Heir of Iron (The Powers of Amur Book 1) (32 page)

The chaos slowed. Two men lay dead on the ground, their blood pooling beneath them, and a third was curled up cradling a gash across his bicep, swearing incessantly. Navran became aware of his blood pounding in his ears. The wounded man, he was Uluriya. The dead looked like Thudra’s.

“We won?” he asked.

“Bind that,” Sadja was shouting, “and get him out of here.” He whirled to face Navran and spat, “No, we didn’t win. We bested one skirmish. On to the gate. We have to take the gate!”

He turned and berated the rest of their mixed company to continue forward, and with shaky order the men resumed their formation, save one who remained to tend his fallen comrade. Navran followed the soldiers, feeling chastened. Perhaps he should have remained at the estate. What was he doing here? He looked down at the sword trembling in his hand and regretted having come.

There were men shouting and screaming in the alleys, and little petals of fire rose here and there above rooftops. Sadja herded the men forward. Then suddenly a cry came from somewhere to their right, “Sadja-dar! Sadja-dar!”

A young man with a gash above his eye came running from a wide side street, followed by a little knot of a dozen men. Among them was a tall man with a wide nose, and when Sadja saw him he immediately called out, “Bhargasa!”

Bhargasa bowed, running to Sadja’s side. “Finally,” he said. “We have to take the gate.”

“I know,” Sadja said. “What happened here?”

“The rioters in the East Quarter overran the gate tower and opened the door. I had enough to hold the north streets, but I couldn’t assault the gate, and they’ve been pouring through and going into the River Quarter. I don’t think they were expecting the gate to open, but it won’t take them much longer to come through in real force. But the ones in this first wave don’t seem to have much order to them.”

“Yes, we met and drove off a band of them,” Sadja said dismissively. “But never mind the River Quarter. We retake the gate, we can mop up later.”

Bhargasa nodded. “They have a standing line around the gate, disciplined, the only solid line they have. But if I assault the front, then a small group on the flank could get to the guard tower and close the gate.”

“No, I’ll lead the assault the gate,” Sadja said. “Do you have a band that you can trust? A route?”

“A narrow road in the shadow of the wall,” Bhargasa said with a grin. “I found it in my reconnaissance. They have it guarded, of course, but we can push through it. Just these men with me.”

“Do it.” Sadja saluted Bhargasa, who bowed again and ran back into the side street with his men.

“And what about me?” Navran said.

“Just stay close,” Sadja said. He added more quietly, “You’re here to appear brave, not to
be
brave. Let these men do the fighting.”

Right. To pretend, as he pretended to be the Heir and pretended to know what he was doing.

As they approached the gate, they heard shouts from the alleys and side streets, and their little company grew with the additions of the scattered outposts of Bhargasa’s command. Sadja told them only that they were going to assault the gates, never mentioning that their attack was a cover for Bhargasa’s raid on the tower.

They turned around the last bend in the street and came within sight of the tower, and Navran swore. Thudra’s men stood in ranks three deep, in lines that ran from one side of the plaza before the East Gate to the other. On the roofs of the houses behind them stood archers, who nocked arrows to their bowstrings at the moment they saw Sadja’s troops. The gate was a narrow space, twenty paces wide, but they were perhaps the twenty best-defended paces outside of Majasravi.

“Do we have a chance?” he said.

“We don’t need a chance,” Sadja said. “If Bhargasa controls the gate tower and gets the gate closed, they’ll surrender to us. Now stay back.”

Navran stood uselessly behind the lines of spears that formed up to fight. This time there was no benefit of first movement to Sadja’s men, nor the advantage of numbers. The men took position grimly at Sadja’s command, just beyond the reach of the arrows.

Sadja shouted the order to charge.

Navran remained where he stood, but even from the distance he flinched at the collision of the line with the defensive rank. Spears crunched against flesh, there was a great bashing of armor and weapons, and arrows rained down. Men cried out. Blood splattered the stones. Barely had the first line ground itself against the defense than Sadja ordered the second to charge, and they ran.

Navran maintained a crouch, his sword at the ready should anyone break through the lines and attempt a counterattack. Sadja was next to him, screaming and urging into the fray every man who fell back. The second wave filled in the holes broken by the first. Bodies and spearheads pushed the defensive line, and the men fell and were trampled under the feet of the advancing skirmishers.

But the line held. He saw Uluriya impaled on spears and hurled back by the shields of the defenders. The stones were slick with blood.

“We can’t take it,” he whispered. “We lose.”

Sadja grabbed his shoulder. “We
win
. Look.”

He heard it before he could see it: the deep groan of the gate mechanism. The massive doors of the gate were swinging shut, slowly, far too slowly, but they closed. He straightened and watched them expectantly.

Sadja slapped him and pulled him down. “No! Don’t alert them.”

Of course. Yet it seemed that Sadja’s warning was unnecessary, because when Navran glanced at the doors, he heard shouts of dismay and warning from Thudra’s men. A few of those in the line before the gate looked and saw they would soon be trapped. The rear rank fled.

At their flight Sadja leapt to his feet and shouted, “Go!”

The reserve line standing behind him surged forward. Sadja followed them, and Navran scrambled after. The defenders were in retreat now, running towards their escape. The door was nearly shut. The remnants of the front line wouldn’t make it, he could see them—they would surely surrender, just as Sadja had said—and then….

Go back.

Terror like a blow to the head. His blood boiled with fear. He fell to his knees. On every side of him men covered their faces and screamed.

Go back.

Those nearest the door scrambled away like rabbits fleeing a fire. Thudra’s men, Sadja’s men, the Uluriya—their allegiances were forgotten, weapons left on the ground. They all fled the gate as one. It was a compulsion as strong as the one which had cleared the bridge at Jaitha. Stronger, perhaps, as it carried with it an irresistible fear and an undercurrent of fire.

A man in a red sash appeared in the narrow crack between the doors. He squeezed between and stood in the emptied space before the gate with his head lifted high. A young man, with a handsome face and narrow eyes, but when he opened his mouth there was a sound like the cawing of crows. In the shrieking Navran could barely make out words.

“Where is the Heir of Manjur?”

Sadja was curled on the ground next to him, his hands covering his ears, his eyes wide with horror. No one else seemed to have heard. The messenger opened his mouth ahead, and the men nearest him wept and crawled away.

Before the demand could be repeated, Navran rose to his feet and said, “Here.”

“Tomorrow the city burns,” the man cawed. “But you may save it. Do not flee like your predecessors who wore the ring. None will be spared if you do. Come to Ruyam alone.”

The man lifted the sash over his shoulders and let it drop to the ground. Navran’s gut lurched, for on the man’s chest were five warped burns, forming a twisted and blasphemous pentacle. Without turning, the messenger reached back until his hands found the beams of the nearly-closed doors behind him.

“The gate is Ruyam’s,” the messenger said. “Tomorrow he enters here, unless you come.”

Fire bloomed from the man’s chest. It swallowed him in an instant, turning him into a screaming effigy. It spread like spilled pitch over the doors and up the stones of the gate. Bright white, bright enough to hurt the eyes, but tinged with bloody red at its edges. Navran covered his face.

The sound of burning flesh, creaking beams, and terrible screams endured for a moment. Then the light lessened. Navran opened his eyes.

A blackened skeleton covered with charred fat lay between the doors. The beams of the doors glowed as embers, and the bronze rivets holding the door together were warped and melted. The hinges were bent. The doors barely hung in their frame, never to be closed again.

Quiet.

Sadja stirred beside Navran. Navran gave him his hand, and Sadja regained his feet, brushing dirt and flakes of ash from his clothing.

“I’m sorry I fell,” he said. “I don’t know what thikratta discipline Ruyam sent against us, but I couldn’t understand anything.”

“I understood,” Navran said quietly.

“Was there a message?”

Navran shook his head. His breath came heavy, and he felt the familiar numbness of despair settle into his chest. He had failed after all, and soon it would be over. “I’ll explain after I’ve spoken to Mandhi,” he said. “We have to go back to the estate.”

The orange of the sunset and the orange of distant fires mingled in the window of Srithi’s chamber, lighting the interior with ghastly, smoky forms. Srithi knelt on a cushion near the window, rocking baby Gapthi gently and rising to her knees every now and again to peer out at the chaos then turn away muttering. Mandhi stood near her, arms folded under her breasts, looking out the window with a scowl.

The riot had not been intended.

The first news of the violence in the streets had startled her, but the news of Thudra’s loyalists coming through the gate was a shock. She had intended for Ghauna to spread the news of Navran’s past to the saghada, and for the priests to demand that he abdicate at the acclamation. But evidently the word had spread beyond just the saghada, and now the city burned for it. Veshta had barred the doors to the estate, and Mandhi had stayed since then in the upper chamber with Srithi, watching the city gradually blacken and bleed. Even if it came to the worst, there was hope, though. The tunnels through the Ruin still held.

“We’ll get out one way or another,” Mandhi whispered.

“You can’t be sure,” Srithi said. She stroked Gapthi’s face and cooed. She seemed to be soothing herself as much as the child. “Ruyam could already be in the city. And what if the baby comes?”

“I’m sure he could, but still—”

Panicked shouting filled the alley beneath their window. Mandhi backed away from the open space, wary of a stone or torch that might fly though. There was pounding at the door of the estate. Srithi winced and put her hands over her ears. “Mandhi! They’ve found us.”

“Quiet. No one is looking for us.” But one of the voices outside was Navran’s, and Mandhi’s pulse galloped.

They heard the heavy creak of the estate door opening then closing again. The bar across it fell with a shudder. Srithi let out her breath and began twisting the ends of her hair. “At least they got it closed. Why would they open it? Go see who it is.”

“Sure.” But as soon as Mandhi stepped onto the balcony of the upper story, the visitors spilled into the inner courtyard lit with golden torchlight: Navran first, smeared with blood and ashes and dragging a sword limply in one hand, followed by Sadja and three soldiers from Sadja’s militia. A shiver of outrage passed through her at seeing them, for the inner courtyard of Veshta’s estate was holy, and the unclean polluted it by entering. But a step behind them came Veshta, shouting for Habdana and Kidri to bring water and food, and Mandhi swallowed her displeasure.

Navran sat on the lip of the pool at the center of the courtyard. The sword dropped from his hand. He looked around with a dazed expression, the torchlight making the blood on his face seem black. He looked up at Mandhi. Their eyes met.

He knew.

She drew back from the railing, hoping to hide the tremor in her hands. His eyes were as cold as iron, his expression direct. He had pieced it together, and he had survived and reached her. She was undone.

She slipped back into Srithi’s chamber and curled up on the cushion next to her friend. Srithi felt Mandhi’s shaking and put her hand over Mandhi’s, bending to kiss Mandhi’s fingers. She probably thought that Mandhi was merely concerned for the ruined city.

“Who was it?” she asked.

“Navran and Sadja,” Mandhi whispered. “And a few others. No one I knew.”

“Navran and Sadja!” Srithi’s voice rose into a squeal. “Then they’re alive.”

Mandhi’s response was monotone. “Yes. They’re alive.” Would he kill her? Could she throw herself on his mercy?

“By the unborn Power,” Srithi said. “Maybe there’s still hope.”

Mandhi said nothing, but she hid her face in Srithi’s shoulder.

A few minutes later a servant appeared at the door of Srithi’s chamber. “Mandhi,” the boy said. “Navran wishes to speak with you.”

Mandhi rose slowly to her feet. The first rush of panic had passed, and she didn’t feel the tremor in her limbs or the urge to scream. “I’ll come,” she said. “Srithi, you stay here. I’ll talk to him in private.”

Navran was alone in his chamber, standing with his back to the window and his hands folded at his waist. A lonely lamp lit his face in red, making the wrinkles around his eyes seem like cords of black pitch. Mandhi let the curtain fall shut behind her, cutting off the rest of the household. The room tumbled into silence, spiced with the faint whispers of distant shouts that drifted through the window.

“You did this,” he said.

She raised her chin and answered imperiously. “What did I do?”

His shoulders sagged, and he put his hands to his temples. “Rioters in the east and the south. Thudra’s loyalists. Uluriya chanting
Death to the false Heir.
They threw open the east gate. We almost had it closed, but… Ruyam sent a message.”

“And which of these is my fault?”

He looked straight at her. “You told them I am not Cauratha’s son.”

His expression was fixed and determined, and his fists were clenched at his side. There was no hint of uncertainty in his posture. Denial would get her nowhere. So she said, “I am carrying Taleg’s son.”

“Should that pardon you?”

“You should understand. Cauratha’s line is carried through me.
You
are an unfortunate misunderstanding. And you trampled on the traditions of the Heirs, risking not only yourself but all of the Uluriya for your misplaced confidence. So yes, I plotted to displace you, by spreading the truth of your heritage. If the Uluriya have rejected you because of it, you can hardly blame me.”

He looked out the window and sighed. “And now? If we barricade the estate we can survive the night. But tomorrow the city is lost.”

“The secret route from the city. Veshta knows the way, and I checked the tunnels myself a few days ago. They’re clear all the way to the exit, a little cave in the rocks beneath the wall. Everyone in this household can escape.”

“And the rest of the Uluriya in Virnas?”

“Their deaths are on your head. You were the one who goaded Ruyam into a siege. In any case, the Uluriya are not limited to Virnas. Ruyam will never get us all. And the Heir—my son, I mean—will escape in secret and live in secret, as the Heirs have always done.”

He began to pace across the room. He paused at the window and watched the fires for a few minutes. When he turned to her his face was full of anger. He opened his mouth to speak, but he seemed to reconsider his words, and a moment later he sighed and resumed his pacing. “You’re right,” he said at last.

Of course I am
“About what?”

He gestured out the window. “These deaths are on my own head. I played the game, and I lost.”

“Am I supposed to take consolation in your admission?”

He sighed and shook his head. “
Jahaparna
.”

“What?”

“Do you play jaha?”

“
Jaha
? Is that what’s on your mind right now?”

“In jaha, when one player has three towers, he offers his opponent
jahaparna
. It’s almost impossible to win once your opponent has three towers. You always take the jahaparna, unless you are very bold or very stubborn.” He sighed. “I am very stubborn… but maybe not as stubborn as that.”

Mandhi folded her arms and watched him. His intent was clear enough, but she let him write it on palm leaves for himself. For a long moment he stood with his hand over his eyes and breathed deeply.

“Ruyam has offered jahaparna,” he said. “I give him myself, in exchange for the peace of the city. I am the Heir. He’ll take me, and you will escape beneath his notice.”

It was an honorable offer, and she felt a moment of vertigo at the thought of Navran being honorable.
Perhaps I have misjudged him.
But the memory of Taleg dying in the street strangled her remorse. If Ruyam took Navran, she and her child would escape in peace and save the lives of many hundreds of Uluriya besides. It was a fair trade.

“If you’re offering this,” she said slowly, “I can pacify the city. Ghauna, a saghada of the East Quarter, carried the truth about you to the Uluriya. If we can send a message through him—”

“With a guard. We’ll send someone.”

“He’ll carry the word and get the Uluriya, at least, to lay down their weapons.”

Navran nodded. “At dawn we send an envoy to Ruyam.” Navran pulled Manjur’s ring off of his finger. He held it up to the light, burning red in the reflected glare of the fires, sighed heavily, and clenched it in his fist. Then he gave it to Mandhi. “Take it. I never deserved to wear it.”

“No, you didn’t,” she said.

She put it onto her own hand above the ring that she had received as the Heir’s daughter. A little thrill of wonder passed through her.
Manjur’s ring.
She had seen it on her father’s hand countless times, but it had never been hers to wear. Even now, she wore it in proxy for her unborn son—but still she wore it. She had won. “This is the best thing you’ve ever done for the Uluriya.”

“Bring someone who can write,” he said. He turned his head, and in the shifting light from the window she saw that tears ran silently down his face. “I will dictate the terms.”