Page 153 of The Cradle of Ice
Apparently, those smiles never reached Prince Paktan.
Rami tried one last time to help them. “Father, all I ask is that you listen to them. After that—”
“Enough!” Makar boomed, making everyone jump—except the Augury, who must have been forewarned about this outburst. “I will hear no more. I have a son to mourn.” He twisted hard to Rami and Aalia. “And you, a dear brother. We will head for Kysalimri before the day’s end.”
The emperor faced the five thrown in front of him and lifted an arm. “But first, there is a matter to settle.”
Upon his signal, a towering figure stepped from a doorway to the right of the dais. Kanthe gaped at the man’s sheer size: his thick thighs, the breadth of his chest, the hillocks of bulging muscle. Black leather strained to hold it all in. It was as if that glass Giant out front had come to life. And like that ancient statue, the hulking figure hauled a curved sword with him. It stretched longer than Kanthe’s height.
To the left, another giant appeared. In his gloved fists, he carried a glowing iron cauldron, from which an iron brand poked out. His ebony features shone with a sheen of sweat, reflecting the ruddy light of the coals.
Makar leaned forward from his seat. “Before we pay in kind the damage done to my family, we’ll let Prince Kanthe watch the others fall first. But their deaths will not be quick. Limb by limb, we’ll take them apart before his eyes. Burning each stump to stave off the end for as long as possible. The screams will stretch all the way to Hálendii. King Toranth will know the grief he has sowed, and the punishment it has wrought.”
Rami closed his eyes, his shoulders sagging in defeat.
Mead leaned toward his brother. “Those sodding lycheens out in Malgard don’t seem so bad now, do they?”
61
TAZAR RUSHED DOWN the street, sticking to the deeper shadows. Althea paced him on the left and the guildmaster of Anvil on his right. More of the Shayn’ra—accompanied by a mix of ruffians and cutthroats—swept through neighboring alleyways and narrow lanes. They all closed upon the walls of the Augury’s palacio.
Tazar passed two guardsmen sprawled on the ground, their blood still spreading across the cobbles. In a few more steps, another appeared, slumped against a wall, clutching his sliced throat, trying to keep his life from spilling away. They had already passed a dozen such victims, marking the handiwork of Llyra’s secret army as they silently dispatched patrols along the way.
While they crossed the town, shutters were clamped over windows and doors slammed. The denizens of Qazen wanted no part in the bloodshed to come.
“Slow,” Llyra hissed as they came within sight of the salt-encrusted walls of the palacio.
Blocks and blocks of imperial soldiers filled the square, guarding the gates into the palacio. They were easily two centuries in number. In addition, a large barge plied the winds above the villa.
“More than we anticipated,” Althea noted as they drew to a stop. “Even with the strength of surprise, we face a hard battle.”
Tazar conceded this point; still, his blood thrummed with excitement. “We can’t balk now.”
Especially when we’re this close to achieving the impossible.
They all waited for the signal before attacking. Llyra breathed heavily next to him. A tall Rhysian—an assassin named Saekl—shadowed her.
“We’ve already delayed too long,” Llyra said. “My spies inside the palacio report that everyone has gathered inside the Augury’s audience chamber. We must strike swiftly to keep them pinned there. We don’t want to risk—”
A muffled scream pierced the breeze off the ocean, coming from beyond the tall walls ahead.
Llyra scowled, looking ready to rush forward on her own, but Saekl held her back.
“Wait for the signal,” the assassin warned.
Then it came—the first of the latterday bells echoed across the town.
* * *
KANTHE HAD REFUSED to look away as the sword fell hard upon Jester’s arrow-bit leg. The blade cleaved through the Guld’guhlian’s shin, just below his knee. The severed limb skittered over the marble as the man cried out, thrashing in the grip of two guardsmen. His scream echoed in the small space, as if a hundred men were being tortured.
Blood spurted far, all the way to the dais. Droplets spattered the hem of Aalia’s gown. Still, she didn’t back away.
Jester’s cries devolved into heaving curses, especially as the other giant dropped to a knee next to him. He swung around an ax that had been burning in the cauldron’s coal. Its iron shone ruddy. The giant pressed the hot blade against the stump. Flesh seared and smoked. Jester jolted, his back arching with pain, his breath trapped in his chest.
When it finally burst loose, his scream deafened the ringing of the town’s bells. After an interminable time, Jester sagged, snot running from his nose, tears from his eyes.
His brother, Mead, clenched both fists to his chest. Frell had gone pale. Pratik’s lips moved in a silent prayer.
