When Arko looked down Saad was there, eyes raised, hand upon his sword. He nodded politely at Arko but refused to do more. This is the man who will kill me? What had Sarra promised him, if he took Arko’s head? That he would himself be named Ray? What are you up to, Sarra? If you think this empire will be easy to rule, separately or together, you are sorely mistaken. The thought of his own death both irritated Arko—because of all the men he had ever faced, Saad was the least worthy executioner he could imagine—and left him feeling strangely elated, like at last he had found the answer to a long-sought question. Soon Sarra, Serena, Ren, Merit … all his regrets would be over.
Unless the Harkans arrived.
“Take a chair,” Arko said. But the boy refused. His generals held maps, but they would not unroll them. Saad’s eyes never left Arko’s face. What do you see there, boy, when you look at me? An old man, easy to defeat? Pick up your blade and find out. I’ll die with a sword in my hand after all.
“We are here to present our strategy,” Saad said. His voice was oddly flat.
An underling stepped forward with a map. Arko did not look at it—no one looked at it. Arko’s eyes were on the corridor, waiting for his soldiers.
Empty.
Damn the city, damn Saad.
He let them unfold the map carefully. They were taking their time. Did they know something Arko did not? Perhaps the Harkans were not coming at all, and the Protector knew it.
I need my men.
Saad let one of his generals detail the plans for arming the Protector’s soldiers, for securing the supply lines back to the capital. When he finished, an older man with a strong accent described the route they would take to the Dromus, the points of weakness in the wall they would shore up with this company, with that battalion, but all the while Saad was sweating, his fingers fidgeting.
Arko checked the hall again. Nothing, still. Where are you, where are my men?
He watched the sweat grow on Saad’s brow, trickling down the side of his face. His eyes rested lightly on Arko’s hands. Wanting to see what I’ll do, Saad?
As the general folded another map, Arko lifted his sword with one swift gesture, startling Saad, and making the generals take a step back. “It belonged to your grandfather and his son,” said the Ray, holding it up so everyone could see the warped blade, the nicks and whorls in the metal.
“Looks it,” said the Protector.
“Your father held it on the Reg, on the day Koren stood against the empire,” Arko said. “Did you know I was there?”
“Didn’t care to know. That’s all ancient history.” Saad leaned on the table. “My father could have crushed Harkana that day. Imagine how much trouble he could have saved the empire if he had just taken off your father’s head?”
Saad’s men gave nervous grunts, and the Protector smirked at their appreciation. The man should be an actor, Arko thought, and turning the sword on its side brought the flat edge of the blade down on the table with a loud boom. The sound made the generals wince. “Your father had honor. He respected my father’s abilities on the battlefield and wasn’t afraid to show it, for the sake of his men and ours. Five imperial soldiers died for every Harkan on that first day, did you know that? It’s not written in your histories, or carved in your monuments, but it’s true. I saw the carnage with my own eyes. Your father didn’t put his boot on Koren’s head—he shook his hand and called him an equal!” Arko glanced once more down the hall. Still nothing. “The Harkan Army was ready to fight that second day. Your histories say they fled, but my father’s men were ready to take on the whole Imperial Army. My people stood shoulder to shoulder with their king, outnumbered but ready.”
Saad shook his head. “Harkans, always thinking your bravery will be enough to save you.” He glanced at Arko, alone in the chamber. “I see that hasn’t changed.”
“Things will change,” Arko said. “Someday someone will come for your death, Saad.”
“Not now.” Saad waved his hand, signaling to his soldiers. “Not today.”
At that, the Protector’s men unsheathed their swords and slung their shields tight to their shoulders.
Arko took in a slow breath. I’m ready.
His assassins threw open doors and dashed into the Antechamber bearing wicked little swords, curling doubled-edged blades, one in each hand. Arko’s men, while few in number, cut a path through Saad’s soldiers, corralling them beneath the archers’ sights.
Arko gave a sign and the archers loosed their arrows; black shafts flitted through the air. One, two, three of the generals fell. The fourth dove to save his master, throwing himself on top of Saad. Three arrows pierced his back; a fourth split his skull. The fifth general, thinking only of himself, flew toward the corridor, but knocked into two of the Alehkar. An arrow pierced his leg, pinning him to the floorboards. A second one stole his life.
Saad threw the dead general off of him, the body striking the floor with a thump. The Alehkar rallied around the Protector. Shielded by his soldiers, Saad retreated. He quickly passed the arrow loops, and was backing into the corridor. Arko gave another signal. The assassins at the far end of the hall threw open the doors and attacked, surrounding Saad’s men.
Arko turned his blade into a battering ram, sticking it through one soldier’s breastplate, then another, forcing them to the ground. He cut a swath through the Alehkar, advancing on Saad. He struck with such fury that he split the breastplate of the soldier who stood in front of Saad, rending the metal, sending the man crashing to the floor. Arko fought with two hands, striking a soldier with his fist while knocking another with the pommel of his sword. He moved with such fury that he did not breathe, did not think. He was all instinct, a soldier, moving faster than thought, faster than he had ever moved.
Bounding over the dead generals, he entered the corridor, arrows crunching beneath his feet. Already he noticed that only a handful of his men still stood, but it didn’t matter, he had reached the Protector. There is no one left to protect you, Saad.
Arko leveled his weapon and charged. The Alehkar threw their blades at him, Saad slunk backward, taking a nip on the thigh, but he evaded Arko’s blade by slipping behind one of his men. Arko knocked the soldier aside; he was face-to-face with Saad. But the Alehkar were packed so tightly Arko could not turn his sword to strike—only the assassins with their short, curling blades could move freely, could fight, and they did so valiantly, gutting the Alehkar with ease, slicing at the weak points of their armor. Grunts shot through the corridor, the sound of metal on skin.
Arko hit Saad on the jaw with his free hand, hit him again and again, mangling his face and nearly snapping his neck. He enjoyed Saad’s every grimace, his every shout of pain. More than anything he wanted Saad to suffer the same fear Arko’s family endured. He could have struck him down with a quick blow but instead he did it slowly. He fought with time he did not have.
A blade pierced Arko’s calf, a second one cut him across the arm, and the Ray of the Sun faltered just long enough for Saad to retreat.
“I’m not letting you go, Saad.”
He followed, but Saad’s men were upon him. Arko hit two with his fist, told his hired men to hurry to his side. “Push back!” he cried, too late.
Saad was out of reach, backing deeper into the corridor. Arko met his eyes, saw that the boy was grinning now, his bloody face nearly giddy with victory. Where are the Harkans?