Huren sought Dinor with his eyes but daren’t move his head, daren’t draw attention to himself or any of the others. Pan’assár would see it.
“Harahon, too, died. Didn’t he?” Pan’assár took another step forward, into the inner circle and towards Dinor. Just close enough to see the lines and creases of his face, his pupils and the set of his brow.
“Yes, I believe he did.”
Even now, as he moved closer, the pieces were coming together in his mind. He saw emotion pushing through Dinor’s defences. Not confusion. Realisation.
And then Pan’assár had it. Or’Talán had told him of Harahon’s death. That captain had died before the final battle, had been replaced by Dinor, and that substitution had not been recorded. But Dinor had always said he had been at Sen’olei. No, Or’Talán had not been wrong.
“Indeed, he died. Strangely, I would say, he died before the Battle Under the Sun. And the dead do not give orders, Captain Dinor.”
“Then some mistake—”
“Ah, mistake you say. You said it was Harahon. How did you know? Who told you that? He was dead before King Or’Talán sent out his summons for more warriors. Come, Captain Dinor. Who told you it was Harahon who had erred?”
Dinor was shaking his head, trying his very best to seem confused, but Pan’assár could see his deception, the flicker of his gaze to the right where Huren stood. He had him, had them both. Rinon was right. Huren had betrayed him all this time. He moved in.
Standing now at the very centre, his captains around him, loyal and traitorous, he held out his right hand, and in it, the unassuming leather journal of Or’Talán. “You do not answer, and perhaps that is because it was long ago. Perhaps you don’t remember who told you. But there is someone here who knows. Someone here.” He shook the journal in front of him.
With his eyes on Dinor, he opened the journal. Looking down, he flicked to the page, close to the end. And then he raised his voice, slow and powerful.
‘We need reinforcements. I have sent riders to Sen’uár, with a message for Captain Dinor.’
“You lied to your commander general. You knew Harahon had died before the battle began. It was you who received our king’s call for reinforcements.”
Gasps around the circle, from those still loyal, from those swayed only by the threat of civil war.
“I wasn’t there. I was at Sen’oléi.”
A wave of rage and ire took Pan’assár, so powerful it wrenched from the others another gasp. Huren’s hand was on the pommel of his sword.
“This is the fourth and final journal of King Or’Talán. He wrote this as he sat under the unyielding sun, defending his people. He knew he would die if those warriors were not sent. You received that order. You ignored it. You left our greatest king to die!”
That last word echoed off the walls, slamming into the shocked captains again and again until it died, and Pan’assár stood trembling in rage before Dinor, who could not look at him. He cowered, half-turned away from the terrible sight of an enraged Kah Master.
“Tell me he was wrong, Dinor.” But the captain said nothing, couldn’t, and then Pan’assár slowly covered the few short steps towards his general. “Or’Talán was never wrong about where his soldiers were. And that brings me to the root of all this.” He faced General Huren, stepped closer. “Were you not responsible for deployment, General? Was it not you who would have seen the register of Harahon’s death, you who replaced him with Dinor?”
“No.”
“Then who? It was your job. You delegated it to someone else. Who?”
Huren looked to Esta’hen, saw his thunderous face. He looked at Sar’pén and Era’mor, then back to Pan’assár.
The commander’s lips stretched into a smile, but his eyes … his eyes were fire and ice, grief and wrath. “What happened, Huren? Did he find out? Did Harahon threaten to spoil your plans?”
“What plans? I don’t—”
“Did you kill him yourself? Put Dinor in his place? Tell me, Huren. Were you playing me? Even then? Even before I had made you my highest-ranking general?”
“I did not play you, Pan’a—”
“Look at me!” Pan’assár’s thunderous voice sent the hall into silence. He continued, softer now. “Tell me it was you who gave Dinor the order to withhold our forces. Tell me you left our king to die.”
Pan’assár couldn’t give a damn that his captains were stirring around him, that he could hear buckles rattling, the whisper of steel through leather. His eyes remained on Huren. And then he saw it, the moment his denial fled and in its place, hatred.
“You were always a fool, Pan’assár. You just let everyone else get on with it, didn’t you? You couldn’t be bothered with anything or anyone, but you took the praise, didn’t you?”
“I trusted you.”
“Like I said. You’re a fool. You followed the wrong leader.”
“You were loyal.”
“For a time. Or’Talán was a great king, but he was not generous with his lords. I soon came to understand that I would never shine under his command, or under yours.” Huren looked around him, to Dinor, to Sar’pén, to Era’mor and to Bora’sen, all those who stood to gain from the vote against the Warlord.
And now, the ultimate test of these captains’ loyalty to the new and generous king. There was no other way out for Huren now. “Seize him!” he ordered, pointing at the commander. Dinor moved forward but the others just stood there, eyes on Pan’assár. Huren had always known that their support hinged on keeping Or’Talán’s memory sacred, and Pan’assár had shattered that illusion. He tried one more time.
“Seize him! Dinor …”
The other captains turned accusing eyes on Dinor. Lurching forward, they took him by the arms, and Huren drew his blade, waved it before him, a warning to any who thought to do the same to him.
Pan’assár drew his two swords. He crossed them before his twisted face and then held them for a moment over his head. With a mighty whoosh they descended, and Huren met them, staggering sideways under the force of them.
“You know how it goes, Huren. You know what will happen now. Traitor. Kinslayer. Kingslayer.” Pan’assár’s longsword clashed against Huren’s once more, and the general struggled to keep his grasp on it, the panic in his eyes growing. Eyes Pan’assár had once trusted.
“Pan’assár! This is not necessary. I have my reasons.”
“I know. You want power. You want glory. You want it all, and I was in your way. Or’Talán was in your way, wasn’t he?”
“I would have served you, served Or’Talán, had you simply recognised me, had some such words of praise, some boon, Pan’assár.”
“A warrior needs no boons, Huren. He serves. That is his recompense. You never understood that, did you? The Warrior Code means nothing to you.” He lunged forward, a testing stroke, easily countered.
“You’re no saint, Pan’assár. Have you forgotten how you treated our Silvan warriors? I always respected them at least, but you? You treated them like slaves. Where is that written in the Warrior Code?” Huren sneered, countered another mocking attack.