“Stay here in the middle,” Hatan said to Falshon as he and Bahdin moved to the end of the room. Vitori’s forces formed up on the other side of the entry hall. Vitori’s bald head shone like a beacon at the very back.
Traitor. Coward. The blood of Jehubalins would litter this hall, spilled by their own brothers in Rikaydian Palace, of all places. And it was Vitori and his son who would answer for it.
“It’s over, Vitori!” Hatan shouted over the din. The best he could hope for was that Vitori would surrender, but he knew that wouldn’t happen. The man would never accept defeat.
Hatan patted Bahdin and she growled back in response, lowering her head. She was more eager to fight than he was. Many of the soldiers under Vitori’s command should have been Hatan’s own comrades. This was the cost of reckless, prideful ambition. Once the line was formed alongside Falshon, Hatan gestured for them to close in. They all lowered their weapons and marched the few steps to clash with Vitori’s men.
Hatan pushed in from the side, forcing a couple soldiers back with a single swing. Bahdin snapped at a glaive and tugged it back, wresting it from the soldier’s grip. Hatan winced at the cries of death and pain that filled the hall, some of them caused by his own weapon.
The battle was brutal, but as Genda came to join her sister, the two rangolas wreaked havoc on the side. Hatan kept most of his attention on defending the animals’ sides and making sure they didn’t get surrounded.
But he couldn’t stop everything. Genda and Bahdin both got stabbed in the nose more than once. Other than their undersides, it was their most vulnerable spot.
They’d done their job effectively, however, gouging into the side of the enemy lines. Hatan whistled them back before shouting to the troops beside him. “Move in! Hammer them.”
The rangolas withdrew reluctantly, but Hatan led them to one of the side rooms where they could barely fit. He just needed them to be somewhere safe for now. He returned to the line, joining his comrades as they wedged into the side.
The traitorous army started to fold as ranks grew thin. The losses were heavy. A wave of javelins flew over from behind Hatan, impaling several of Vitori’s soldiers at the back. They collapsed after that as the soldiers near the rear retreated, trying to escape back into the palace. Vitori’s bald head was one of the first to get to the door, but he fell from sight before getting through. Something was preventing them all from escaping. There was fighting at the back. Someone must have coordinated well enough to get soldiers through another entrance to the palace. That meant Vitori’s group was surrounded, including those noble’s who’d voted him in during the council.
Hatan picked up a discarded shield and ran forward, ramming into the enemy line. He jammed his glaive through in a low stab as he shoved a soldier to the ground. He yelled as one of his comrades beside him got stabbed in the gut.
Noticing they were surrounded, Vitori’s troops fought viciously. The battle needed to end immediately. Perhaps they all expected execution if they surrendered.
“Surrender!” Hatan shouted after hacking three fingers clean off of a man’s sword arm. The soldier dropped his weapon with a scream and threw his other hand up as he fell to his knees. Only one other person dropped to their knees, but the rest of them fought on.
Anger flared in Hatan’s chest, and he battled even harder, using no restraint. He didn’t want to see any more of his comrades fall. Some of them weren’t even official soldiers or militia from what he could tell. They looked like they’d come straight from the farms and factories. As noble as it might seem to have them defending their city, Hatan didn’t want any more of them to fall.
Another portion of Vitori’s line broke, and that seemed to turn the tide. Several more soldiers surrendered.
“Hold,” Hatan ordered, shouting the word several times. His order was repeated as other officers caught word. His troops ceased fighting and withdrew a step from the enemy line, still holding their weapons at the ready.
“Surrender!” Hatan yelled as other voices quieted. “It’s over.”
“Kill them,” Vitori screamed from the rear. “Kill them all!”
But the soldiers didn’t heed his command. Many of them had already surrendered, and they were joined by all the rest as weapons clattered to the floor.
“At last,” Hatan sighed, checking a cut on one of his fingers. It was over. It was finally over.
Rivar came up beside Hatan and patted his shoulder, nodding his congratulations.
Vitori still shouted for blood, but that was to be expected.
Hatan wouldn’t execute Vitori’s subordinates, but Vitori’s fate was decided. He led the troops in gathering together Vitori’s defeated soldiers and mercenaries. The rebel nobles were gathered together as well. He would address them separately. If Sinteya’s plan to have Hatan placed as the king was to work, Hatan would forgive any noble who swore loyalty. At least, for most of them.
“Lord Padarro,” Emil said, hurrying over to Hatan, slinging his poleaxe over his shoulder, sounding nearly out of breath. The tone had Hatan worried.
“What is it?” Hatan said.
“Come outside, sir. You need to see this.” Emil didn’t wait for Hatan to respond, but instead he ran back outside.
Hatan frowned and looked across at Falshon, raising a hand to the captain before hurrying after Emil. He got outside and felt more than a little worried by the crowd of people who had climbed atop the palace walls. The darker sky and the lengthened shadows were something he’d never seen in his lifetime.
It could only mean one thing.
He ran to the stairs of the wall. Others made way for him, barely taking their eyes off the sunward direction. As he reached the top, he followed their gaze, looking west.
His breath caught in his lungs, jaw dropping as low as everyone else’s.
The sun was little more than a sliver of light on the horizon, fading slowly.
Malahem was no longer tidally locked.
Chapter seventeen
Thaw
Steam coiled around Kaiteran Hashivir’s feet and up his legs, leaving pinpricks of condensation on the hairs. He leaned back in his stone chair at the edge of the hot pool, filling his lungs with a deep breath of the pungent smell he’d grown so accustomed to. If what he’d suspected was true, then he’d be leaving this place soon, but there was no rush. After living for eight-hundred and thirty six years, he’d learned that there was always enough time for everything. His miserable existence here for so many years had lulled him into complacency. If he lived or died soon, it wouldn’t matter much.
He’d wait until they called for him. Begged for him. He smirked to himself, tempted to dip his toes into the acrid, boiling water. This series of caves that had been his home for the last five hundred years was laced thick with enchantments that kept the heat of the pools locked inside, otherwise he and his tribe would have frozen over. Occasionally, they had to vent out the whole system, a dangerous process that required a skilled stormcaller. He suspected there were no stormcallers left in the whole Ring.
Loud steps echoed through the cavernous hallway that led to this pool. The announcement he’d long awaited was coming.
He took one more deep breath before sitting up straight, stretching his ancient bones. What he needed was a good potion made with the fresh blood of a young person. Teenagers were the best, or young adults in their early twenties. Soon enough, he’d have hundreds of them to choose from, for whatever good it would do him.
The stone door sealing him in the room flung open.
“Elder Kaiteran!”
