Chapter Forty-Two

  The inside of the palace was both familiar and darkly different from the way Dryden had remembered it. The structure of the palace was much the same. It held the same ornate architecture, pillars, archways, and vaulted ceilings of a Vastrum palace. Yet, it was now a shattered, crumbling building after the quake that had just shaken it. Dust and cries filled the air. He advanced at the head of his men along with Captain Khathan.

  The 13th had been forced to dismount rather than enter the palace on horseback. Most of the men carried their carbine muskets. Khathan wielded his wicked-looking curved talwar, and Dryden held his dangerous Styranian blade in front of him. At first, there was no resistance, but as they came through the grand entryway, a small volley of musket fire rang out from a doorway. A musket ball whizzed by Dryden’s ear. A man to his left fell dead. Another to his right grunted in pain. The shooters would need to reload, he knew. The Vuruni did not, as a matter of course, know the tactics of firing by rank.

  “Ahead, men! At them!” He shouted, leading the way.

  A small cadre of Vuruni soldiers stood in the hall. They fell back, but not fast enough. Dryden and the men of the Bloody 13th were upon them, cutting them down easily. It was over quickly. They went more cautiously afterwards, checking around corners and looking for ambushes before advancing. They were cavalrymen, used to charging in and cutting the enemy down, not slowly clearing out buildings. It was tedious work. Dryden’s heart pounded as they went. Finally, they came to the great throne room. Kurush was seated there alone.

  The pretender of An-Beya was leaned back in the great throne that Shah Guranji of An-Beya had built with his aethium-tainted gold. It was a large and lavish throne by any standard, plated wholly in gold and inlaid with fiery jewels. The room was largely dark, though shafts of light and rain poured in through large gaps in the ceiling where the roof had collapsed in the quaking. The man still lived, though his breathing was laboured. He held his chest where Dryden had cut him. There was a weariness in his face that went beyond the physical, the hollow cheeks and dull eyes of a dying man. Dryden mounted the steps to the throne, his sword held out in front of him.

  The man spoke as Dryden approached, his voice a hoarse whisper, “You have ruined us. You have such great armies, such artillery, such wizards and sorcery. You command hosts of men and horses. When we kill one army, two more appear. You are such a great kingdom and have conquered half of the world as a testament to it. Vurun is small. Could you not have left us alone? Can you not leave us now?”

  “I am afraid that is not for me to say.”

  “It is. Go, and it will be as I have said. Our palace is in ruins. Our aethium is all burned. Our people are slaughtered. In a century, this place will still be a ruin; it will be as The Black City is. There is nothing here now for kings or shahs. It is now a land for the dying and the dead, a land for vultures and jackals and ravens.”

  “I have my orders and my duty. Even if I left, what would it change? As you say, it has already been ruined. Now, will you come quietly, or must there be more dying?”

  Kurush stood and slipped a khukuri from within his kingly robes, “You will have to kill me.” His voice was grim.

  “You are in no shape to fight me. You will be a prisoner.”

  “I will kill myself, then.” The man put his long, recurved blade to his own throat and stood there. The moment stretched out. His hand shook, then dropped, and the long dagger clattered to the floor. The king let out a sob of grief and hopelessness.

  “You are not your sister. You have not her commitment, sir,” Dryden smirked.

  A movement flashed in the corner of Dryden’s eye. A blade stuck in Kurush’s neck. The man’s gold eyes flashed in surprise one last time and then went dark. Blood poured from the wound, spurting across Guranji’s throne and the killer. Kal’kuris stood there, blood spattered across his emotionless face, his blade stuck into Kurush’s neck. The false shah fell back into the seat of the throne, and the blade pulled free as he fell. He coughed, and blood poured from his mouth onto his chest. None made a move to help him, and then he was dead. He slipped from the throne and fell limply to the floor. Dryden felt a shudder go through the whole land. He braced himself for another quake, but the land settled. Lightning crashed above. A weight lifted from Dryden. He felt the words of vengeance lifted from his shoulders. It was done.

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  “For now, at least, Vurun is free,” Kal’kuris whispered.

  Dryden looked at the emissary as if he were mad, “Sir, drop your knife.”

  To his surprise, the emissary did drop it, “You may arrest me if you choose, Major. I throw myself upon your mercy.”

  “Where are the women?”

  “In my apartments deeper into the palace.”

  “Show me,” he said, turning to Khathan. “Secure the throne room. Let none enter except our own men. Allow no others, not even Kavala or his men.” He picked a few of the closest troopers to go with him, and then he turned and followed Kal’kuris from the room.

  The lone Vuruni man led them through a side passage off the throne room and down a long hallway. They walked past the bedrooms and apartments of the king and his court. They turned down another smaller hallway and past a collapsed section of the palace that now looked out upon the city. Outside and below the palace, the city burned. The armies ravaged it. Screams, death, and fire stretched from horizon to horizon. The noises of pillage echoing up through the storm.

  “You said you had protected our noble women. I know some were sold as slaves. Where are the rest of them?”

  Kal’kuris gestured to the scene before him, “They were out there. They worked as slaves for the people of Vurun. You have bombarded them, burned them, and your armies kill and rape them even now. This is vengeance, Dryden. Fury has no boundary. Once you unleash the storm, all are caught in the rain. You cannot free the div and then protest when it feasts.”

  Dryden said nothing, for nothing else needed to be said. They continued in silence afterwards, climbing over the rubble and through the dark halls of the ruined palace. Finally, they came to a larger door. Kal’kuris pushed it open. The apartments were large, with a tall vaulted ceiling. The rooms were mostly intact, only the plaster on the walls had cracked. Dryden entered the room. A small brass lantern hung in the middle of the room, giving it a soft glow. Across the wide room stood a woman dressed in the dress and head scarf of a Vuruni woman. She seemed familiar, but he didn’t recognize her at first. A small door opened at the other end of the room, and several more women entered the living room. The woman stepped forward. She pulled her headscarf back. He stared at her as if the whole world had frozen. He heard no sounds. He was lost to the whole world looking at her face. Julia stood, her face hard, with bright eyes, looking at him from across the room. He took a step forward, then another. He crossed the room to her and stopped directly in front of her. His breath caught in his throat. He was lost for all words. She slapped him. It stung. He stood staring at her. Tears wetted her eyes and threatened to fall. She went to slap him again, and he caught her hand. They stood a moment like that. Then suddenly, she embraced him, sobbing into his chest. He put an arm around her shoulder and held her, staring down, blinking tears from his own eyes.

  “You see, I have cared for them well. They are safe,” Kal’kuris said to him.

  “What of Roxana?” Dryden managed to croak.

  “She is within,” He gestured to the room from which the other women had come.

  “Is it as this man has said? Have you been cared for well?”

  “Yes. He has treated us fairly,” Helena replied from behind Julia, “Better than could be expected.”

  “Thank you,” Dryden replied. He released Julia Gorst and turned to Kal’kuris, “You are a man of your word. You have provided me with two great services now. I will not hold you if you wish to go.”

  “What of your orders?”

  “I ought to keep you, and I’m sure I will be reprimanded for letting you go, but I have no orders regarding you. They were not so specific. I recommend that you leave before doing so becomes impossible.”

  Kal’kuris did not need to be told again. He turned and vanished. Dryden looked to the troopers who had escorted him, “I have much to attend to. Guard these women with your lives.” He turned and went to see what needed to be done. A strange restlessness gripped him, then. He felt the strong need to be away from this place, to be away from the women, and the dead Shah, and Kavala, and everything else. He remembered the Red Fort. Captain Adams had been sent to secure it. That was where he would go. The palace, or what was left of it, was theirs. Only the fort needed taking now. He walked from the dark of the ruined palace and out again into the light. The rain had stopped. The storm clouds had moved off to the west. The only evidence of the storm now were the rivulets of waters running down the streets, the mud, the wet cobbles, and the distant roll of thunder to the west.