3 Death Knell

THE IMPERATOR, MARKUS Olen Todralan, had been murdered. Screams and the clash of arms echoed throughout the Black Palace. The death knell exited from the bowels of the palatium, travelling corridors bathed in torch light.

It reached Canaan Pen Luthus as a faint dissonance. His dark skin and jet-black hair marked him as Valtari. The red and white plumes of his helmet’s crest named him high exemplar. His hobnailed boots, and those of the exemplars in his wake, rapped on the red-veined marble, a solid sound reminding him of order and justice. His warghounds, Cyllo and Nape, reaching waist height, loped on either side with ears erect and muscles tensed.

The city of Icarthya beyond the palace curtain wall slept unaware. Canaan would see it remain that way. They didn’t need hysteria in the streets. By the time they became aware, it would be too late.

He made a sharp gesture. Cyllo and Nape growled in unison as four exemplar guardsmen, whom he didn’t trust, stalked down a wide stairwell, chasing shadows. The palace complex was vast, including six levels and courtyards. There were also the sydarag stables, the gardens, groves, and the churches, along with servant quarters and hidden passageways. They’d made arrests and interrogated over a dozen in the preceding two hours. He went through the motions as was expected of his position. Chaos and tragedy had struck the Icarthian capital, and it was his duty to restore order. The blood-red cloaks of his exemplars were livid against the white marble interior as they marched onward.

The fools were clueless as to the nature of their enemy. ‘They have struck at our heart,’ they had claimed. ‘A viral plot,’ they were certain. ‘A new purge,’ they offered in solution. Well, Plagueborn were the enemy. In this, they were correct, if in nothing else. The purges had been pious foolery, a wasted effort while the real threat escaped, although the inherited memory of that slaughter had proved useful. These poor imbeciles had no idea how much was at stake, and how little their misplaced faith would help them. He’d whittled down their number to those he trusted or needed. There would be time to convert others later. First, establish control.

Canaan and his remaining chosen ten, marched through an open colonnade. They emerged into the central courtyard, which was the largest and highest. He gestured and five guardians checked the darker extremities. Going through the motions. Lulling them with routine. They would turn on him if they suspected the truth. They would resist.

‘Report,’ he demanded as they returned.

‘There’s no one,’ answered Niyala. She had the pasty complexion of most northern Icarthians, short golden-white hair, and was his second. His first choice, the desire for power was strong in her. Well, she would have it, if not quite as she’d imagined. ‘Whoever did it, they’re gone. They must have taken the princess. We’re too late. We have failed.’

‘The day I ask you what you think, Yala, will be a cold, cold day in hell. You don’t think. You do.’

The woman was slow in lowering her gaze. He noted a spasm of anger in her face. Yes, he’d chosen well, as he had with each of the ten. ‘Yes, High Exemplar,’ she said in a voice dripping with false humility. Canaan did not doubt her obedience, but he knew this one would take his place in a heartbeat, if the opportunity arose. The exemplars were nothing other than tools. Their use was nearing an end, as was the fulfilment of the plan, but he would use them a while longer.

‘She is alive until I say otherwise,’ he snapped. ‘We find her and secure her. Our future depends on it.’ Cyllo nudged him. Nape gripped his hand in her teeth but didn’t break the skin. He fondled their necks. He’d received the bitches as a gift from Markus Olen, on his promotion. ‘Well, what are you jackdaws gawping at? Secure the grounds. Find her!’

The throne room was his destination. The delay in the plan maddened him but he had no choice. There had been a guard placed on the princess’s chambers, each man he’d selected himself. He’d checked those rooms first, finding smashed oaken furniture and shattered delicate worked alabaster vases and bronze statuettes. The guards had fought whoever it was, and all were slain. He had not reckoned on the girl’s Darken being so good. He had thus far failed to discover the bodyguard’s identity. The error had cost him.

The brother was in exile in the west, though no official record of him existed. He hated delays, but he would take care of him soon. He was letting his thoughts wander. The last Todralan had to sit the throne. She would not leave this city. He knew her too well.

He marched towards the throne room with head high, mind focused. The truce would hold for a time, but it would fall apart once events got underway. He’d planned for that too. He would do his part, but he would claim his reward. Liviana Avitus did not seem to realise how precarious her position was. He was not about to enlighten her.

His ten spread out. About the courtyard’s perimeter were blackened braziers, flames flickering in the rising breeze, casting shapes. Leaf-bladed short swords in hand, they picked their way across the marble squares like Soul & Fury pieces moving according to an invisible play master. He gave a slight smile at the thought. It was what they were about to become, pieces in a game.

They exited the courtyard and climbed the basalt steps. They passed through another colonnade, these pillars bearing the likenesses of Todralan ancestors. The carved faces unnerved him, as though judging him. They had no right.

The doors to the antechamber stood open, unguarded as arranged. With the imperial marshal still in the west, the city was his, at least, for another few minutes. Doubts gnawed at him, but he forced them back, crushed them. For now, he would play her game because it suited him, because Avitus stood well above him.

For now.

The yawning darkness of the antechamber was total. Pen Luthus turned to his chosen ten. ‘Whatever we face, we stand together.’ Going through the motions, lull them until it was too late. Otherwise, things might prove ... distressing. The conversion would take a little time, but by dawn, they would be exemplars no more. They would be thraels, and his to use as he wished. Their first task would be to travel to the city of Lame and find Threadfin Todralan.

‘We fall together,’ said Altus, one of his captains.

‘For the imperium,’ said Berg, who was another.

‘For the imperatrix.’

The high exemplar and his hapless ten entered the Throne Room. ‘For the Spectrum and for justice,’ he whispered.

The animals stalked behind them with ears laid back. Growls rose in their gullets before they began to whine. Too late, they sensed a threat no warghound should ever have to face.