Kagen the Damned--A Novel Read online

  Then he went back into the hall, still half naked and armed only with one dagger, but it was a step up.

  Kagen crept down the stairs and found the tavern empty except for the dead. Seven men lay in tattered piles; all but one of them were regulars. Among them was the landlord, Big Rek, who had once been a gladiator, though that was many, many years ago. Even so, Big Rek lay with his hands locked like iron bands around the throat of a man wearing the Hakkian crest. And that invader had an even better dagger, which was buried nearly to the hilt in the landlord’s chest. Kagen pried the dead fingers from the handle, braced his legs, and tore the knife free.

  “Sorry, old son,” he said to the landlord. “Glad you went out fighting. May your blood on this knife make fertile the flowers of my vengeance.”

  It was an old prayer, and he hoped Big Rek—and all his dead friends—could hear that prayer in the great garden beyond the edge of the world.

  Somehow, saying the prayer shook some of the cobwebs from Kagen’s mind, and he became acutely aware that he had to get the hell out of there and get his ass over to the palace. Although it was exceedingly unlikely these attackers could have managed to get into that fortress, his job—his sacred duty, in real point of fact—was to be there. To protect the Seedlings—the children of the empress. All those young princes and princesses were under his charge. Were they safe? Gods above, how terrified they must be. He knew that he needed to make contact with his parents, and with his two older brothers who served the empress. He needed to do what he was sworn by oath and bond to do.

  The new blade was really a short sword of the kind used in the traveling battle circus. Ironically, a gladiator’s weapon had taken the life of a gladiatorial champion. Kagen wiped Old Rek’s blood off across the Hakkian’s thigh, felt the lovely balance of the weapon, nodded approval, and then headed outside to join the war.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The streets of Argentium were filled with bloodshed, horror, pain, misery, and madness.

  There were bodies everywhere, and now that he stood in the town square, he could see that the night sky was so bright with fires that the glow blotted out the stars. The village around the palace was burning. He could hear the roar of the hungry flames as they devoured thousands of buildings. That din was challenged by the mingled screams of people fighting, running, pleading, dying.

  Kagen stood in the street, naked to the waist in the chilly night air, a dagger in each hand, chest heaving, head pounding. For a few moments he was in the eye of that storm of violence and horror. Everywhere he looked there were Hakkian soldiers—too many of them. And they were clearly not alone, because fighting alongside them were soldiers—men and women—dressed in the livery of a score of armies scattered across the continent. Mercenaries, without a doubt, with the only unifying item being black and yellow scarves wound around their necks. The colors of the ancient Hakkian war flag, black for alignment with the Hakkian tradition of conquest and destruction, and yellow to honor the ancient Witch-kings. He saw grim-faced Nelfydians with their golden hair and fierce blue eyes; slim, quick Ikarians with black eyes and long spears; hatchet fighters from one of the islands—Tull Orgas or Tull Aljion; and others he couldn’t easily identify. Every skin color, every kind of weapon, and all of them fighting with the Hakkians against the people of this town.

  So many of them.

  What he did not see was a strong presence of the local militia or the constabulary. Not organized in any way, and not enough of them. He saw no platoons of soldiers. All he saw were scattered knots of people, most of them ordinary townsfolk, fighting a losing battle against organized invaders. And there seemed to be too many Hakkians and not nearly enough Argonians. The entire city of Argentium had been overrun, but … how? With the fleet and harbor patrols in Haddon Bay, the navy patrolling the Golden Sea, and armed outposts on all the roads between there and Hakkia, a thousand miles to the south, it should have been literally impossible for a force this large to have descended on the capital city of the Silver Empire. There was no strategic model that could make sense of what was unfolding around him. If Kagen believed in sorcery, he would have blamed that, but magic was, at best, something belonging to ancient times, and more likely a myth. Like dragons or vampires, it simply did not exist in this modern world.

  And yet somehow this was happening.

  “Gods preserve us,” he said, and kept moving.

  He did not see anyone on either side trying to take prisoners. This was a desperate fight to the death, and that shadowy spirit seemed to hover over the square.

  Blocks away, the palace rose like a spike of silver, the walls the exact color of moonlight on a winter’s eve. But as Kagen stared, he saw that fire flickered in many of the palace’s windows, while other windows vomited black smoke into the troubled air.

  This was not a street fight, he realized. Beyond all sanity, it was a full-scale invasion. How that was even possible was too much to consider now.

  His moment of clarity and observation vanished as a trio of fighters—a Hakkian and two men who looked like south sea pirates—charged at him.

  Kagen pivoted toward them, assessing size and mass, speed and reach. A black coldness rose up inside him, as it always did when there was killing to be done. When there was knifework calling him. When there was the poetry of slaughter to be sung by point and edge. He felt himself smile. It was an odd thing, devoid of all humor. He had been told many times that his smile took the heart from many of his enemies, every bit as effectively as his knives. Kagen did not know if that was true, for he’d never seen what that smile looked like.

  The three men approaching did not seem to care whether he smiled or not, though, because they wore their own grins. Malicious and delighted.

  Once more, Kagen did not wait for the attack. To let the enemy decide the terms was a fool’s game. Kagen feinted left and went right, moving in fast and at an angle so that he isolated the man on the outside of their converging half circle. The man was a right-hander and had a small buckler strapped to his left forearm. Kagen grabbed it and pulled hard and fast. It jerked the man off balance and into the path of his fellows. Kagen slashed the side of the man’s knee, and as the leg buckled, he shoved him into the man in the middle. They both staggered, and the injured man, screaming in pain, grabbed his friend for support. The man in the middle saw his peril and tried to thrust the injured man away, but in that brief moment of confusion Kagen whipped his blade from left to right, slashing open the middle man’s throat and bathing the third man in a hot spray of blood.

  Kagen then brought both blades up and around in what his mother—the knife master of the family—called a silver whirlwind, a tight, almond-shaped parabola that brought the top two inches of each dagger down at an angle just under the third man’s jawline. One blade opened the flesh and the other cut through arteries and the windpipe. It was all very immediate and messy, and when the poor bastard tried to shriek in pain he instead coughed out a pint of blood.

  That left one man alive, though lamed with a slashed knee. Kagen kicked him in the other knee, shattering that joint, and as he fell, Kagen stamped on his throat.

  One, two, three.

  Dead.

  He knelt quickly and looted their corpses for what he needed: a jerkin, which he pulled on quickly, ignoring the blood; a second leather belt with a sheath big enough for his second dagger; and the buckler. It was the sturdy kind, with a pattern of a roaring lion done in steel. Excellent for parrying or checking sword blades, and light enough not to slow him down. Kagen loved to fight up close and very personal, and a buckler was better than a dagger for deflecting anything from sword to spear.

  Then he was off, running through the streets toward the palace.

  It was like running through one of the halls of hell, as told of in old poetry. Each street was a different kind of madness. On one lane there was a group of what looked like old soldiers—very old, in some cases—armed with antique swords and axes. They were creaky, some portly, others skinny, none of them fit, and each one with missing limbs or old scars. They held one end of that street, and there was a fair number of dead Hakkians and mercenaries. But as he ran past, Kagen could see that the old men had fresh wounds, too. Each was streaked with red, sweating, their remembered strength fading in the harsh light of their age. Kagen wanted to stop to help them, but it was not his mission. The empress’s children—the Seedlings—needed him, and their lives were just beginning, while these men had already fought their wars and lived their years.

  As he ran past, though, Kagen slashed at the rearmost soldiers crowding that street, and then he was gone before the friends of the dying men could see who had done that sneak attack. Maybe the distraction would give the old soldiers some kind of chance.

  A flight of at least a hundred arrows suddenly arched over the bakery to his left and thudded into the wall ahead of him. He paused. He did not know who had fired them, and no other arrows followed.

  On the next street there was such a huge knot of Hakkians looting the shops of Jeweler’s Row that Kagen had to duck down behind a wagon and cut through an alley. This opened out onto a courtyard shared by six restaurants. The brawl there was so confused, with patrons, kitchen staff, random people, and invaders, that it looked like an even match. Kagen ran on.

  On another street he saw a group of Hakkians with what looked like gray and white temple canopic vessels, the kind used to store internal organs of the god-kings of Skyria during mummification. Each of the men had several of the cannisters hung around his neck on leather thongs. Kagen hid for a moment behind an overturned hay cart and watched as one of the invaders took a cannister, used the thong to get it spinning nicely, and then hurled it at the outside wall of a shop that sold old books and maps. The cannister struck the wall and burst apart, splashing a purplish liquid against the stones. There was an instant flash of white so bright it blotted out every shadow on the street, and then the entire front of the shop exploded. Stones and mortar leapt into the air, the wall itself disintegrated, and a sheet of flame shot up into the night. The flames crackled strangely as they burned, with many small popping sounds like sappy wood in a campfire. Kagen gaped at the destruction. That one cannister had somehow destroyed the book shop entirely and seriously damaged the buildings on either side. The roofs of all three blazed with orange fire shot through with purple.

  “Gods above,” he gasped.

  The Hakkians laughed like prankish children and then ran down the street, hurling more of the cannisters. Within moments, the entire street burned and died.

  The sight of those cannisters frightened Kagen very deeply, because he thought they might be banefire, a kind of explosive that was described in legends and old songs from the age before the Silver Empire. In the stories, the chemical was something conjured by alchemy and sorcery, and the fire would consume stone and steel as easily as wood and cloth. But it was impossible, or so he’d always believed. It was something that—at best—belonged to another age of the world. It was a relic from the days when magic was common, before such practices were outlawed by the rulers of the Silver Empire.

  Now it was here, destroying his own city. He looked around, seeing those fires across the heart of the capital in a new way. Seeing now the purple threaded through the orange and yellow flames.

  He forced himself to turn away from that, though. He had a mission, and this ugly and ancient magic was not part of it. Not even the people trapped in those buildings were his concern. There were eleven royal children in the palace, ranging from Hessyla, the oldest princess, who had just been presented to potential suitors at the harvest ball, to an infant so young he had not yet had time to be named at the swaddling ceremony. Kagen knew them all. Loved them all. And among them were his favorites, the five-year-old twins Alleyn and Desalyn. The boy was the image of his father, the imperial regent; the girl was going to be like her mother—tall, beautiful, and very smart. Kagen loved all of the princes and princesses, but he wished those two were his own children. He wanted to see them grow up and grow strong.

  And so he ran. Praying with every footfall to Father Ar and Mother Sah. Begging them for speed. For strength. For a sliver of mercy.

  He ran through hell as if all of the demons were chasing him.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  “Ryssa,” hissed the nun. “Get back!”

  The young woman shrank away from the trembling glow of light from the burning tavern. She allowed the nun to pull her into the blackness of the alley mouth. A moment later she was grateful for the warning, because a squad of men ran past, naked blades in their hands, blood spattered all over their bodies and faces, mouths twisted into hungry grins. Most wore the uniform of Hakkian soldiers, but others were different—men with faces and skin colors from other lands.

  “Who are they?” Ryssa asked. “They’re not Hakkians.”

  The nun, Miri, frowned. “Mercenaries, I think, but I’m not sure from where. The islands, maybe. That tall one who just passed is from Tull Garkos, I think. Or maybe Tull Aklos.”

  “From so far away?”

  They look like jackals, Ryssa thought as she pulled her hood up and wrapped the thick cloak more tightly around her shoulders.

  And they did. The laughter that lingered in the air after the invaders passed didn’t even sound human. It was pure animal, thick with lust and hate and a joy that made Ryssa sick to her stomach.

  Ryssa was seven days past her fifteenth birthday. Next week she was supposed to take the first of a series of tests as her preparation for admittance to the Green School, which would set her on a course of holy service to Father Ar and Mother Sah. Ryssa, like most poor orphan girls, had few prospects in life. Jobs in shops were reserved for girls of good, though not noble, families. The same for governess jobs. Tavern work was for the children of the owners, unless she wanted to spend her life working on her back in one of the upstairs rooms. And that was not for her. Ryssa was a virgin and wanted to die as one, and she wasn’t all that interested in boys or men anyway. Among her options were fieldwork—which aged a woman very quickly; sword school—but she lacked a sponsor to cover the fees; or the nunnery. Ryssa was very devout and loved Mother Sah with all her heart.

  Ryssa also loved Miri, who was ten years older but looked more like a sibling. They were cousins in truth, though with many removes. Ryssa was born there in Argentium and Miri was born—and orphaned—on the distant island of Tull Yammoth. Both women had the same copper-colored hair, the same olive skin, the same cat-green eyes, the same round features. Miri, however, was slimmer, without Ryssa’s broad shoulders and solid hips. Miri was quick-witted and bookish, and until tonight had always had a ready smile or a warm laugh.

  Miri leaned out and looked quickly up and down the street.

  “They’re gone,” she said.

  “Are you sure?” begged Ryssa.

  The young nun nodded. “But listen to me, girl, and hear me … more will be coming. The city is overrun. We have to keep moving. If we can get to the convent, then I can take you into the basement. There are a lot of places to hide down there. Up here … well, we can’t let them find us.” She studied Ryssa’s eyes. “You know what will happen if they catch us.”

  Ryssa nodded and shivered. Being a virgin did not mean that she was unaware of what men wanted. Nor unaware that some men—not most, but enough—would take through force what was not offered as a gift. A stable lad had very nearly raped Ryssa last year, and would have succeeded had not Ryssa been able to grab a pitchfork. She hadn’t done much damage to the lad, but when she came after him with the tool, he fled, his trousers still sagging below his buttocks as he ran. That night, the boy’s mother and his aunt fair whipped the hide off of him.

  Ryssa shook her head. “I don’t understand,” she said, catching Miri’s wrist in a tight, icy fist. “How are they even here?”

  “I don’t know, sweetheart,” said the nun.

  “It makes no sense. There was no alarm, no trumpets. I don’t think the army was even called out. No sign of the town watchmen, either—except for the two dead ones we saw. The Hakkians were just … just … here.” She kept shaking her head, unable to process the enormity of what was happening. “It’s so awful. They’re killing everyone. Gods above, they even killed dogs and chickens and little piglets. Just killed them and left them. Why would they do that? What’s happening?”

  Miri pulled her close and patted Ryssa’s shuddering back.

  “I don’t know what’s happening,” said the nun.

  Despite her terror, Ryssa could hear how brave Miri was trying to be. Her voice was nearly normal, and she acted as if she was in control. But there was a tremolo when she spoke, and her hands were shaking. The lights in Miri’s eyes were too bright, too wrong. Like fireworks set off indoors by accident.

  She’s as scared as I am, thought Ryssa. Gods of the Garden!

  There was a huge noise, and dust puffed out from between the bricks that lined the alley. All around them puddles of water rippled and sloshed as the ground shook. Ryssa yelped, but Miri immediately pulled her close, smothering the sound against her own breast. Ryssa bit back on the actual scream that tried to grow from the seeds of that yelp as she clung to the nun.

  Another blast rocked the street, and halfway along the block the entire facade of the baker’s shop seemed to leap outward. Burning loaves and cakes flew like cannonballs and burst apart as they struck the wheelwright’s shop. A figure came tottering out of the ruin, his body wreathed in flames and already beginning to blacken. Ryssa bit back another scream as she recognized old Gareph, the baker, who was the particular friend of Ryssa’s next-door neighbor. Gareph seemed to somehow look through the consuming fire, and he reached out toward the two girls, fingers splayed in some desperate, impossible plea for help. Then his legs buckled and he collapsed to the ground. He toppled sideways and lay there, burning, dwindling, becoming an inhuman lump of burning meat.