First, I’ll warm myself. Even a brave hero would do that.
Chapter Twenty-Four
The plain gray slab of the city wall rose before them. No gargoyles loomed at its corners; no statues or signs, decorations or markings adorned its surface. The lack of anything surprised Khirro; he’d imagined the fabled city of Poltghasa-the last refuge of the guilty and the damned-would be imposing. Instead, it looked like any other city-older, perhaps, more rundown, but no different.
No one challenged their approach, but they had waited until just before dawn and chose not to enter through the main gate. They stalked around the base of the wall, kicking aside rubble and loose stone fallen from its surface during the thousands of years it had ringed the city. It wasn’t the staunchness of the wall that deterred the Kanosee or anyone else from storming the city and bringing the renegade criminals to justice, it was the reputation of the denizens lurking behind the wall that kept the rest of the world at bay. The thought raised the short hairs on the back of Khirro’s neck.
“Look, there.” Athryn pointed at the wall ahead of them.
Khirro squinted, but he saw nothing other than an outline of the wall’s pockmarked surface. “I don’t see anything.”
“A door hanging askew. There.”
“Your eyes are better than mine.”
“Come.”
They stole forward, Athryn leading the way. After a few steps, Khirro saw the edge of the door silhouetted against the gray wall.
How nice of them to leave it open for us.
“It will be guarded,” Athryn said drawing his sword.
They crept along the wall, stepping carefully around rocks and shards fallen from above uncountable years before, and Khirro pulled the Mourning Sword from its scabbard. He couldn’t imagine what kind of barrage this great slab of stone must have withstood in the days after Monos’ death, when Shyctem-the first king-ruled the land. His reign had been tumultuous, marked by death and fighting as rival warlords launched attacks to usurp his power. Eventually, he met his death on the same Killing Stairs upon which so many of his enemies had met theirs.
Athryn gestured toward the horizon and Khirro saw the sky beginning to lighten with the dawn creeping in to banish night from the land. They stood their best chance of survival if they entered the city and found a hiding place before the sun climbed into the sky.
Khirro slipped past Athryn, back pressed to the wall as he crept up to the battered and scarred door; the rusted bars of an iron gate lay on the ground nearby, chunks of stone torn from the wall still attached to its hinges. He peered through the crack of the open door and saw an alley running away into darkness but nothing else. He crept back across the opening and pulled the magician a step away.
“No one,” he whispered directly into Athryn’s ear. “An alley. No room for guards.”
“But ideal for an ambush.”
He looked into his companion’s eyes and nodded once. They didn’t know when they might find another town and, with winter’s approach, game was scarce. If they didn’t resupply here, they wouldn’t make it back to Erechania; they had no choice but to enter the city.
“I’ll go,” Khirro said. “Give me a few minutes. If you don’t hear me come to my death, then follow.”
“They may have seen our approach and will wait until we are both trapped.”
“Then be ready to fight.”
Athryn put a hand on Khirro’s shoulder like he might speak, but didn’t. Khirro wanted to say more, perhaps to thank his companion for all he’d done, but though their lives might end here, he didn’t know what to say to the man whose assistance had allowed him to come this far. The heat of embarrassment touched his cheeks. Instead of speaking, he turned away and forced himself through the space between broken door and chipped wall into the dark alley.
The stench of refuse, rotted food and Gods knew what else slammed against him like he’d run into a wall. He covered his nose and mouth with his arm and breathed shallowly. His eyes watered. He waited. After a minute with no noise or movement from the lane ahead, he sucked a breath through the sleeve of his tunic and took a step. His boot sunk into something soft and he pulled back.
It’s only garbage.
Khirro shuddered and swallowed hard around a knot in his throat. When his boot sank again, he pushed on. His second step found hard ground and he paused again, looked up at the tops of the buildings on either side. The sky above remained dark, leaving him unable to determine if he saw silhouettes against the dark gray of impending dawn or not. He crouched to make himself a smaller target and held the Mourning Sword out in front of him. The glow of the runes faded, as though the sword knew not to give him away. A minute passed. Another. Sweat ran down Khirro’s brow despite the chill in the autumn air. Gathering himself, he moved forward.
After a dozen steps, the alley widened into a narrow courtyard. Windowless walls looked down onto bare ground and Khirro stood at the mouth of the alley, wishing for light. A heap lay in the middle of the courtyard, lumpy and angular and indistinguishable. He crouched again, straining to hear past the rush of blood in his ears, the rasp of breath in his throat. Swallowing, he stopped his breathing, tried to calm his thumping heart.
A noise.
The sound of cloth scraping against cloth from the heap lying in the middle of the yard. Khirro dropped his arm from his face and grasped the hilt of the Mourning Sword with both hands, the muscles in his arms bunching. Another sound, louder this time. The clink of steel? A thought sprang to Khirro’s mind.
What would Ghaul do?
The name brought a bad taste to his mouth, but he couldn’t deny the soldier-enemy or not-would have known how handle this, as he would have known how to handle any dangerous situation. Would he rush in and hope to catch the enemy off guard? Sneak up and surprise them? The lack of visible movement suggested the person must be resting or unconscious.
Ghaul would sneak up and slit their throats while they slept.
Disgusted at the thought, Khirro rose and inched forward. Each step brought the shape before him into clearer view until he saw it was more than one person lying on the ground. He stepped gingerly, closing the distance, silent like the tyger burning within him until his boot struck a stone. The rock skittered across the ground.
A flurry of movement froze him in his spot. The dark shape of some devil or monster rose into the air and he dove to the ground before recognizing the angry caw of the crow he’d disturbed. He rolled to his back and saw its dark shape outlined briefly against the sky before it disappeared beyond the top of the wall. It hollered at him from a distance, but he neither saw nor heard any other signs of life. Khirro climbed to his feet.
“Khirro?”
He whirled at the voice, blade flashing before him. Wisely, Athryn had halted several paces away. Khirro blinked and allowed the sword’s tip to dip toward the ground, embarrassed by his nervousness.
That’s not me anymore. I’m no longer the fearful dirt farmer.
“Are you all right?”
“Yes,” Khirro whispered as the magician came to his side. “You startled me. You and that crow.”
“It seems our entrance is unguarded and unnoticed.”
“Perhaps.” Khirro gestured over his shoulder. “Look at this.”
Five corpses in total lay in the street-four men and one woman. The woman’s rough spun dress was in tatters; two of the men wore no breeches. Athryn knelt and inspected the bodies, touching bare flesh with the back of his hand, lifting one man’s arm. Khirro watched.