Chapter 70
70
W RYTH DESCENDED DOWN the stairs toward the kingdom’s war room. The cavernous chamber lay four levels beneath the castle. It was more of a bunker than a council chamber. He passed sentries at each level, heavily armed.
None tried to stop him, backing from his sweep of gray robes.
Wryth had been summoned a short time ago. Dawn was still a few bells off, but Wryth had not slept all night. He doubted he could sleep even if he tried—and not just due to the stimulant elixirs he had imbibed to sharpen his attention.
Despite the early summons, excitement thrummed through him. Prior to the king’s bidding, he had been shoulder to shoulder with Shrive Keres at the heart of the Iflelen’s great instrument. Together, they had monitored a series of messages from Skerren. Earlier in the night, Skerren had dispatched his two swyftships into the massive rift in the Ice Shield. They brutally subdued a village and the enemy’s ship. By the time Wryth had been called away, Skerren’s forces were still locking things down along the shore of that hidden sea.
Still, a major problem had presented itself. The prize they sought to capture—the bronze artifact—was not found in that village or aboard the captured ship. Skerren, who remained in his battle barge above the rift in the ice, claimed his monitoring device was registering her location much farther west, somewhere across the rift’s steamy sea. Most disconcerting, though, was that her signal kept blipping off and on, as if something were blocking or confounding the tracking of her.
To investigate this mystery, Skerren had unleashed Marshal Ghryss upon that hidden world, to interrogate and torture answers out of the enemy. The marshal was notorious for his clever tactics and coldhearted brutality. It was no wonder he so quickly quashed any resistance below. Before leaving for the Wastes, Ghryss had been slated to be the kingdom’s next liege general. Wryth had stymied that promotion by co-opting him for the hunt across the ice. The marshal had been furious at the assignment, but the king had ordered him to go.
Hopefully that anger will drive the man to pry out the location of the bronze artifact.
Still, as of yet, Wryth did not know if Ghryss had been successful. After that last message, Skerren had fallen silent. Prior to that, the updates had been coming with a fair regularity—then nothing for a long spell.
While Wryth had been waiting for more, he had received the king’s summons to the war room. It had been poor timing, but there was nothing to be done about it.
He crossed toward the tall, iron-strapped doors of the war room. The two guards who flanked it opened the way ahead of him. He swept across the threshold and down the three steps.
The war room had been excavated out of the bedrock beneath the castle’s foundations. It was a stark and austere place, where battles were plotted and the fates of armies decided. No comfort was to be found here. The surrounding stone was heavy with iron, creating an impregnable chamber, one capable of surviving the devastating blast of a Hadyss Cauldron—not that anyone had tested that theory.
At least, not yet.
Wryth still didn’t know why he had been called to the war room versus the council chamber. Something must have changed beyond their borders. His heart pounded harder at this thought. After the attack on the Shield Islands, he had believed there would be a short reprieve from the fighting, long enough for him to confirm the acquisition of the bronze artifact, a device that could turn the tides of war, especially if Wryth could fathom how to replicate such a wonder.
And what other knowledge might I obtain from it?
Desire burned through him with an avaricious fire.
I must have it.
While Wryth held no love for king or kingdom, Hálendii’s stability and resources offered him the best chance to achieve his goal of piercing the veils of the past to uncover the lost knowledge of the ancients.
Knowledge likely preserved in bronze.
All he needed was for the kingdom’s constancy to be sustained. The ravages of war threatened all that Wryth had built, especially with the king’s heir proving to be so rash and reckless, unpredictable in his tantrums.
As he entered, he spotted Prince Mikaen standing to the side of the room’s stone table. The captain of his Silvergard listened with his head bent as the prince whispered in his ear. Thoryn slowly nodded.
Mikaen noted his arrival, turning his cold mask and colder gaze his way. For the thousandth time, Wryth wished he had wrested control over the young prince, but events this past summer—the maiming, the humiliation by his brother—had ruined all of that. Mikaen had found succor, instead, among harder men whose lust for glory and battle spoke best to the prince’s vengeful heart.
Wryth turned away.
King Toranth had yet to come, but around the edges of the room, lieutenants and captains from the kingdom’s legions gathered in clusters. The only ones standing at the table were members of the king’s council: Treasurer Hesst, Provost Balyn, and Mayor Torusk. Nobody would take a seat until the king entered.
Wryth stepped to the opposite side of the table. Its stone surface had been carved into a map of Hálendii and its outer territories of Guld’guhl and Aglerolarpok.
As he crossed down the table’s left side, he ran a hand along the western edge of their territories, riding his fingertips over the sharp range of mountains that marked the border between the Crown and the Frozen Wastes. A razor edge of a peak sliced through his skin, welling blood that dribbled down the mountain’s slope. He ignored the cut and tucked his hand into the sleeve of his robe. He pictured the glowing sphere buried under the Shrivenkeep and the glow of the treasure far out across the Wastes’ Ice Shield.
I must have it. If I could—
A burst of a horn cut off this reverie, drawing his attention to the far side of the room. Doors swept open. The king entered with a brush of a dark blue cloak that draped from shoulder to ankle. His face was flushed, but it was hard to say if the heat came from anger or eagerness.
Behind him, Liege General Reddak followed, flanked by the heads of the kingdom’s ground and wind forces. Bows and salutes greeted Toranth. The king barely noted them. He quickly took his seat at the end of the table and waved everyone to sit or gather closer.
“A flurry of skrycrows arrived in the last bell,” Toranth announced, staring hard down the table. “From the Southern Klashe. We’ve learned Emperor Makar had fled to Qazen to consult with his oracle.”
Wryth had heard stories of the Augury of Qazen, the illustrious seer who clutched hard to the emperor’s ear. Wryth felt a flicker of envy. While he had the king’s attention, plying and manipulating him with hints of prophecies and hidden knowledge, Wryth did not have as firm a hold on Toranth.
“What counsel did the emperor gain from the Augury?” Hesst asked.
“From what we’ve been able to gather—” Toranth’s eyes shone brightly. “Makar was informed of the location of Kanthe and his abducted children. Some cavern system in Malgard, I understand.”
Wryth frowned. What was Kanthe doing there?
Toranth continued. “Imperial forces secured them. Took them to Qazen.”
Mikaen stirred. “So the traitor is in Qazen?”
“No,” Toranth corrected. “The latest message spoke of an attempt on the emperor’s life. By a rabble of lowborn and rebels. The uprising was crushed, but Makar was injured. Though the nature of his wounds remains unclear. He was last reported to have boarded an imperial arrowsprite headed north. Accompanied by his son and daughter, along with the Augury himself. They have Prince Kanthe with them—not as prisoner, but ally.”
Mikaen stood, leaning a fist atop the table. “Then it is as I warned you all. He has been plotting with the imperium all along.”
Toranth frowned Mikaen back into his seat. “We know little more than what I told you. For now, it seems Kysalimri remains equally confused.”
Wryth stared at those gathered around the table. If they had all been summoned to the war room, the king must intend to take advantage of this moment of perplexity and disorder in the Klashe.
“What would you have us do?” Wryth asked.
“This is a chance to strike a resounding blow. After the execution of Prince Paktan, we know the Klashe will attack again.” His gaze flicked angrily at Mikaen, but the king pressed on. “Makar will undoubtedly demand more blood. But he is wounded and said to be addled. His son Jubayr rules in his stead—a young prince no more fit to command than my own son.”
Though Mikaen was masked, Wryth saw the prince’s jaw clench.
Toranth continued. “We must use this rare moment to quash Makar’s desire for further revenge. We must show the imperium the cost of vengeance.”
“What action do you propose?” Provost Balyn asked. “Do we attack their coast, like they did ours?”
Toranth’s eyes gleamed. “This is not a moment for half measures.”
Balyn sat straighter. “Then what—?”
“We will bomb Kysalimri itself.”
A stunned silence followed.
“We can’t hope to take the city,” Toranth admitted. “But if we move swiftly enough, we can wreak a path of destruction that will scar Kysalimri for centuries.”
Reddak glanced to the king, who nodded for the liege general to speak. “Tomorrow morning,” Reddak said, “we’ll be taking three warships, led by our newest flagship, the Hyperium. Each ship will carry a Hadyss Cauldron—while the majestic Hyperium will wield the latest of our Cauldrons—a Madyss Hammer.”
Gasps rose from around the table. Even Wryth flinched. A Madyss Hammer had never been dropped. It was said to be an alchymical storm trapped in metal. Once unleashed, it created a cascading wave of destruction that would lay waste for leagues in all directions.
Mikaen ignored all of this and shifted higher. “But what of my brother? What of Kanthe?”
Toranth cast a scolding frown toward the prince. “Wherever he is, he is of no consequence.”
Mikaen huffed, his deep glower suggesting otherwise.
Wryth knew all the fiery Cauldrons in the world wouldn’t satisfy Mikaen’s lust for revenge. Still, the prince wisely settled back to his seat.
Thoryn rested a palm on Mikaen’s shoulder, as if ensuring that the prince remained there.
Wryth wished that hand were his own, that it was his will that reined in and wielded the future heir. But even under Thoryn’s steadying palm, Mikaen remained obstinate, his face growing redder. Atop the table, the prince formed a hard fist. Mikaen didn’t even bother to hide it.
In that moment, Wryth accepted a darker truth.
No one truly ruled this prince.