Shahan marched in the name of Prince Kutal Sulaman Tarshahzon to overthrow the Grand Master and the Grand Wazir and put Sulaman upon his father’s throne, restoring just and orderly government to the realm of Istarinmul once more.
If Kylon was honest with himself, he did not care about that. He did not oppose it, certainly, and as a younger man, he might have embraced the cause with fervor. Right now, he wanted to get into Istarinmul for one reason.
He had promised Caina he would meet her again at the House of Agabyzus in the Cyrican Quarter.
No matter how long it took, no matter what he had to do or how many battles he had to fight, he was going to find his way into the walls of Istarinmul and meet Caina again at the House of Agabyzus. And if anyone tried to kill her, he would kill them first, no matter what the Emissary might prophesy.
First, of course, he had to get into Istarinmul…and Kylon had seen enough battles to know that would be far easier said than done.
He rode with Tibraim and a score of Istarish nomads, scouting the way ahead of the main army. Tibraim was a short, bony man who seemed to drown in his brown robes and turban, his mouth twisted in a perpetual scowl above his bushy gray beard. Despite his ragged appearance, Tibraim and his nomads were among the best scouts Kylon had ever seen, and they took a gleeful delight in tormenting the enemy with arrows. Nasser Glasshand and Laertes rode next to Tibraim, Nasser with easy grace, Laertes with the grim competence of a former centurion.
Tibraim raised a hand, and the nomads came to a halt.
“We are not yet within bowshot of the walls, headman,” said Nasser, his voice deep and smooth and calm, “and if any foes sally from the southern gate, we can withdraw easily.” His right hand held the reins of his horse in a loose grip. His gloved left hand remained in a fist at his side, concealing the living crystal that had replaced the flesh and bone of his hand and forearm. Apparently moving the fingers pained him, so he only did it when necessary, like when using the fist to punch through an enemy’s helmet and skull with a single blow. Kylon had only seen the exposed crystal of that hand once, in the Desert of Candles, when he and Caina had followed Nasser to the fountain that held the crystalline remains of his wife and children.
“There are nearer foes, Nasser Glasshand,” said Tibraim. “Yes, there. Lying in ambush for us. Do you see the wagons ahead?”
Another mile or so, and they would come to Istarinmul’s caravanserai, the vast open field below the city’s southern walls where caravans assembled and departed the city. Right now the caravanserai was deserted, with abandoned wagons and tents strewn here and there. The approach of the rebel army had inspired the few remaining merchants to flee for their lives, leaving behind everything they could not carry.
“Aye,” said Nasser. “What about them?”
“I think a band of soldiers has taken refuge there,” said Tibraim, sweeping his hand towards a cluster of abandoned wagons. “Behold the tracks.” Kylon could make no sense of the dusty road and the stiff grasses next to it, but Tibraim had greater experience in tracking and hunting. “They saw us coming from a distance, and took shelter within the wagons.”
“I see,” said Nasser, glancing at Kylon. “Lord Kylon?”
Kylon nodded and extended his arcane senses, the sorcery of water that allowed him to sense the emotions of those around him. The ability was often a burden, and it had taken him years to learn the discipline necessary to wall off his own mind from the emotions he sensed. Still, it was often useful and made it difficult for enemies to sneak up on him. Kylon focused and felt the tension of the men around him, the cool calm of Nasser, the vigilance of Laertes, and the bloodthirst of the Istarish nomads.
They did like to fight.
“Twenty,” said Kylon. “Twenty men are hiding inside the wagons. I
If Kylon was honest with himself, he did not care about that. He did not oppose it, certainly, and as a younger man, he might have embraced the cause with fervor. Right now, he wanted to get into Istarinmul for one reason.
He had promised Caina he would meet her again at the House of Agabyzus in the Cyrican Quarter.
No matter how long it took, no matter what he had to do or how many battles he had to fight, he was going to find his way into the walls of Istarinmul and meet Caina again at the House of Agabyzus. And if anyone tried to kill her, he would kill them first, no matter what the Emissary might prophesy.
First, of course, he had to get into Istarinmul…and Kylon had seen enough battles to know that would be far easier said than done.
He rode with Tibraim and a score of Istarish nomads, scouting the way ahead of the main army. Tibraim was a short, bony man who seemed to drown in his brown robes and turban, his mouth twisted in a perpetual scowl above his bushy gray beard. Despite his ragged appearance, Tibraim and his nomads were among the best scouts Kylon had ever seen, and they took a gleeful delight in tormenting the enemy with arrows. Nasser Glasshand and Laertes rode next to Tibraim, Nasser with easy grace, Laertes with the grim competence of a former centurion.
Tibraim raised a hand, and the nomads came to a halt.
“We are not yet within bowshot of the walls, headman,” said Nasser, his voice deep and smooth and calm, “and if any foes sally from the southern gate, we can withdraw easily.” His right hand held the reins of his horse in a loose grip. His gloved left hand remained in a fist at his side, concealing the living crystal that had replaced the flesh and bone of his hand and forearm. Apparently moving the fingers pained him, so he only did it when necessary, like when using the fist to punch through an enemy’s helmet and skull with a single blow. Kylon had only seen the exposed crystal of that hand once, in the Desert of Candles, when he and Caina had followed Nasser to the fountain that held the crystalline remains of his wife and children.
“There are nearer foes, Nasser Glasshand,” said Tibraim. “Yes, there. Lying in ambush for us. Do you see the wagons ahead?”
Another mile or so, and they would come to Istarinmul’s caravanserai, the vast open field below the city’s southern walls where caravans assembled and departed the city. Right now the caravanserai was deserted, with abandoned wagons and tents strewn here and there. The approach of the rebel army had inspired the few remaining merchants to flee for their lives, leaving behind everything they could not carry.
“Aye,” said Nasser. “What about them?”
“I think a band of soldiers has taken refuge there,” said Tibraim, sweeping his hand towards a cluster of abandoned wagons. “Behold the tracks.” Kylon could make no sense of the dusty road and the stiff grasses next to it, but Tibraim had greater experience in tracking and hunting. “They saw us coming from a distance, and took shelter within the wagons.”
“I see,” said Nasser, glancing at Kylon. “Lord Kylon?”
Kylon nodded and extended his arcane senses, the sorcery of water that allowed him to sense the emotions of those around him. The ability was often a burden, and it had taken him years to learn the discipline necessary to wall off his own mind from the emotions he sensed. Still, it was often useful and made it difficult for enemies to sneak up on him. Kylon focused and felt the tension of the men around him, the cool calm of Nasser, the vigilance of Laertes, and the bloodthirst of the Istarish nomads.
They did like to fight.
“Twenty,” said Kylon. “Twenty men are hiding inside the wagons. I
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