Page 13 of The Cradle of Ice

An ambush.

A horse slammed into their carriage, panicked and riderless, its tail on fire. It bounced off the cart and fled away. Their own tethered mounts reared and crashed in their traces, shaking the carriage. Two broke free and thundered off through the chaos. The other two were felled by a barrage of arrows.

Kanthe cursed his father, picturing the earlier explosion to the north. Apparently that attack’s intent wasn’t just to herald the advent of war, but served as a feint, a distraction.

To get to me.

7

KANTHE SEARCHED FOR a weapon, determined not to be killed—or worse, to be captured and dragged back to Azantiia. Better a swift death than a slow, torturous end in the dungeons back home.

A cordon of mounted soldiers regrouped and surrounded their carriage. Shields were raised over the coach’s occupants—and not a moment too soon. Arrows and crossbow bolts peppered the ironwood and steel. Men fell from their saddles, giving their lives to protect their royal charges.

Behind them, the war wagon in the rear thundered up, drawing abreast of their carriage, but in the narrow confines, it could go no farther, could not get past their coach. Archers fired at the attackers. Crossbow bolts sparked off the white stone. One arrow severed a climbing rope, sending an ambusher tumbling to his death. But more attackers had reached the street, driving forward, wielding curved blades.

It was only then that Kanthe realized his mistake, his self-centered folly.

The ambushers had their faces bared, which was why he had thought they were the king’s assassins. After so long in Kysalimri, he had grown accustomed to seeing everyone around him hidden under their byor-ga robes. Only these attackers, with their features uncovered, were clearly Klashean, defying the royal edict to cover their faces. Their only adornments were stripes of white paint across their eyes. Even their weaponry—the curved swords—was foreign to the kingdom’s legion. A few attackers also wielded thin whipswords, a unique blade whose flexibility was a guarded secret among Klashean metalsmiths.

The truth struck him hard, setting his heart to pounding in his throat.

They’re not after me.

The arrival of the war wagon had driven most of the attackers away from Kanthe’s carriage—or more likely the assailants simply retreated toward their intended target.

Rami shoved next to him. He had hiltless throwing knives in both hands. His bared wrists revealed rings of sheathed blades strapped to his forearms. “We must get to my sister.”

Kanthe searched through the smoke and smolder. The other carriage lay on its side, catching a brunt of the earlier blast. Soldiers guarded over it, protecting the Illuminated Rose of the Imri-Ka, who huddled within. Bodies lay strewn across the cobbles, both friend and foe. Another soldier dropped, an arrow through his throat.

Aalia’s protectors would not last much longer, especially as the attackers focused their assault on that carriage.

In the narrow street, their own coach blocked the war wagon from reaching the others. The archers aboard it dared not shoot in that direction, lest a stray bolt should strike Aalia. Recognizing this, soldiers were already leaping from the wagon to cross on foot.

Bowmen in the windows rained death from on high. The soldiers did their best to cover their heads with their shields. Still, they were held at bay by the barrage. More bodies fell.

“This way!” Kanthe yelled, turning to the opposite side of their carriage from the trapped war wagon.

He took a step, ready to leap over the rail, only to have his left foot betray him. He fell headlong, striking his chin against that rail. He landed hard and twisted around with a scowl. He had forgotten he wasn’t a free man.

Pratik dropped beside him. “Hold still.” He reached to Kanthe’s boots and undid the chains that bound the prince to his two Chaaen.

Rami had already shed his own anchors and helped Kanthe up, taking care of the blade in hand. His friend’s eyes were wide and glassy with fear. “Aalia…”

“I know.” Kanthe turned to Pratik. “Get this carriage out of the way. We need that war wagon freed if we hope to escape.”

Kanthe didn’t wait for acknowledgment and leaped out of the coach.

Rami followed, landing beside him in a crouch. “How do we reach her carriage?”

It was a fair question. Smoke choked the street, but it didn’t afford enough cover from the archers in the windows. The soldiers recognized this, too. The handful still alive in the open had forsaken trying to cross the distance. They huddled under shields, trying to protect themselves not only from the bowmen above, but from the crossbows wielded by those on the ground. They were pinned down in a wary stalemate.

Across the way, Aalia hid under her toppled carriage. Only five of her defenders remained, crouching in the coach’s shadow, their shields raised.

One of the last soldiers, a lithe woman in light armor, bore a whipsword in each hand and a small metal shield strapped to each forearm. She knocked aside a crossbow bolt with a clang of steel. Dead bodies lay piled before her, creating a macabre rampart, defying anyone to cross over.

“Aalia’s bodyguard,” Rami gasped. “Pray she can protect my sister long enough.”

Kanthe tugged on his friend’s arm, drawing him in the opposite direction. “Not that way.”