The sun rose over Ith like an enormous crown, shifting from horizon shades of red to a pale salmon, and becoming a finally a radiant orange that sliced through the hazy clouds on the bumpy horizon. Renado glimpsed it through the windows of the tavern as he strolled through the empty drinking room. When he followed Virn down the steps out front, the heat was against his back, casting his shadow twenty feet tall in front of him.
It was early still, but most of the others were already gone. Kazra and Woodro, Sarno and Red, Karsef and Crollem—the mercenaries and Circle warriors scattered like farmer’s seed, falling into the alleyways of Ith and out of the gleaming dawn. They would grow in the afternoon, blossoming into blood-red flowers and vines of chaos.
All Ren could think of as he walked, aside from such agricultural metaphors as inspired by this land of grass, was whether he would see each of them on the other side. It must have been clear to his men how their lives were values—they were doing these deeds for the Conclave, or for Gravagan, to pay for the care of Lerran and the security for little Rado. They might lose their lives for this alliance. It was a disturbing thought, Ren decided, and one that none of them had voiced.
“Where will we wait?” Virn asked, as they walked. The citizens of Ith passed them in small clusters, still rising from warm beds and throwing open painted shutters. The mighty warrior’s gruff voice quietly reached Ren’s ears. “If we wait too close, guards might notice us.”
They had passed through Massed Alley already, and were walking up a slope of the Low Dales. Vinu Court was built on the north side of the Dales, near where the Norzeen District joined the gap between the loosely-populated hill district and the wealthy estates of Pranan’s Hill. Ren looked west, again, at the shapes of dotting houses and estates on the hills. His own shadow was a bump on the next incline now. “Maybe in one of the outlying settlements,” he said. “I’d rather not be seen in the Norzeen District today.”
“Lead the way,” Virn said. The Circle warriors did not like making decisions for others; it had become very clear to Ren. It must have had something to do with how they had been trained.
They spent the morning in the little neighborhood of Terrana. They spoke little. Ren thought the only personal topic they might discuss was a grim one—the things they would do to protect their families. He preferred the silence.
When the sun had passed its zenith, they walked to the edge of the Norzeen district. It would still be several hours until the two Mage Kings—Aggo and Pretar—came this way, but the idea of going out so early was to afford each group of hitmen to track their targets and assess that everything was going according to plan.
Aggo and Pretar kept to the plan. With about ten guards, they emerged from the main street of Norzeen and parted the stream of pedestrians with their enormous litters. Each litter was carried by eight shirtless men or women, each with a circular brand scalded betwixt their shoulder blades. They were not athletic men, Ren realized. He had not seen their actual training, though Asar had commented that it was a lot of meditation and not a lot of physical combat.
The procession trickled down the slopes of each hill a little faster than they climbed the slopes. They reached the ornate pillars of Vinu Court about a half-hour later. Renado and Virn remained amidst the workfolk, the common people shoved aside by the rulers. They hid amid the outlying buildings; there were a dozen homes around the namesake garden yard, along with a baker’s, a butcher’s, and a storehouse. King Aggo was the first to climb down from his palanquin, aided by a ladder attached by one of the slaves. He dismissed them with a wave and chose a small square of polished granite tiles amidst the delicately groomed green grass. He folded his legs on the mosaic as Pretar descended from his own vehicle.
The sun was casting Ren’s shadow back towards the suburbs of Ith when the first sign came. A distant shriek was followed by the piercing echo of scratched metal, and King Pretar rose from his meditative state to look west. The feast in Pranan’s Hill, a few miles away, became a party of screaming civilians. Ren’s stomach clenched—it was happening now, and there was no backing out. Of course, he could not have changed the plans after the first group left the Verdant Drinkhouse that morning. But now, the time was at hand; Kazra and Woodro were fighting the Mage Kings. A dozen other startling attacks would disturb the peace today, and Ren, unsheathing his sword, would commit to his own.
“Now?” Virn asked, grabbing the neck of the cloak he wore. The Circle warriors had donned their armour that morning.
There were still guards around the edge of Vinu Court, but that was likely unavoidable. Nonetheless, Ren looked at the started figures of the two Mage Kings, a dozen feet away. “Let’s see what they do,” he said. Now that his stomach was wound up and ready, he yearned to get to the action. “A better opportunity may appear.”
It did not. Aggo and Pretar walked across the courtyard on foot, and their guards quickly closed around them. The formation only grew—another five men appeared, in armour, from a house in the tiny settlement, a home that did not look like a guardhouse. More had been standing where the hill road reached the garden hamlet. Ren cursed beneath his breath. “Now, then,” he said. It would not get any easier.
Virn tore the cloak off his neck, revealing the iron shoulder plates, the vest of studded chainmail, and the polished tassets at his hips. The hefty bastard sword rasped free of Virn’s scabbard as the man briskly crossed the foliage, trampling a bush as he intercepted the group of guards and magicians before they left the garden. Ren wore a loose tunic over his chainmail, and did not bother pulling it over his head as he rushed after the mighty fighter.
A guard pointed, shouting to his comrades, as Virn bore down on them. Two swiftly charged at Virn, while the Mage Kings half-smiled at the vain attempt of two attackers to defeat such a group. Surely twenty guards should have discouraged such a foolish…
Virn thrust his sword at the first defender. The man’s shield was in the way, but the strength of the blow knocked the defence inward and out of the way. The guard’s chainmail was no match for Virn’s stab—the blade slid through the man’s ribs like Virn had dipped it into water. The second attacker was there before Virn yanked his blade free, so instead he grabbed the attacker’s sword with his off-hand, easily shook the man’s grip off with an upward pull and then brought the hilt down on the unarmed man’s head. The blade broke off, but so did the man’s caved helmet.
The small breakfast Ren had eaten was suddenly in his throat. It wasn’t because of the spray of blood when Virn did yank his own sword free of the transfixed enemy. It was because the defenders died as easily as a fresh slice of bread was eaten. He had never seen anything like it.
Screaming a battle cry, another soldier stepped at Virn. A twist of the big bastard sword slashed right through the man’s forearm; the maimed warrior fell across a bush past Virn. Ren gave him mercy, a jab to the neck.
And then King Aggo vanished. He was gone as quickly as the first men had died, but he had not. He had Journeyed—either to safety, or to get aid. Pretar didn’t seem to notice. The other Mage King held his hand out, fingers together, toward Virn. Ren cursed as Aggo vanished. “We can’t lose them!” he cried and charged forward to slash at a guard of his own. With twenty, the guards were starting to flank them.
Virn’s next kill was sent rolling through the air, knocking another to a ground. Virn put his blade through them both, while a guard behind him slashed at his back. The chainmail easily absorbed the hack, but a normal man would have been bruised or winded. Virn instead smashed his elbow into the man’s face. As though struck by a charging bull, the man was slammed backward into the grass. Virn yanked his blade free and then, to Ren’s surprise, teetered off-balance.
Another guard jabbed at Ren with a pike, and he had to look away from his comrade. He parried a blow and spun closer to the man, shoving his shield out of the way and jabbing the man in his armpit, where chainmail and metal plates did not protect. He quickly looked to Virn before another soldier attacked him. The warrior hit a man’s shield hard enough to break the man’s arm, but then his following swing missed it’s prime mark and partially severed the man’s leg instead of striking at the neck. The warrior stumbled as he approached his next target, and then the next guard attacked Ren, though some of their enemies had started to flee.
This time, two came at him, one from each side; Ren parried the first man, then kicked his shield to send him stumbling back. A twist at the hip was barely enough to parry the second, but then he followed the defence with a series of jabs, and an arching rap to the man’s helmet. The man’s attack was swung too short because of it. Ren stepped to a left-ward angle and drove his sword into the man’s hip. The second defender had recovered from his stumble and was trying to get an opening as Ren spun around the fallen comrade and again hacked at that warrior’s shield.
Behind his target, he saw Virn fall to one knee, dizzily warding off the attacks of four men. Ren turned his wide eyes to King Pretar; the sorcerer still held his hand out toward Virn, focusing. “Virn!” Ren called, but the man’s eyes couldn’t find him as he also tried focusing on his assailants.
With all the speed he could muster, Ren finished off the shield soldier with a jab to the neck, though the man’s sword grazed his shoulder while he stepped closer to find that angle. Before anyone else could reach him, Ren yanked out the dagger from his belt. The throw had the right degree of strength, but he watched it arc too far to the side. The Mage King stumbled when the throwing blade clipped through his robe and into his slack upper-arm. The reached arm remained pointed—but now Virn saw it.
The deadly warrior rose from his knees, tossing aside a blade that had been lodged in his own shoulder. His feet were stumbling still, and his blade defended him dizzily, but Virn charged across the blood-splattered garden. Two men lowered spears to stop his charge; Virn slashed one aside with his sword, missed the other and took it against his side. The barrelling advance didn’t stop and the man with the spear found the weapon yanked from his side as Virn blasted through another way of guards. His slash twisted off one man’s leg and another’s head, spraying blood across the greenery as he finally reached the horrified Mage King.
Robes were no match for Virn’s ferocity, and King Pretar was hewn from shoulder to hip, falling away in two pieces. Virn, spear still hanging from his ribs and blood dripping from a dozen other wounds, sank down to his knees and his head slouched.
“Virn!” Ren cried again, jabbing a man in the foot and then slashing at his exposed back. He rushed toward his ally, and the four guards left in the way stumbled out of Ren’s, dropping their weapons.
Ren warily faced them with his sword nonetheless, until one said, “Don’t kill us—we have families! We were more afraid of the Slave King, but now we only fear you.”
“Keep your distance,” Ren barked as he slid onto the grass beside Virn. Red had soaked the green into a sickly brown, both from the fierce warrior and the sundered torso of King Pretar. “Talk to me, my man,” Ren begged.
Foam cornered Virn’s sagging mouth, while vomit stained his shirt. Whatever Pretar had done to him, it was not undone—Virn’s eyes were half-closed and twitching. Ren pulled the spear out of his comrade’s side and examined the wound. There was a lot of blood, but the man’s literal thick-skin had stopped it from going deep enough to damage his organs. Nonetheless, Ren determined there was internal bleeding, and likely trauma to most of Virn’s organs.
“I need a healer,” Ren called. He stood up to face the four yielding soldiers. “Each of you go a different direction and bring a healer.” He walked closer to them—after all, a crowd had gathered. “Bring the healer to the Lowtown Pub, on the edge of Massed Alley.”
Virn and he had chosen it to be their hiding spot for the next two days, until the entire group reunited at the Targon Tavern in Pranan’s Hill. Now it would be a hiding spot for recovery too. “Quickly!” Ren repeated, as a moan escaped Virn’s lips. The man slid deeper into a state of unconsciousness. Ren dragged one of the Mage King’s litters over. A few of the Mage King’s slaves were still around, so he waved a young man over. The man kept his eyes lowered and didn’t say a word, but he helped Ren lift Virn into it and lift the carriage onto their shoulders.
It was going to be expensive, Ren thought, remembering the coin he had stashed at the Lowtown Pub. The innkeeper would need a larger bribe. The guards would need bribes. Even the slave that walked behind Ren, sharing this heavy load with him.
For Ren, the heavier burden was not the cost of bribes or the state of Virn’s health. It was the knowledge that at least one Mage King had survived today. Their meeting at the Targon in two days would not be the celebration he had hoped.