinguished.

First, I’ll warm myself. Even a brave hero would do that.

The plain gray slab of the city wall rose before them. No gargoyles loomed at its corners; no statues or signs, decorations or markings adorned its surface. The lack of anything surprised Khirro; he’d imagined the fabled city of Poltghasa—the last refuge of the guilty and the damned—would be imposing. Instead, it looked like any other city—older, perhaps, more rundown, but no different.

No one challenged their approach, but they had waited until just before dawn and chose not to enter through the main gate. They stalked around the base of the wall, kicking aside rubble and loose stone fallen from its surface during the thousands of years it had ringed the city. It wasn’t the staunchness of the wall that deterred the Kanosee or anyone else from storming the city and bringing the renegade criminals to justice, it was the reputation of the denizens lurking behind the wall that kept the rest of the world at bay. The thought raised the short hairs on the back of Khirro’s neck.

“Look, there.” Athryn pointed at the wall ahead of them.

Khirro squinted, but he saw nothing other than an outline of the wall’s pockmarked surface. “I don’t see anything.”

“A door hanging askew. There.”

“Your eyes are better than mine.”

“Come.”

They stole forward, Athryn leading the way. After a few steps, Khirro saw the edge of the door silhouetted against the gray wall.

How nice of them to leave it open for us.

“It will be guarded,” Athryn said drawing his sword.

They crept along the wall, stepping carefully around rocks and shards fallen from above uncountable years before, and Khirro pulled the Mourning Sword from its scabbard. He couldn’t imagine what kind of barrage this great slab of stone must have withstood in the days after Monos’ death, when Shyctem—the first king—ruled the land. His reign had been tumultuous, marked by death and fighting as rival warlords launched attacks to usurp his power. Eventually, he met his death on the same Killing Stairs upon which so many of his enemies had met theirs.

Athryn gestured toward the horizon and Khirro saw the sky beginning to lighten with the dawn creeping in to banish night from the land. They stood their best chance of survival if they entered the city and found a hiding place before the sun climbed into the sky.

Khirro slipped past Athryn, back pressed to the wall as he crept up to the battered and scarred door; the rusted bars of an iron gate lay on the ground nearby, chunks of stone torn from the wall still attached to its hinges. He peered through the crack of the open door and saw an alley running away into darkness but nothing else. He crept back across the opening and pulled the magician a step away.

“No one,” he whispered directly into Athryn’s ear. “An alley. No room for guards.”

“But ideal for an ambush.”

He looked into his companion’s eyes and nodded once. They didn’t know when they might find another town and, with winter’s approach, game was scarce. If they didn’t resupply here, they wouldn’t make it back to Erechania; they had no choice but to enter the city.

“I’ll go,” Khirro said. “Give me a few minutes. If you don’t hear me come to my death, then follow.”

“They may have seen our approach and will wait until we are both trapped.”

“Then be ready to fight.”

Athryn put a hand on Khirro’s shoulder like he might speak, but didn’t. Khirro wanted to say more, perhaps to thank his companion for all he’d done, but though their lives might end here, he didn’t know what to say to the man whose assistance had allowed him to come this far. The heat of embarrassment touched his cheeks. Instead of speaking, he turned away and forced himself through the space between broken door and chipped wall into the dark alley.

The stench of refuse, rotted food and Gods knew what else slammed against him like he’d run into a wall. He covered his nose and mouth with his arm and breathed shallowly. His eyes watered. He waited. After a minute with no noise or movement from the lane ahead, he sucked a breath through the sleeve of his tunic and took a step. His boot sunk into something soft and he pulled back.

It’s only garbage.

Khirro shuddered and swallowed hard around a knot in his throat. When his boot sank again, he pushed on. His second step found hard ground and he paused again, looked up at the tops of the buildings on either side. The sky above remained dark, leaving him unable to determine if he saw silhouettes against the
dark gray
of impending dawn or not. He crouched to make himself a smaller target and held the Mourning Sword out in front of him. The glow of the runes faded, as though the sword knew not to give him away. A minute passed. Another. Sweat ran down Khirro’s brow despite the chill in the autumn air. Gathering himself, he moved forward.

After a dozen steps, the alley widened into a narrow courtyard. Windowless walls looked down onto bare ground and Khirro stood at the mouth of the alley, wishing for light. A heap lay in the middle of the courtyard, lumpy and angular and indistinguishable. He crouched again, straining to hear past the rush of blood in his ears, the rasp of breath in his throat. Swallowing, he stopped his breathing, tried to calm his thumping heart.

A noise.

The sound of cloth scraping against cloth from the heap lying in the middle of the yard. Khirro dropped his arm from his face and grasped the hilt of the Mourning Sword with both hands, the muscles in his arms bunching. Another sound, louder this time. The clink of steel? A thought sprang to Khirro’s mind.

What would Ghaul do?

The name brought a bad taste to his mouth, but he couldn’t deny the soldier—enemy or not—would have known how handle this, as he would have known how to handle any dangerous situation. Would he rush in and hope to catch the enemy off guard? Sneak up and surprise them? The lack of visible movement suggested the person must be resting or unconscious.

Ghaul would sneak up and slit their throats while they slept.

Disgusted at the thought, Khirro rose and inched forward.
Each step brought the shape before him into clearer view until he saw it was more than one person lying on the ground. He stepped gingerly, closing the distance, silent like the tyger burning within him until his boot struck a stone. The rock skittered across the ground.

A flurry of movement froze him in his spot. The dark shape of some devil or monster rose into the air and he dove to the ground before recognizing the angry caw of the crow he’d disturbed. He rolled to his back and saw its dark shape outlined briefly against the sky before it disappeared beyond the top of the wall. It hollered at him from a distance, but he neither saw nor heard any other signs of life. Khirro climbed to his feet.

“Khirro?”

He whirled at the voice, blade flashing before him. Wisely, Athryn had halted several paces away. Khirro blinked and allowed the sword’s tip to dip toward the ground, embarrassed by his nervousness.

That’s not me anymore. I’m no longer the fearful dirt farmer.

“Are you all right?”

“Yes,” Khirro whispered as the magician came to his side. “You startled me. You and that crow.”

“It seems our entrance is unguarded and unnoticed.”

“Perhaps.” Khirro gestured over his shoulder. “Look at this.”

Five corpses in total lay in the street—four men and one woman. The woman’s rough spun dress was in tatters; two of the men wore no breeches. Athryn knelt and inspected the bodies, touching bare flesh with the back of his hand, lifting one man’s arm. Khirro watched.

“They have been dead for a couple of hours.” Athryn nodded toward the bodies arrayed on the ground before him. “They have no weapons. They did not kill each other. Someone else did and brought them here.”

“But why? What happened?”

Athryn glanced up at Khirro. “This is Poltghasa.”

***

They crept through the city, stealing from shadow to receding shadow as dawn inched into the sky. The only people they saw were asleep or passed out—or perhaps dead—and they didn’t stop to determine which. Khirro wondered at the lack of people in the streets. Was Poltghasa such a terrible place that even those who lived in it wouldn’t venture out in the dark?

The city’s architecture contrasted with the plain wall surrounding it. Pillars carved with heroic scenes supported arches over the main boulevard; buildings built not just for shelter but also for art lined the streets. Stretching above them all, a spire two hundred or more feet tall in the center square presided over the city. But all the buildings and statues showed disrepair and neglect, the city’s beauty muted by centuries of dirt, grime and damage. Statues of ancient kings, with missing limbs or broken heads, stood guard outside shattered buildings. Once proud gargoyles lay smashed in the streets, thrown off their perches by the hands of attacking warriors or drunken wretches. They passed by it all, awed as much by the neglect of the city’s residents as they were by the incredible workmanship.

What should I expect of banished criminals?

They stole along garbage strewn streets, drawn toward the spire. Chipped cobblestones passed beneath their feet as the sky lightened and in the distance a rooster heralded dawn, followed quickly by someone telling the bird to shut up. Athryn took Khirro by the elbow, hurrying him along.

A hundred yards from the tower, they stopped. Athryn raised a finger and pointed at the rough flight of stairs climbing alongside the spire.

“The Killing Stairs.”

Khirro stared. Hundreds, maybe thousands of people’s lives had ended on those stairs, thrown off the top of the tower in the days before anarchy ruled Poltghasa. Gods alone knew how many more in the days since.

They moved forward quickly, as life began to stir around them. A woman threw her gray water out of a second story window; a cat raced across the avenue chasing a mouse; the sound of voices embroiled in an argument spilled out through the broken door of a building.

They stopped at the first step of the granite stairs and saw each edge was chipped and worn by a thousand years of sandals and boots thumping against their surface. Instruments of death. Part way up, spread over twenty of the steps, Khirro saw a dark stain on the light colored stone.

That’s where they died.

Athryn nodded, confirming Khirro’s thought, then gestured toward the door at the base of the tower.

“In there,” he said and moved toward the door.

A layer of verdigris covered the bronze door, muting the intricate pattern carved across its surface. Despite the neglect, the door hung straight on its hinges. Khirro grabbed the handle and pushed, expecting it not to budge, but it swung open easily, like a portal well used and oiled, though the odor of dust and mold wafting through the open doorway suggested otherwise. Athryn crept through; Khirro followed.

The air within seemed like it might have been undisturbed for centuries, existing to be breathed by spiders and vermin scuttling about in the dark and no one else. Khirro pulled the Mourning Sword from his hip; the red runes glowed dimly but it was enough for them to discern shapes in the chamber as Athryn closed the door. The room was empty of furnishings or decoration except for a staircase carved into the wall winding its way up and up and up into the darkness above. Khirro extended the sword over his head, hoping to see the ceiling, but saw darkness and nothing more beyond the glow of his blade.

“The ceiling is two hundred feet above our heads. Maybe more.” Athryn’s voice echoed away in the heights. Somewhere above a bat squeaked and fluttered.

“What?”

“There are no floors, only this one and the roof from which Shyctem cast his enemies. Those and the stairs in between.”

“It seems like no one’s been in here for a long time.”

“I do not think they bother to take the condemned all the way to the top before killing them anymore.”

Khirro thought about the men and woman they’d found and wondered how many people in this so-called ‘free city’ found their deaths innocently. He suspected it could happen anytime if you made the wrong man angry. But the same could be said of any city, couldn’t it?

“We will rest here until nightfall,” Athryn said clearing cobwebs, dust and loose pebbles from a place on the floor with his boot. “After dark, when we can move with less chance of notice, we will find supplies and be out of this place before the sun rises.”

Khirro nodded, his chest tight. “I’ll take first watch.”

“As you like. You have but one door to watch.”

Athryn settled onto the floor, his breathing soon settling into the deep, easy pattern of sleep. Khirro wandered the round chamber, examining walls and testing the stairs. He rested his foot on the bottom step and dread filled him as he felt what it must have been like for the condemned mounting the stairs on the final march to their deaths. The only choices before them were complete the climb and die on the Killing Stairs, leap from these steps and die a death unseen by the crowds gathered in the square or be killed for refusing to climb. Any of the three yielded the same result.

Khirro looked back over his shoulder at Athryn sleeping on the floor and the closed door beyond him. It looked like no one had entered this place in a very long time; he doubted there was any chance anyone would do so today.

No one saw us come in. We’re safe here.

Khirro turned his attention back to the stair and stepped up onto the first step. Beneath his boot, it felt like any other step. It could easily belong to any one of the sets of stairs leading to the top of the wall at the Isthmus Fortress, would have only felt out of place leading to the hay loft in his father’s barn because it was stone rather than wood. The sense of dread he’d felt disappeared, no feeling of impending doom shivered up his leg and into his heart.