“Something’s not right,” Gavril said, his voice overly loud in the empty square.
Tamas checked his second pistol. His leg burned, even through his deep powder trance, and he was forced to limp. “They may have fled.”
They approached the main doors. One of the pair of double doors was open a crack. Tamas peeked through. He could see nothing but the stone walls of the cathedral entrance hall. His men dismounted, securing their horses, and Tamas nodded to Andriya. “Five men,” he said.
Andriya called out names. The soldiers took position around the door, then threw it open and leapt inside. Their feet echoed in the recesses of the building as they charged through the entrance hall and into the nave. Tamas held his breath, waiting for the crack of rifles and the shouts of fighting men, his muscles tensed to lead the rest of his men inside.
Silence.
“The bastard ran,” Tamas said, shoving his pistol back into his belt.
“Sounds like it,” Gavril agreed.
“Didn’t even have the guts to tell his personal guard.” Tamas kicked the wall and immediately regretted it. He swore under his breath and listened to the sound of his cuirassiers’ footsteps as they cleared the room inside. “Let’s go.”
He limped into the entrance hall only to come within a pace of colliding with Andriya.
“Sir,” Andriya said, his face pale. “You should see this.”
Tamas exchanged a glance with Gavril. Anything that had Andriya worried couldn’t be good.
He saw the first body as he came around the corner. One of Ipille’s elite – green-on-tan uniform with gilded trim and a gray undercoat. The woman’s sword was half-drawn, and she’d been shot in the heart from close range. The next two bodies were mere feet apart, two more of Ipille’s elite locked in battle, knives buried in each other.
Tamas entered the nave, his eyes brushing past the immense columns that marched down the center of the room to hold the dome aloft, looking at the battlefield lain out before him. Well over a hundred of Ipille’s elite lay dead or dying. He even caught sight of two dead Wardens. He opened his third eye, but there wasn’t a hint of sorcery in the room.
“What the pit happened?” Gavril said.
Tamas pointed toward the front of the nave. “I bet he knows.”
Using his sheathed sword as a cane, with one pistol in his other hand, Tamas limped his way toward the Diocel’s chair at the front of the room. In the chair sat Ipille, his immense bulk overflowing the armrests. He was pinned in place by a small sword with a jeweled hilt, and the marble floor around the chair was slick with his blood. At the foot of the dais sat a haggard-looking man in his early forties, chin in hand, staring blankly at Tamas.
He wore the uniform of a Kez general, and his resemblance to the fat corpse in the chair was plain. After all, he was Ipille’s oldest son.
The prince stood as Tamas drew near, and presented his sword hilt-first. Tamas came to a halt and gazed at the sword. He suddenly felt very tired. “Florian je Ipille. It appears you have committed a coup.”
Florian seemed to flinch away from the corpse just over his shoulder. “I have done my duty as the crown prince. I have freed my people of a war they could not win. On behalf of the Kez nation, I surrender my sword to Field Marshal Tamas.”
Tamas put away his pistol and took Florian’s sword, holding it up to the light. “This is Ipille’s sword.”
“It is the king’s sword. I am now king.”
Tamas wondered what Kez law would say to that. Or Florian’s younger brother, Beon. He wasn’t familiar with the finer points of Kez succession, especially when it came to coups. This had all the ingredients of a Kez civil war all over it. But that wasn’t Tamas’s concern. “You ask for terms?”
“That the Kez people be treated fairly in a court of their sister nations. That Adro and Deliv immediately cease their attacks on the Kez army, both within and without our borders.”
“I have two immediate conditions for your surrender, in addition to those that will come later.”
“Name them.”
“That you order your men to stand down.”
“Lororlia!” Florian shouted. “Are you still alive?” A figure emerged from the recesses of the nave, a Kez woman with black hair and hawkish eyes, wearing the uniform of a Kez colonel. She walked with a pronounced limp and clutched at her arm.
“Yes, my lord?”
“Send word to our officers. Our men are to stand down at once.”
Lororlia looked to Tamas and he thought he saw a spark of defiance there. “Yes, my lord.” She limped off.
Tamas turned to Gavril. “Send one of our cuirassiers back to the front. Tell our men to accept the surrender of the Kez immediately and to withdraw outside the city walls – all except the infantry of the Seventh. They’re to begin the disarmament of the Kez army.” Tamas glanced at Florian and saw a smile at the corner of his lips. He suspected that there was more to this coup than a means to end the war. “And,” he added in a lowered voice, “get Beon somewhere safe. Put him under heavy guard. I don’t want him getting a knife in the back. Pit, you better go yourself.”
Gavril strode from the room, taking several of the cuirassiers with him.
“What else?” Florian asked.
“Surrender the body of the god Kresimir.”
Florian’s eyebrows went up. “Bah. It’s in the Diocel’s chambers over there. Take it. He has brought us nothing but sorrow.”
“Secure that body, Andriya,” Tamas ordered. “Don’t touch it.”
“Is that all?”
Tamas straightened and held Florian’s sword at arm’s length. “Florian je Ipille, I accept your surrender on behalf of the Adran and Deliv alliance. May Adom smile upon the end of this bloody war.”
Chapter 43
Taniel and Vlora each rode three horses to collapsing as they followed the Brudanian Privileged up the Counter’s Road and east toward Adopest.
They ate up the miles, and Taniel knew they must be gaining on their quarry as they drew closer and closer to the city. His body shuddered from exhaustion, while his mind was a chaotic knot of fear, anger, and hope. There were not many miles left, and if Adopest was in the hands of the Brudanians as Vlora had said, they needed to catch up to Ka-poel and her captors before they entered the city.
They continued on, no words between them, until they rode over a hill and saw Adopest resting on the tip of the Adsea in the distance. Taniel’s mind buzzed from a powder trance, his body sagging beneath days without sleep.
They had had to leave Gavril and Norrine behind. Gavril had gone south to try to warn Tamas about the Brudanian trickery, while Norrine had stayed with their couple of wounded to oversee the Brudanian prisoners. Taniel had not wanted to abandon her, but he knew that he and Vlora would travel the fastest alone.
“There,” Vlora said.
Taniel shook his head to clear his vision and focused on a party just outside the city limits. There were nine riders, and even at a distance he could tell by the overcoat, hat, and small frame that one was Ka-poel. They left a dust cloud behind them as they hurried for the anonymous streets of the city, and Taniel’s hopes of catching them before they reached the city walls were dashed.
He did not reply to Vlora, but leaned over the neck of his horse, urging it forward.
They reached the edge of High Talien on Adopest’s west side less than an hour later. Taniel could feel panic rising in his chest as the midmorning crowds closed in around him, his horse foaming at the mouth, sides shuddering. The Brudanians were gone, and along with them the chances of getting Ka-poel back.
“Taniel.” He heard Vlora’s voice as if far in the distance. “Taniel, we won’t find them now.”
He whirled on her. “I will. I will find them, the bastards. If I have to kill every Brudanian I cross, I will get Ka-poel back.”