with arrows in the backs of their heads or lower.
He had meant to lead his men into glorious battle. He’d told himself that this would be an easy thing, a certainty, really, because so much was at stake, but as the men he’d hired to fight for him were cut down by archers, he felt his courage blowing away with the ashes in the wind.
How could this be? How could this happen?
Turrae said something, but Marsfel did not hear him. The sound of the dying and wounded was too close and too loud.
Turrae screamed this time and struck him on the shoulder roughly to get his attention. Part of him wanted to turn and lash out at the man but he resisted.
His assistant’s voice rang clearly enough. “They’re coming! They are leaving the ships!”
The shadows were dropping from the side of the ships into the rough, shallow waters. He knew they must surely be on ropes but he couldn’t see the lines and as a result it looked more like man-sized spiders scaling down the sides of the great vessels than anything else. The notion sent shivers through his body.
The forms nearly flowed down the sides of the boats and into the turbulent waters, but they did not hesitate to move toward the shore, swimming, walking or carried by the waves he could not say. He could only see them coming, see the odd gray glow of light where their eyes should have been and wonder if the Guntha who claimed demons pursued them had been telling the truth.
He had seen the Sa’ba Taalor, had seen their odd eyes in the daylight and in a well-lit room, but this was different. The light seemed stronger and it unsettled him.
He wanted to run. Oh, how he wanted to leave as quickly as he could, because the shapes coming toward him were fast, and even moving through the water they were intimidating.
Kings are not allowed to be afraid.
“Come then! Let’s kill a few enemies!” Marsfel roared the words and moved, sweeping the heavy Ghurnae sword in a few wide arcs to test the feel of the weapon. His men followed. He could feel them moving with him and that knowledge gave him strength. A king leads. That is what a king must do.
The ashes in the wind whipped through the air and stung at his eyes but Marsfel did not care. It was time to teach these fools a lesson. Time to show the Empire that he was a king to be respected.
Before he knew it he was running, charging on thick legs and driving toward the surf, a feral grin pulling at his lips. He was a king! He was a warrior!
The woman who met with him wore leather and carried two thin swords. Her hair was wrapped and pulled away from her brow by a thick blue length of cloth.
Marsfel swept his blade toward her head. It would make a fine prize to show his enemies when this was over.
His hand fell away from his body. The sword he carried flipped through the air with his hand and landed in the sand and surf.
The woman crouched and whipped one of the swords at his knees and fire ripped through his legs where metal met flesh.
Marsfel could not keep his stance. He fell forward and landed on his good left arm and his bleeding right stump.
The pain was immediate and ripped away all hints of confidence he had sported.
She stood over him and for the first time he saw the face of the demon that had crippled him with ease. The Sa’ba Taalor had worn veils. This creature did not. The eyes were fine. The nose long and elegant despite a heavy scar that ran from below the left eye and down to the right cheekbone.
But below the nose? Oh, truly, there must be demons in this universe!
“What are you?”
Rather than answer his question the demon spoke, her words carrying the odd echoing sibilance he’d heard from the Sa’ba Taalor before. “You are King Marsfell of Roathes?” Her eyes regarded him coldly and her twin blades glimmered.
Turrae tried to come to his aid. The man ran silently, but his words broke that silence. “I am Marsfel,” Turrae hissed.
Marsfel looked to his second. The man came in proper stance, his
He had meant to lead his men into glorious battle. He’d told himself that this would be an easy thing, a certainty, really, because so much was at stake, but as the men he’d hired to fight for him were cut down by archers, he felt his courage blowing away with the ashes in the wind.
How could this be? How could this happen?
Turrae said something, but Marsfel did not hear him. The sound of the dying and wounded was too close and too loud.
Turrae screamed this time and struck him on the shoulder roughly to get his attention. Part of him wanted to turn and lash out at the man but he resisted.
His assistant’s voice rang clearly enough. “They’re coming! They are leaving the ships!”
The shadows were dropping from the side of the ships into the rough, shallow waters. He knew they must surely be on ropes but he couldn’t see the lines and as a result it looked more like man-sized spiders scaling down the sides of the great vessels than anything else. The notion sent shivers through his body.
The forms nearly flowed down the sides of the boats and into the turbulent waters, but they did not hesitate to move toward the shore, swimming, walking or carried by the waves he could not say. He could only see them coming, see the odd gray glow of light where their eyes should have been and wonder if the Guntha who claimed demons pursued them had been telling the truth.
He had seen the Sa’ba Taalor, had seen their odd eyes in the daylight and in a well-lit room, but this was different. The light seemed stronger and it unsettled him.
He wanted to run. Oh, how he wanted to leave as quickly as he could, because the shapes coming toward him were fast, and even moving through the water they were intimidating.
Kings are not allowed to be afraid.
“Come then! Let’s kill a few enemies!” Marsfel roared the words and moved, sweeping the heavy Ghurnae sword in a few wide arcs to test the feel of the weapon. His men followed. He could feel them moving with him and that knowledge gave him strength. A king leads. That is what a king must do.
The ashes in the wind whipped through the air and stung at his eyes but Marsfel did not care. It was time to teach these fools a lesson. Time to show the Empire that he was a king to be respected.
Before he knew it he was running, charging on thick legs and driving toward the surf, a feral grin pulling at his lips. He was a king! He was a warrior!
The woman who met with him wore leather and carried two thin swords. Her hair was wrapped and pulled away from her brow by a thick blue length of cloth.
Marsfel swept his blade toward her head. It would make a fine prize to show his enemies when this was over.
His hand fell away from his body. The sword he carried flipped through the air with his hand and landed in the sand and surf.
The woman crouched and whipped one of the swords at his knees and fire ripped through his legs where metal met flesh.
Marsfel could not keep his stance. He fell forward and landed on his good left arm and his bleeding right stump.
The pain was immediate and ripped away all hints of confidence he had sported.
She stood over him and for the first time he saw the face of the demon that had crippled him with ease. The Sa’ba Taalor had worn veils. This creature did not. The eyes were fine. The nose long and elegant despite a heavy scar that ran from below the left eye and down to the right cheekbone.
But below the nose? Oh, truly, there must be demons in this universe!
“What are you?”
Rather than answer his question the demon spoke, her words carrying the odd echoing sibilance he’d heard from the Sa’ba Taalor before. “You are King Marsfell of Roathes?” Her eyes regarded him coldly and her twin blades glimmered.
Turrae tried to come to his aid. The man ran silently, but his words broke that silence. “I am Marsfel,” Turrae hissed.
Marsfel looked to his second. The man came in proper stance, his
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