Another group was upon Pan’assár, and Band’orán fought his way towards the captains before the great doors with half of his warriors behind him. With a cry, they surged forward. Alpine Kah Warriors, Alpine captains—they had once fought together and now, they fought each other. Dignitaries and councillors ran as far as they could from the fighting. Shouts, screams, yells from the warriors, cries of pain and warning. Llyniel called out to her father, crouching low against a far wall, but he daren’t move.
Nearby, Gor’sadén beheaded a guard and then turned, faced another and gutted him. He searched for Pan’assár, found him, knew what he wanted, but Band’orán was already on the other side of the room, too close to the door.
“Pan’assár!”
The commander turned and followed Gor’sadén’s line of sight. He killed one, too easily. The second was more skilled, but it was only moments later that he, too, fell dead at his feet. Pan’assár followed Gor’sadén’s line of sight, only to be confronted once more. Three of them this time. They were kind enough to afford him a salute. Pan’assár ignored them, raised both blades and moved forward, straight at the one in the middle.
Dead.
He turned, projected. He disarmed one, tripped him, swivelled left and cut through the other’s shoulder, ignoring the shriek of horror.
No projection. They had the technique, but not the power. No Dohai, he realised.
Thargodén and Rinon fought side by side. Handir was nowhere to be seen, but Rinon did not seem worried.
The captains killed Band’orán’s illicit Kah Warriors, just as they themselves fell to the warriors they had once commanded, the ones who had supposedly left in search of safer lands with their families.
It had all been a ruse.
A whoosh overhead and the flames engulfed Or’Talán’s sigil. Incandescent strips of the once lush fabric rained down on them. Pan’assár watched them fall, like burning stars over the Xeric Wood. He had avenged his brother in part, and the past was the present, the burden lighter but not gone. He turned at Gor’sadén’s call.
“The door! To the door!”
Band’orán was there, fighting and backing away, surrounded by his warriors. Pan’assár ran towards Gor’sadén and then dispatched the last of Thargodén’s opponents, but by that time, Band’orán had gone. Gor’sadén, Thargodén and Pan’assár ran, and behind them, Rinon, Turion and the surviving captains.
Inside the Council Hall, the smoke was heavy and choking. Melu’sán and her retinue staggered out of a side door together with the other panicked dignitaries. Lords and ladies, coughing and screaming, while Miren and Llyniel inched towards where Aradan still crouched. Only the wounded warriors and rebels were left, but it was still dangerous.
Smoke billowed around them, and Narosén called, arms out for them to follow.
Erthoron, Lorthil and Aradan staggered towards them, holding up their robes and sidestepping the bodies, making for the now unguarded doors.
The king, prince, commanders and captains ran through the deserted corridors, through the open doors, out into the bright sun and staggered to a halt upon the steps that led down into the courtyard. On their right was an army of Kah Warriors in perfect formation. Black robes, grey sashes and silver helms gleamed in the early evening light. Their ranks grew towards the back, the last of them emerging from a door in the ground.
The Dark Road.
How had Band’orán discovered it? And then Pan’assár realised. The Outer City Barracks, where the Shadows trained. That was Bendir’s command. Indeed there he was, missing no more. He stood, clad a general, watching his troops fill the entire right flank of the courtyard. He had corrupted an entire unit of his army. Shadows, loyal spies turned rebel Kah Warriors.
Opposite them on the left flank, a desperately forming army populated the lines, still pulling on armour as they scrambled to Esta’hen’s orders, stunned at the sight before them. Where had they come from? Had they not left months ago? Did they truly mean to fight those they had once served with? Long shields leaning against their legs, they pulled on their harnesses, strung their bows, loosened sheaths, eyes darting from the grey-sashed rebel army to Pan’assár. They were outnumbered two to one, and the enemy were Kah Warriors.
Pan’assár turned to Thargodén. “My king, will you fight?”
He straightened, Or’Talán’s sword in his hand. He grasped it tightly. “I will avenge my father, Pan’assár. I will fight, and I will kill Band’orán.”
Pan’assár nodded. He wanted to kill him himself, but Thargodén’s claim was stronger than his own. He watched as the king made for Esta’hen, relieved him of command and stood before their barely two hundred warriors. Pan’assár and Turion watched the enemy army before them while Thargodén turned to his humble group.
“It falls to us, warriors. Lord Band’orán killed our great king, my father. He has brought war to these lands, a war between brothers. He must be stopped.”
They shifted uneasily, eyes on the army before them, and then back to the king.
“I know what you are thinking. We are outnumbered two to one. They are Kah. But heed me. They are traitors. They fight for gain, for renown. They do not fight for good, from the heart.” He thumped a fist over his chest. “And we have Lord Pan’assár; we have Lord Gor’sadén, Kah Masters. We have truth on our side. We stand for justice, and so help me, if I have to give my life for such worthy causes, I will. And if I must die, I would do so in this most loyal and brave of companies.” Thargodén’s eyes swept over them all. “For Ea Uaré, for Or’Talán and the dream he began. May it never be sundered!”
The warriors yelled, swords held high, and Thargodén turned to the fore. Pan’assár’s gaze lingered on him. He gave a slow nod. With Gor’sadén on his other side, and Rinon and Turion on the outer flanks, they watched as the last of the enemy warriors emerged from the ground.
“The Silvans will come,” murmured Gor’sadén.
“Not for me, Gor’sadén. They will not ride for me.”
“No. Not for the Alpines. But they will ride for Fel’annár. For the Warlord.”
Thargodén turned to him, saw the conviction in his eyes, and then his gaze dropped to the Ashorn at his belt. He reached for it, sucked in as much air as his lungs could take, and he blew for as long as his breath lasted. Soon, though, he knew it would all be gone.
That he would be gone.
22
Return of a Warlord
“From a new dawn, a Warlord will rise.”
Book of Apprentices: Sebhat
“Thargodén.” Band’orán’s voice echoed around the courtyard. “King no more! Yield to me and there will be no battle. Your sons will not die and your people will not be slaughtered. You can save them.” He opened his arms, a paternal gesture.
“Come!”