"Evening officers!"
The greeting sounded so surreally cheerful, that it stopped the sergeant dead in his tracks. No one in their right mind was so chirpy-bright at this time of the night. As he came to a jarring halt, so did the six-strong patrol behind him. It was not a fancy, practiced and coordinated maneuver; military formation was not a strong suit of the Shusan guard, especially not shortly before dawn. The best they could manage was frantic sidestepping to avoid piling into each other. The sergeant turned to narrow his eyes at the citizen that had hailed them, and was met with the smile of a second-hand camel dealer. It was full of teeth, but so was a shark's mouth, and neither inspired trust.
The man flaunted his wealth with his rich garbs and his immense girth; this was someone who didn't have to be stingy in the marketplace. Money equaled status, and the sergeant had learned early to tread lightly when silk-sandaled feet were around. So he nodded back at him, though without much enthusiasm.
"Greetings to you too," he said, and turned, ready to get back to the monotonous rounds around the walled compound.
"Just a moment, good guardsmen," the man called out again, raising a hesitant hand, as if he felt it was rude to impose.
"What is it?" This time there was no hiding the irritation in the sergeant's voice.
"As a vigilant citizen of this fine city, I feel it's my duty to report that a crime is about to be committed!" There was no panic or desperation radiating from the fat man, just innocent mirth. The sergeant, more than suspecting that a joke was being played on him, raised an eyebrow.
"Where, and what crime?"
"Right here, and right about now!" said the man, mildly annoyed that the guard didn't ask the question he had the answer worked out for, and took a step back.
Darker shadows detached themselves from the background of the narrow alley, bows twanged and clubs fell; violence happened. The hyenas of the Shusan underworld descended onto the guards, and in just moments the seven-strong patrol lay dead or dying. Once the brigands were done with their grisly task, Khatu stepped closed to examine the results.
"Well done, my friends," he raised his hand to pat the leader of the thugs on the back, but seeing the drops of blood glistening on his leather jerkin, he thought better of it.
"The fuckers got what they had coming for what they did to my brother," the man said, and spat on the still warm corpse of the sergeant.
"I'm sure Burozzanar's spirit is already pissing into their mouths in the underworld," said the cook, and stepped back, trying to avoid the pools of blood spreading on the ground, slowly merging into one puddle of death.
"I owe you Khatu. I owe you big time. Thanks for helping me avenge my lil' bro." There was genuine gratitude in the man's voice, an emotion that rarely presented itself in murderous lowlifes.
"If the pigs come after one of us like this, that just fucks up everyone's game, man. I did what I had to," Khatu replied, forcing a sincere tone, trying to estimate the number days before the cutthroat realized he had been tricked into murdering an entire contingent of guardsmen. But that was a problem for the future, and he had a busy night ahead of him. "Let's drag the bodies out of sight, and get the hell out of here before another herd of swine comes along."
There were no witnesses to the bloodshed, but from the roof above, a magpie watched with eerily human interest as the men grasped forearms before heading off in separate directions; Khatu back into the city; the thugs towards the river with their gruesome cargo stuffed into rough sacks. The bird turned its head left and right, so both eyes could get a good view, then kicked itself off the edge, and spread its wings. A few forceful beats later it was a dozen yards above the rooftops, where it banked sharply and set off towards the tower looming on the horizon.
It stood four stories high, and rose above the neighboring palace complex like an accusing finger. The structure was made of dark stone, hauled from the mountains at great cost, and put together by the master craftsman of a long-gone generation. The flat roof was littered with seats and benches, and a brazier stood in the middle, unlit. Countless wise men had gazed at the stars through polished crystals from the top, and their steps trod an indelible mark of melancholic introspection into the stones.
The tower was protected by a ten-foot high mudbrick wall, covered from the outside with glazed yellow tiles, built to keep the common men at bay, and the only entrance was guarded by another group of soldiers wearing the same insignia as the men that had just been murdered. With the moon well past its highest point, they looked about as vigilant as bears during the winter solstice, unaware of the fate that had befallen their comrades. A twisting path led past them, through a well-maintained garden, home to dozens of medicinal herbs from all over the Two Rivers and beyond. For some reason long lost to antiquity, the tower showed its back to the gate; as if it was a petulant child pouting in the corner, and so the path looped around it, before delivering visitors at the doorstep.
High above, the magpie banked again and circled the tower, once, twice, descending gradually, while surveying what lay below.
The men guarding the entrance were of a different stock than the guards that were bleeding and not-yet-bleeding around the compound. Shining chain mails, polished helmets, and sharp swords were the dominating features, and though two of the four were sitting on their haunches under the portico of the tower, the other two stood alert, their eyes scanning the darkness of the garden, searching for who-knows-what.
The bird turned again, and now it started to rise, almost vertically, until it reached the top of the tower. It landed on the low wall serving as a guard, and hopped around, peering into the shadows underneath. Movement caught its eye, and it flew off to investigate, maybe hoping for some midnight treats. Where men trod, there was always food to steal.
The guards at the entrance of the compound watched with detached curiosity as a cart slowly rolled by, drawn by two burly oxen. Any interruption was a welcome break from the boredom of the pre-dawn hours; though neither the merchant driving, nor his assistant sitting next to him offered more than a cursory greeting as they creaked past. Their vehicle was loaded with two great barrels, and just as they were about to round the corner and disappear from sight, a loud snap shattered the peace of the night; the rear axle broke in half, and the cart sat down on its ass. The oxen protested at the sudden jerk on their harnesses, and pulled against the weight, but there was little they could do anymore.
The excitement wasn't over just yet. First one, then the other great barrel started to slowly, inexorably slide off the back. The merchant let out a panicky cry, and started to scramble off his seat, but he was slow, too slow. By the time he could get to it, his precious cargo was happily rolling down the road, the stopper shaken loose by the crash, wine flowing freely over the street.
The commotion lured the guards away from their post, and this latest development brought them running to the scene, eager to offer assistance. They gladly provided their helmets to catch the flow, and when they were filled to the brim they drank, toasting the gods, thanking them for this unexpected gift. Around them the merchant and his assistant sputtered and made vain attempts to force the peg back into its hole. It had taken a heavy mallet to hammer it in originally, and hands slippery from wine could do little good here. They repetitiously begged the laughing guards for some actual help, but found little sympathy there.
Far behind them, opposite of the now-abandoned entrance, two shadows emerged from the alley, and crossed the road so swiftly and silently that one wondered if they were ever there at all.
Once inside, the Prince and Elika ducked right, into the bushes, and grew still under the cover of the leaves. They counted to two hundred silently, waiting to see if anyone turned up to investigate the disturbance outside, but the path remained conspicuously empty. Once the time was up, they slid out again, and hurried silently down the gravel path, keeping their heads low. Taking the clear road was a calculated risk; but making their way through the gardens would have created more noise than the Prince deemed acceptable. Even this way, every step made the pebbles creak under their feet, a sound that sent shivers down the Prince's spine. As they drew closer to the back of tower, they forced themselves into a slower, more restricted rhythm, wishing silence on themselves.
Four elites of the Shusan Kingdom waited just around the corner, not the buffoons Agastya and Naram were entertaining outside. Even with the element of surprise on their side, and unleashing the full force of Elika's magic, they couldn't hope to overpower all of them before one sounded the alarm; stealth was their only option. So they tiptoed up to the wall, cringing each time the gravel squeaked, readying their defenses for an enemy that never came running.
When they finally stood under the ancient stones, they began their climb hastily; once they were above eye-height, their chances of being discovered would drop radically. Time, wind and rain had eroded the mortar of the craftsmen of old, and the Prince and Elika could insert their fingers – or in the Prince's case, the tips of his gauntlet - into the horizontal gaps easily. After scaling the walls of the Queen's Tower, maneuvering between ravenous oozes of Corruption, swarms of blood-hungry insects, falling rocks and treacherous Corrupted, the Astronomers' Tower posed little more difficulty than a ladder to the seasoned adventurers.
However, one could fall and break his neck on the stairs of his own house, mused the Prince, reminding himself that cocky thieves got caught. Bravado and boasting were best reserved for the tavern and for the wenches. On the job cool heads prevailed, hotheads died. So he tested each handhold, only moved one limb at a time, and checked frequently on Elika, to make sure she was okay. The girl might have had grown up scaling the cliffs of the valley-kingdom, but there had been no one there to riddle her with arrows if she as much as made a peep. He knew from experience how awful it felt to have someone aim at your exposed back, trying desperately to clamber up to the top, each heartbeat aching with expectation; awaiting that fatal shot.
This time however, they reached the first floor window without drawing any undue attention, and he could breathe a bit easier. This window, like all others above it, was barred, and altogether too narrow for anyone to squeeze through. The only way in, apart from the conventional one, was through the top. He risked a peek over his shoulder, towards the road encircling the entire palace complex, but the wall was too high to give him a view of Agastya and the cart filled with poison-laced wine. That was good; it meant they couldn't see the two of them clinging to the walls like oversized geckos either. They had dressed in matte black for the job, but human eyes were drawn to movement, any movement, and all it would take was for one sentry to look up at the wrong time and they would be exposed.
Slipping into heavily guarded objects undetected was not an easy job, trivial a statement as that may be. But that was what made it worth the effort after all.
"You okay?" he asked the princess.
"Remind me to cut my hair, or at least get some decent pins. It keeps falling in my face."
They talked in whispers barely above the smooth breeze that twirled playfully around the tower.
"Rookie mistake," he said, and while the rough paintbrush of the night smoothed his features into obscurity, she could still feel his signature grin.
"Just keep climbing," she snapped, for lack of a scathing retort, and moved her hand one stone up, pulling and lifting, pushing and grasping, seeking handholds, and all the while hoping that she wouldn't fall, that she wouldn't be spotted, and that she wouldn't draw attention. Unlike most people scaling four story high buildings, the first of these things was surprisingly low on her list of worries. Worst case, she could always unfurl the Wings of Ohrmazd, land safely, and face the consequences. But this would mean more killing, more senseless death while the enemy was growing stronger every minute; this was why she insisted on executing this whole caper entirely without bloodshed. Khatu would lure one group of guards away, Agastya would get the others drunk, and they could slip in and out without having to draw their swords. Getting the old wizard down from his tower posed a challenge, but if he didn't seem up to being lowered from the battlements, there was always flying away, after the Prince made a safe getaway. The plan had sounded better next to the merrily crackling hearth of their room, than it did twenty feet above ground. Now, she wished that they had found some way to disable all the guards, so they could just leisurely stroll in through the main entrance.
She kept telling herself they were almost halfway, that now they'd passed two-thirds, it was soon three-quarters, parceling the teeth-clenching, muscle-torturing distance into manageable packages, playing the same trick humans always did to an impossible task into a series of difficult ones.
She nearly lost her grip just shy of the top, when a startled magpie that had apparently been sleeping peacefully on the top, panicked, and flew up right above her head. She cursed silently, her heart thundering in her ribcage, and pulled herself up the last few feet. She pushed herself over the battlements, and rolled over on the roof, panting, her fingers numb, her arms burning from the effort.
The Prince, not only relying on his gauntlet, but on the quiet confidence born of a decade of experience, had a less stressful way up. He actually had enough energy left to hop over the low wall, and ended up standing over the resting Elika. He turned and peered over the parapet to check if everything was alright behind them, but they had left no mark of their passing, no treacherous ropes hung from the walls, no daggers were left stuck between battered stones. Only when he was satisfied with the results of his scrutiny, did he turn to her.
"We don't have all night, you know. We got a world to save, keep moving." The cheerfulness in his voice rang horribly false even to him, but it still achieved the desired effect: it got a rise out of her.
For the last few days, he had been officially in charge, and he did not let any opportunity go to waste to pull her metaphorical pigtails. He was unquestionably the one with the most expertise in what he would call "professional matters", so the mantle of leadership fell on him. The fact that Elika would instead have called the same thing "common thievery" didn't bother him in the slightest. This authority not only gave him a prime spot in the limelight, but also provided him with ample chance to overrule Elika, simply by the virtue of his greater experience; an exercise he enjoyed tremendously.
There was something in her flashing eyes, in the sight of her flaring nostrils that he found irresistible, so he poked the sleeping dragon again and again with joy glinting in his eyes. They had danced this dance before, and he knew the more infuriated the princess became, the sooner her energies would find an outlet in a way he knew would shock her afterwards. Her buttons were his to push, and push them he did. To complete his victory on this twisted game of dominance, he made sure she knew that he was playing her, and made sure that she knew that he knew that she knew, relishing in thwarting her attempts at regaining control over this spiral of manipulation.
It was a dangerous game to play, sometimes childish, maybe even cruel, but he could no more stop himself setting the bait, than she could stop herself from rising to it, neither in the past, nor in that moment. She pushed herself up from her hard bedding, arms shaking only slightly, and rose to her feet.
"Now, you listen," she began, only to be hushed by the Prince.
"Keep a lid on it, until we make it inside at least," he whispered forcefully, and he turned his back to her, leaving her gaping, and headed to the center of the small landing. The trapdoor opened with a creak that sounded altogether too loud in the dead of night when he lifted it, but no cries of warning rose; after all, nocturnal observations were sort of the purpose of the whole place, not an anomaly warranting investigation. Light greeted them from below, and they cautiously tiptoed down the short flight of stairs, into the highest level of the tower.
"I wondered when, and if, you would come," was the raspy greeting the Prince received as he ducked his head under the low entry, into the wide room occupying the top floor.
"So you received my letter?" he asked nonchalantly, instead of saying any of the thousand things he longed to say. He had imagined being reunited with his mentor over and over, playing out a myriad scenarios in his mind's theatre, but he had to admit, this one hadn't been featured often.
The wizard of the old Nineveh had changed little since they last met; maybe the lines in his face got deeper, his dark eyes seemed even more penetrating, and his silver hair had grown a bit thinner, but he still bore the same close resemblance to an eagle as when the Prince had first met him. His strong, aquiline nose perched over a thin mouth, rare to smile, quick to purse; it betrayed no joy now either.
He was tall, taller than most the Prince had known, and his skin was fairer than anyone he had ever seen, save for a few exotic slaves on the largest markets. It had always been an enigma where Berisath originally hailed from, and those who could answer the question either kept silent, or were long dead.
His age was another mystery, the Prince could only guess that he was well into his sixth decade, maybe even his seventh, but his eyes were still clear and his hearing sharp. All in all, he looked well suited for the role of a court wizard; he cut a fine figure dressed in dark robes, seated royally in his elegant ebony armchair, his staff leaning against the wall next to him.
"I have, and I have to admit, I was taken aback when my dinner contained a scroll from you. I did not expect correspondence in such form."
"We had to make do," shrugged the Prince, and he stepped out of the way as Elika descended the stairs.
She ran her eyes over the circular room, giving it a cursory once-over. Only three slit-windows broke the wall, and furnishings were sparse at best. A massive, elegant writing desk stood on one side, with an inkwell and a few empty parchments arranged neatly on it; that, a chair, and two full scroll-racks represented the only furniture. This was a place for thinking cold, sharp thoughts, not for entertaining guests. There was a purpose hidden behind the starkness of the room that appealed to the intellectual in Elika.
The man seated in front of the desk fit well into the room. Her first thought was that she now understood why the wizard and the thief had had a falling out; this was a man who bore no contradictions, and the Prince was nothing but a walking paradox. He sized her up carefully, as she stepped onto the bare stone floor, and she felt that it wasn't the contours of her body he was searching for, but those of the soul. Whether it was the cold touch of granite under her feet, or the intense scrutiny that made her shiver, she didn't know, but she pulled her already closed vest closer still. She forced herself to look up and meet his gaze, and return the inspection, but it was like trying to see through a wall of bronze.
She was no meek kitten, but the proud princess of a once-mighty nation, still, this time, she was outmatched; Berisath could make a statue look away first. The slightly awkward feeling of having done something wrong that rose in her was only dispelled by the Prince speaking up; his words echoed in the small chamber with confusing overtones.
"Berisath, this is Princess Elika of the House of the Ahura."
Elika took a step closer, trying to regain control, and fought the reflex to bow. Royalty doesn't pay respects first; they only return it, if it so pleases them. Berisath didn't even spare a glance to the Prince, but rose from his seat, bowed deep from his waist, deeper than Elika would have thought a man of his age was capable of.
"Ahe raya hvarenanghaca," he said. His intonation was perfect, but carried just enough accent to tell Elika that it was far from his first language.
"Yatha Ahû vairyo", responded Elika to the greeting. "I was under the impression the knowledge of the Old Speech had been lost outside the kingdom." The wizard allowed himself a small smile, and said,
"Sadly so. But there are a few of us who still care for the ways of the past." The Prince felt a jab wrapped in the sentence, and he knew Berisath rarely said anything he did not mean, and meant a lot of things he didn't say. "Your accent however is even rarer in the outside world than masters of the Avesta are."
"And it will only grow rarer still, I'm afraid," said Elika.
"To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit, Your Majesty, if I might inquire?" The politeness in his tone was polished smooth by decades past, hitting the perfect pitches of subservience and humility, while making it crystal clear that she was intruding on his time nonetheless. Her etiquette instructor would have melted at the intricacies hidden in the intonation.
"Dark events have transpired in the East, events that urged us to seek your counsel, esteemed elder," she answered. The ancient wizard sat back, and leaned against the back of his chair, ready to listen to the tale.
"We don't have all night. In short: Ahriman broke free, end of the world, yada yada. We need the scrolls you got from Naram, and we need to spring you so you can help her lock Ahriman back up," said the Prince, and the withering look the wizard gave him made him feel like he was a child interrupting the conversation of grown-ups. Elika simply looked back at the older man, and continued as if she didn't even hear him.
"Your wisdom would be a much-welcomed gift in this hour of need, sir, and so would be the written word you safeguard in this tower."
"Whatever humble services I can offer are at your disposal, Your Majesty. Command me."
"It pains me to ask you this, elder, but do you think it would be possible for you to join us in our search for ways to act against the Ancient Foe?" The Prince stared at them dumbfounded. He understood the need for diplomacy, subtlety, and even excessive politeness, but he felt this was neither the time nor the place. There were swords waiting outside, distractions running, friends risking their lives and the minutes they bought could run out any moment.
Nevertheless, he forced a calm on himself. The plan will hold out as long as it can, and then they will improvise. He took a deep breath and tried to conjure his usual devil-may-care attitude, something that wasn't so easy in the presence of his former master. For him Berisath was a given, always-stable corner of the world, and he had to remind himself that for the princess he was a stranger, and she looked at him with a stranger's eyes. Elika was nothing, if not brutally direct, sometimes to a fault; if she was running in circles like this, she must have had her reasons, and the wise thing would be for him to wait her out, no matter how much he itched to cut in to the conversation.
"You mean instead of waiting under house arrest until the priestesses convince the weak-willed buffoon they call a King to serve them my head on a platter?" asked Berisath with a bitter laugh. "If not for the threat of the world ending; I would still accompany you. I have lived long, but I have not lived nearly long enough. I do have a question though. How are you planning to get me out of here, if I might ask? I'm afraid scaling walls is an exercise that would prove too much for this frail body."
"We have come up with several alternate exit strategies that avoid blood being shed, but as time is somewhat of the essence, I humbly suggest you start gathering whatever you find you cannot do without, while we discuss them," said Elika. The Prince winced mentally at the mention of bloodshed; the decision to let Khatu handle the patrol in the most efficient manner rested solely on him. Protecting her was his job, whether from blades of the enemy or from self-doubt coming from within. While he watched in shamed silence, the others continued to talk.
"I have to confess your offer didn't find me entirely unprepared; I took the liberty of arranging a pack of medium-term necessities. However the scrolls you asked for are not among them, Your Majesty." He rose from his seat again, more unfolding than standing up. "If you would be so kind as to follow me."
The stairs down lead to another chamber of the same size; this one clearly served as a library. Scroll racks hugged the walls, and a large file-case with maybe a hundred slots for burned clay tablets stood in the middle. Berisath stepped to the right without hesitation, and took four identical elm-wood cases off the top shelf.
"These are the texts in question," he said, and slid them into a large knapsack just by the stairs. "So how do you propose we escape this tower? I hope I don't have to point it out that I'm under heavy guard."
The Prince cleared his throat, and stepped forward. This was his moment.
"Well, here is what we thought…"
The guards thanked the gods many times for their good fortune; Quingu, the Lord of the Night truly took pity on them. As they "helped" the merchant to plug the hole in his barrel, more and more helmets were filled with the freely flowing wine. Much more went to waste on the street as it seeped between the cobblestones, but they cared little for that; there was more than enough to go around.
The magpie now sat on the garden wall, his elegant, black and white tail bobbing up and down as he hopped around, peering comically at the proceedings below. The merchant's wailing gradually lessened as the guards' speech started to slur; and for as experienced drinkers as one would expect upstanding members of the armed forces to be, it started to slur too soon indeed. When the first one fell over and couldn't get up again, Agastya and Naram gave up all pretense. They just leaned against the wall and watched as the poison worked its magic.
"They are not too smart, are they?" asked Naram.
"This shall serve as an object lesson that man should not fall prey to base instincts," nodded Agastya, with his chest swelling with pride after a well-done caper.
There was no judgment in the magpie's eyes at their smug expression, and there was no other witness at this hour of the night: this was not a district for brothels or taverns, but for fine homes of affluent citizens who all slept behind heavily bolted doors. If they had been aware of what was going on in front of their gates, they did not make their attention known; all knew better than to seek trouble, especially when it involved affairs that did not concern them.
The effects of the poison were not subtle, not after it took hold in its victims. Soon all the gatekeepers were out cold, some laying in the pools of their own piss and vomit. Agastya and Naram didn't even bother to drag them away before they retreated into the shadows of the nearest alley; anyone passing the gatehouse would notice that things were amiss anyway. They could only hope their comrades would do their part before things turned sour. Above them the magpie kicked off the wall, flitted down to the wine-soaked mud and thoroughly scrutinized it with first one eye, then the left. It was startled by the feeble groan of a man lying under the broken cart, and it took off, veering back towards the safety of the tower.
It did not find safe landing there either. A creature too large to be an owl was perched on the parapet, right above the main entrance of the tower, and was peering down expectantly.
"Help! Help! Assassins!" came Berisath's shout from below. The Prince grinned, and stood up, his silhouette clear against the night sky. He watched as the four elites rushed in to investigate the clamor inside, and simply stepped off the low wall, turned in the air, and slammed the claws of his gauntlet into the stone. The work of the unknown genius didn't fail him; the gleaming metal tips sunk a fraction of an inch into the stone. It was not much, but it was more than enough.
He slammed against the wall, and his feet found purchase. He put his weight on his right leg, lifted his left slightly off the wall, and let gravity do the rest. The screech of steel against stone seemed deafeningly loud after half an hour of sneaking around inside, but the racket Elika and the wizard were making more than drowned it out.
Now he had only three floors to go, now only two… and the doorway still stood abandoned. His focus was entirely on the stonework gliding past him: a slight shift in the texture, an irregular gap in the mortar could send him plunging to his… well, not death, but a rather unpleasant landing at least.
The sounds from inside were convincing enough; male and female shouts, clanging of blades, sounds of furniture being toppled, all the necessary props of a failed assassination attempt. It was joined by the regular thuds of the guards trying to break down the door to the second level; the door that the three of them spent a quarter of an hour reinforcing with every possible measure they could come up with.
Now all he had to do was close the outside door behind them and slam the heavy bolt in place, the bolt that was installed only weeks before by the very same guards. The plan sounded solid back in the Dawn's Wonder, but no plan survives contact with the enemy. The first obstacle in this case presented itself as the helm of one of the elites appearing in the doorway, in a hurry to get help.
The Prince yelled a battle cry, and dropped the rest of the distance. The two feet that separated him from the guard gave him enough momentum to topple the man when he landed feet-first on his shoulders. The Prince rolled, ignoring the stunned soldier for the moment, and jumped at the door. He saw the three men inside turning, jerking their head back at the commotion, and their eyes grew wide as they understood the trap they had walked into.
Glee filled the Prince at the sight, as he slammed the door shut and slid the heavy cypress bolt in its place. He lived for moments like this; for the victory of the fox outwitting the dogs. His happiness didn't last long though.
He more felt than heard the approaching blade. He twisted out of the way, but too late. Metal bit into his left shoulder and his teeth sang from the pain of it coming to a halt in the bone. He jumped away from the wall, his blood pumping in thick bursts. He parried the next slash with the back of his gauntlet, narrowly escaping being eviscerated. He took another step back, to gain enough space to pull his sword, but he tripped over something and fell backwards, landing with a bone-jarring thud.
The soldier wasted no time in gloating; he just pushed on relentlessly. In the darkness of the night only his dark eyes shone, his face framed by a thick, dark beard and his helmet; a square of white, promising death. Now that freeing his sword in time had become hopeless, the Prince rather grabbed one of his throwing crosses and flung it at the man. The angle was all wrong and he couldn't put enough strength behind the throw to cause any lasting harm, but it still penetrated his leather jerkin and drew blood, and more importantly, it gained him a few precious heartbeats.
The Prince used the seconds this move bought him to roll over his shoulder, and the world flashed white from the pain. He rose with blade in hand, just in time to parry another powerful blow aimed for his head. He danced back, trying to put some distance between them. The Shusan circled him slowly, knowing that the blood loss would weaken him more with every passing minute. The Prince wasn't in a hurry either to test his blade against the guard's; but he couldn't allow him to figure that.
"Walk away and you will be a rich man," he said. He faked a lunge at him, and stepped back before the riposte could reach him.
"And betray my comrades? Never! But if you give yourself up, I will make sure you get a light sentence."
"We both know that's not how it works," said the Prince, shaking his head. "At least let me go. You can have the others. Just say I ran, and this pouch is yours," his voice was level, as he reached for the sack hanging on his belt. It was empty now of course, the tinkling of coins would have been too much of a giveaway in the dead of the night; but there was no way the guard could have known that.
"I think I will just wait until you bleed to death, while my friends make short work of yours. Your sword looks fancy enough, maybe I will keep it." The guard's tone was almost conversational. He knew the thief would make a final lunge before his strength ran out, and he was prepared for it. The deck was stacked in his favor. So when the Prince's eyes flickered up, and behind him, he ignored it as a feint; there was no way the other intruders could have descended the tower that fast.
He only took mortal means of descent into account, and that proved his undoing. Elika floated soundlessly to the ground, and hovered gently on the Wings of Ohrmazd just a couple of inches above the grass, the elderly wizard holding awkwardly onto the much smaller girl.
"I think you won't," she said, and pushed Berisath away at the same time. The guard was no fool, he took a half step back while turning, moving both of them into his field of view, instead of offering his back to the Prince in surprise, like he had expected him to.
"Hurry!" he called out, "They are all outside!" At the same time, he started to back away. The dice had turned; now he was at a distinct disadvantage.
"We don't have time for this," said the Prince, stepping up to Elika. "Take care of him, please."
Elika let out a heavy sigh; she pressed hard during the planning to avoid more senseless killing; every life lost was a victory for Ahriman, but in the end it still came down to this. It was one thing to strike at advancing foes in self-defense, but this man was retreating, not attacking, and as far as she could tell he did nothing wrong apart from serving his king and city.
"Come on, we don't have all night! That door is thick, but not that thick," the Prince urged her; and indeed the door of the tower behind them shook against the repeated strikes from the three furious guards inside. The bolt on it was meant to hold against a frail, old astronomer, not three soldiers at the peak of their strength.
She shot him a poisonous look and raised her left hand gracefully. The Shusan shifted the blade in his hand, not knowing what to expect. The last thing he saw was a flash of bright light, then everything went blind-white. He grasped for his eyes, the sword clattering from his hand; trying to claw the burning out. Only minutes later did his eyesight return, well after his comrades broke the bar the Prince slid home across the only entrance to the tower; the tower that served as home for four years to the wizard of fallen Nineveh.
By that time Elika, Berisath and the Prince were several blocks away, in the company of Naram and Agastya. They hurried with determined steps down the main highway heading west; while the alarm would soon go up behind them, it would take a while to spread, and they ran well ahead of it.
The stable that held a dozen horses and their gear was not far ahead; nor did the bribed guard at the gates raise any trouble. They left Susa in the dead of the night, riding out in tense silence. No bells rang, no shouts or pursuit came; it would take days till anyone would put the details of their escape together.
By that time, the famous cook and his family would be long gone to the north, seeking new employment. Maybe it was time for Khatu to open his own inn. A fancy place, for a refined clientele. But if his friend was to be believed, then it would be a good idea to travel far, far away before investing in any kind of real-estate…