Athas nodded, his heart in his throat. The young mercenary had been the last addition to the unit before Quintillian and had proved to be the perfect Wolf.
“He’s dead I think” she said in a low voice. “Crucified on a tree in the palace gardens.
“And?” Tythias probed.
“The other one must be Caerdin. He’s alive, but I’m not sure for how much longer. He doesn’t look good. They crucified him too. He’s been roped and nailed.”
Athas shook her. “What about the others?”
“I don’t know, but I think perhaps someone died the other day. I thought nothing of it at the time, but some of the guards took a huge wooden crate out of the palace on a cart.”
Athas snarled. “Shit! Either Alessus or Quintillian dead, Julian dead and Kiva on the edge.” He turned to Jorun. “Go upstairs and get Ashar and the others!”
Sathina shuddered. This was far more important and emotional than she’d ever expected. It had been exciting and intriguing, but she’d never thought to see them hanging on a tree, bleeding the last of their life out. Shaking, she pulled away from Tythias and sank, weeping, to the bench. The scarred mercenary captain sat next to her and took her in his arms.
“There was nothing you could do, and you may have saved the general’s life.”
As she poured out her anguish, the ageing captain held her close and absorbed her grief while the prince and the others came down and started making feverish plans. Tythias was a soldier and a commander and a good one at that. Upon a time he’d commanded a thousand men in the field, but these others were subtle and knew this business better. He half listened to the plans and arguments going on around him as he held the young girl close until her grief subsided and she sank into a fitful sleep, slouched on the bench in his arms.
* * *
Kiva had lost track of time. There had been four sunsets he remembered, but he suspected more. His stomach had stopped growling days ago and begun to waste, eating his own fat to survive a little longer. The pain in his limbs had numbed within the first day and he was hoping for the lord of the underworld to claim him soon, for his shoulders were torn, perhaps beyond repair. He’d taken the coin to cut through the ropes in the hope of rescuing both himself and the boy, but without Quintillian what was the point? All dreams of rebuilding the Empire of Quintus had died with Velutio’s blade and he hoped not to live to see the Empire under the command of the scourge of his existence. Perhaps he was dying now? He certainly seemed to be hallucinating, for the tree was moving.
He glanced down. The trees of the gardens and the lawn beneath were so far down now he couldn’t understand how he’d changed position without his arms tearing away. The stars instead of being above him were in front as he watched. He smiled weakly. There was the constellation of his birth: the swordsman. What a surprise. This must be it. He’d known his mind was going a day or two ago, and he knew that Velutio had been several times to gloat over him. That sergeant, whatever his name was had been back too. He’d eased things a little he thought. Perhaps the sergeant was a friend, but no. He didn’t have friends now.
He smiled as he saw what his hallucinations were bringing him in his last few hours. Perhaps wishful thinking imposing itself on reality. One of Velutio’s guards appeared to be standing by a tree but a closer look showed him impaled with a long black arrow driven into the wood, his throat opened and blood gushing down his front, mixing with the red dye of his tunic.
He smiled and passed out.
And here he was again. His hallucinations were getting better all the time. The stars were still there, but in different positions and he had strange floating feeling. In fact, the sound of waves imposed themselves over the eerie silence.
Oh yes. Better and better, for here was a maiden of the Gods leaning over him and mopping his brow. Young and voluptuous and full of beautiful life, waiting to take him home. Perhaps she would seat him in the hall of the Gods for his place at the feast.
Someone’s voice from beyond the periphery of his sight asked “how is he?”
“Not good” the divine maiden replied.
With a smile of sheer content, Kiva surrendered himself to this maiden of death and drifted off once more.
Part Four: Loss and Gain
Chapter XIX
The marble columns wreathed in fire. The purple and gold drapes blazing and falling away into burning heaps on the floor. A chalice of wine on a small table by a couch, boiling in the intense heat. The panicked twittering of the ornamental birds in their golden cages as the room around them was consumed by the inferno. And in the centre of the room, standing in robes of white and purple, a boy. He doesn’t look frightened, though the flames lick at his whole world and his face is already grimy with the smoke. What he looks is disappointed, his arm clutching the blade that juts from his chest, soaked with warm blood; gripping the sword that ends his life.
Kiva started awake in a sweat, bleary eyed and wrapped in a blanket of confusion. It was clearly day time, for birds were singing and there was enough bright light to make him squint. Above, a stucco ceiling swam into focus. A glow was coming from the right. He tried to turn his head, but the explosion of painful light and noise in his mind stopped him. Where was he? Clearly he wasn’t as dead as he’d expected to be. He sat up.
The next time he awoke he was less sure. His head felt as though miners had been quarrying marble in it. There was light and birdsong. He vaguely remembered something about sudden pain and swimming blackness.
A calm voice said “Don’t be a fool.”
In urgency, he began to sit upright, but the build up of pressure in his head as he started made him halt mid-movement. Something about pain. He slowly lowered himself back to the oh-so-comfortable bed clothes. Something was wrong with his neck. It felt like someone had mortared it into position. Painfully, but slowly, he levered himself up onto one surprisingly weak elbow so he could look in the direction of the voice. The room came into focus again and Kiva found himself staring into the eyes of Quintus the Golden. His eyes widened in shock for a moment before he realised the wall was crammed with shelved busts of Emperors and great men. His eyes came down lower until he saw the bed; a large comfortable bed yet austere in some indefinable way. Lying in the bed was an old man in nightwear, with a bandage wrapped round his head. Confusion blossomed again in Kiva’s mind. What was this? A museum? A hospital? Both? He squinted at the figure.
“I think you’re probably still not well enough to sit up,” the figure said amiably. “You fair proved that half an hour ago.”
Kiva cleared his throat, suddenly aware of how dry he was and how much his throat hurt. It appeared to be sore, dry and almost blocked. With difficulty, he phrased a question: “Who are you?”
The old man smiled again. “It’s been a long time Caerdin, but I find it hard to believe I’ve changed
Kiva frowned, but the usual mixture of muscle contractions was surprisingly painful. It hurt when he frowned? The figure in the other bed was hauntingly familiar. He tried to picture the face a decade or more younger and his eyes widened.
“Sarios?”
The old man nodded. “I’m certain you’ve aged more than I, Caerdin, so I’m not sure I understand your surprise.”
Kiva frowned again and regretted it instantly. “So I’m on Isera?”
Again the nod. Kiva allowed himself to settle back into the soft bedclothes. “That’s not good. Velutio’s going to be looking for me more than he ever…”
A sudden memory flashed across his eyes, causing him to gasp. A boy watching him in some surprise, a
