The courtyard was empty, save for the Alehkar; no one was coming.
His assassins’ bodies covered the floor. Arko saw only the Protector’s men, filling up the corridor. He was outnumbered. Surprise had been his only advantage, but it hadn’t been enough. His men were falling and there were no more to replace them, no Harkans.
The Alehkar advanced, crowding the corridor, pushing Arko back into the Antechamber. They surrounded him, swarming around him like flies on a corpse.
A blade penetrated his left shoulder, a hot sharpness in his skin that grew and spread like the first drink of strong liquor. He swung his other arm, forcing his attacker backward, and punched, knocking the man over. The assassin at his left took a sword in the chest. One remained. He swung valiantly, clearing the path ahead of Arko, before taking a knife to the back.
“I’m not finished, Saad.” Arko would not give up, he would not submit. They had forced him to retreat into the Antechamber, but he resisted—he pushed hard against the soldiers. One man at a time he fought his way back into the corridor. He caught sight of Saad, his armor, bright and yellow. The Protector was retreating, but Arko caught up to him, his sword held out. “Boy,” he said, “don’t even think of running away from me.” The handle of the dagger still protruded from Arko’s shoulder.
Saad shook his head, his eyes on the haft of the dagger. “You’re finished, Harkan, one way or another,” he said. “I’m under orders from the emperor himself.”
The emperor? What the hell is this idiot talking about? So Sarra had not told the boy the truth. He didn’t know. Arko pushed past the soldiers. He stood once more face-to-face with Saad.
“You damned fool!” Arko said. “You think Sarra Amunet will grant you power when this is done? That she will make you Ray? When she has coveted that position since she took the cowl of the Mother Priestess?” He pushed his blade into Saad’s chest and staggered backward. Seeing the sword strike their master, the Alehkar slashed frantically at Arko, cutting his leg, his cheek. Arko ignored the blows. His eyes were on Saad. Are you dead, boy? Is the task done?
Saad cried out. His men caught him and carried him away. “Sir!” they cried. “Make way for the Protector!” they said as they made off with his body. They would try to save their master. They might manage it, but the look on Saad’s face when he realized Arko had gutted him was worth everything else, almost.
With Saad gone, the men focused only on Arko. The Alehkar formed ranks, their captains calling out orders. They leveled their swords and pressed their shields into a wall, driving him back into the Antechamber.
The men forced Arko backward until he stood against Suten’s desk, the chamber crowded with Alehkar.
A mighty crack, and the doors to the Antechamber started to close, wood splitting and bronze bolts screaming. The soldiers on the other side were locking the door. The Alehkar around him began to panic. Arko pushed forward, over the fallen bodies, but the door was already halfway shut, and though he tried to wedge himself between them, the doors ground to a slow halt. Then the sound of the bolt sliding home. Shut in.
The light dimmed. He was alone with the Alehkar, each of whom was as trapped as Arko himself. He turned, his body aching with every movement, his flesh tearing, ripping, heart pounding. He ducked behind the great table, his legs nearly giving out, his movements slowing. He tossed the table over to make a wall, to give him time to retrieve the shield from a fallen man. He was weak, but he could do this. He needed time.
His vision started to go gray: there was smoke in the chamber. A sickly odor, like the scent of a butchered hog. Arko beat back the approaching soldiers, knocking two against the wall. Three more, he thought. Come on, then. He composed his stance.
The floorboards were hot; he felt the heat through his sandals. Smoke whistled from between the wide planks, black soot winding its way around the face of the wood. The floor erupted into flame; the air turned black. A point pierced his belly, then another his back, another hot starburst of pain. He wrenched the knife from his stomach and forced it into the soldier’s chest, kicking him to the floor, he turned to face the other, but the smell of smoke and hog fat had already gotten the better of the man, who collapsed at Arko’s feet. Saad must be roasting a whole herd of pigs beneath him, their fat used as an accelerant. This was the old trial, the Emperor’s Justice, Mithra’s Fire—no enemy of the Soleri could survive it. Very clever, Sarra. Arko covered his mouth and nose with a cloth he tore from his bloody tunic.
Saad’s last soldier approached, blade held high. Why fight, Arko thought, when you’re as dead as the man you seek to kill? But the soldier came at him anyway, desperation in his eyes, as if Saad might still let him live if he performed this last task. Arko bested him with the dagger, jamming it into his chest, blocking the sword with his bare arm, then smashing the soldier in the jaw with a closed fist. The man tumbled backward, the impact of the fall shattering the weakened floorboards. A beam collapsed, taking half the floor down with it. Arko heard the man cry out, saw the outlines of the trap they had built deep beneath the Antechamber for the dying pigs, for the wood and oil. The stink of burning pig flesh was everywhere, the sound of the animals screaming. Arko crawled toward the shutters and managed to reach the window just before a beam gave way, carrying another section of the floor down into the flames. With what strength remained in his limbs, he pounded the amber glass of the Empyreal Domain, but the window would not crack.
Arko gasped.
There was no air in the room; the fire had taken it all.
There was only smoke and flame.
The boards teetered, suspending him above the fiery pit.
Arko Hark-Wadi thought of his children, his boy, his girls. He hoped his words reached Merit, he hoped Kepi was safe, he hoped Ren found the eld, that he would claim the throne before Sarra could move against him, he hoped and he hoped—but the moment had passed. The flames danced at his heels, angry and eddying. The floor collapsed and Arko fell into the fire.
57