Page 150 of The Cradle of Ice

The clatter of hooves and the creak of wheels drew Tazar’s attention back to the road below him. The prison caravan slowly worked through the crowded streets. Vendors and shopkeepers hawked their wares. Soothsayers and seers begged for patrons to visit them, assuring the most accurate guidance and prophecies. All were ignored as the cage trundled through the press of people. The crowd hid mostly under byor-ga robes. A few barefaced imri were scattered among them.

Still, when it came to the prisoners, all divisions of caste broke down. People crowded close, trying to spit through the bars, throwing rotted refuse. Curses flew in even greater numbers.

The guardsmen did little to stem this barrage, only keeping the prisoners from any true harm. That privilege belonged solely to the emperor.

Tazar’s jaw tightened as the cart passed under his post and continued toward the palacio. His fist tightened on the dagger at his belt. His eyes narrowed on the dark figure behind the bars.

Cool fingers touched Tazar’s hand. “We must conserve our forces,” Althea reminded him. “We dare not waste it on him.”

Tazar let his grip drop from his dagger, acknowledging the wisdom of his second-in-command. He glanced back at the two dozen or so Shayn’ra who spread across this wing’s interconnecting rooms. More crowded below. The rest of the Fist of God’s army gathered in outlying buildings or plied the streets.

Tazar had arrived before dawn with all he could muster from Kysalimri after the fiery ambush there. He spread a call throughout Qazen, gathering those who were either of the Shayn’ra or its devoted allies. Still, their numbers were not what Tazar had hoped for when he set off from Kysalimri.

Especially as circumstances had rapidly changed and were escalating with each ring of the day’s bells.

He had learned of the capture of Prince Kanthe and the death of another: the emperor’s son Prince Paktan. The extent of Emperor Makar’s grief and fury could be measured by the flurry of forces that descended onto Qazen. Guardsmen and warriors surrounded the Augury’s palacio and patrolled the streets with the fierce determination to protect the emperor and his two recovered offspring.

Makar was taking no chances.

“Perhaps we should return to Kysalimri,” Althea suggested. “Attempting to reach the emperor now will surely fail and only waste lives. Best we regroup and firm our position back at the Eternal City.”

Tazar could not discount the wisdom of such a plan. The situation was dire enough and was only getting worse the longer they waited. He blamed the Hálendiian prince for all of this. Even captured and defeated, Kanthe continued to thwart his plans.

Tazar tightened a fist as he watched the barred cage vanish around a corner, chased by a litany of curses.

More than any moment in the past, he envied Emperor Makar.

You will get to take that traitorous bastard’s head—not me.

Sharp shouting and startled yelps drew his attention from the window. Beyond the door, a clamor erupted. The sharp strike of steel rang out. A body could be heard crashing down the steps.

Althea signaled, and men swept over to guard the entry. The door crashed open, and a trio of figures barged in, cloaked in byor-ga robes. Similarly shrouded figures guarded their backs.

Tazar had his sword bared. Althea carried long daggers in both hands. No one spoke, all frozen in place.

Then Tazar heard the strange tinkle of a bell behind his shoulder. The tip of a blade pressed against the side of his throat. Though keen-eared and tense, he had not heard anyone approach.

“A quisl,” the wielder whispered, turning the edge of the blade. “Poisoned.”

Althea noted the threat. She pointed one of her knives at Tazar’s captor and the other toward the intruders.

One of the three stepped forward and stripped off the byor-ga headgear, exposing the stony face of a hard woman. She glared at him. From her size and features, she appeared to be Guld’guhlian.

“Everyone stand down and back a step!” she boomed, letting her voice echo in all directions. She followed her own example and sheathed her two half-swords and held up her palms. “We only came to talk.”

Althea looked to Tazar. He nodded his acquiescence, careful not to cut himself on that poisoned blade.

Its wielder retreated, shaking back a hood, revealing silvery-white features and a long black braid. She could be no more than seventeen or eighteen. She must have come up behind him from one of the connecting rooms. He stared down at the small knife in her hand. He blinked, and it vanished, though he swore she never moved.

He took a step back from her, his heart pounding harder. He turned to the Guld’guhlian. “What do you want?”

By now, the intruder’s companions had shed their headgear, too. Their features matched those of the young woman with the knife, but they were older and looked even more deadly.

“To parley,” the short woman said. “I’m Llyra hy March, guildmaster of Anvil. And I think you might recognize the others as Rhysians of a distinguished sisterhood.”

“Why should I care?” Tazar asked, regaining his composure and most of his anger.

Llyra explained. “At the moment, we share a common foe. Yet, neither of us has the wherewithal or numbers to combat it. So I suggest we combine our forces.”