Seven Sorcerers(132)
Sixty spearmen in green-gold corslets and winged helms stood in a double line across the center of the hall. Behind them lingered the usual crowds of courtiers and highborns who perpetually filled the palace. Undroth and Volomses, whose titles had been elevated to that of Warlord and Royal Vizier, stood to either side of the throne. Upon a flower-decked balcony twelve minstrels played a symphony of welcome to honor the Khyrein representative.
Hu Yuan, Hand of the Avenger, Envoy of New Khyrei, entered the hall with a modest retinue of servants as a herald announced his titles. Hu Yuan’s robes were crimson and black, trimmed with silver thread, and his almond eyes were dark and keen. His sable hair was tied into a topknot above his head, with a single braid falling the length of his back. His presence might have been menacing but for the pleasant smile on his face. He carried a golden coffer in his hands, a gift for the Emperor of Uurz.
Lyrilan marveled at the man’s distinct beauty, for he had seen few living Khyreins up close. Hu Yuan’s skin was pale as milk, a striking contrast with his black hair and eyes.
He bowed low and greeted Lyrilan in the common tongue of the Five Cities with a perfect accent. “Great Emperor of the Stormlands, Scholar King of Uurz, Lord of the Sacred Waters, Son of Dairon. This one brings you greetings from the High King of New Khyrei, His Majesty Tong the Avenger. He offers you peace, friendship, and brotherhood.”
Lyrilan returned the envoy’s smile. “You are most welcome here, Hu Yuan,” he said. “Long have I awaited the day when such a message would arrive from the black city.”
Hu Yuan lifted the golden coffer. “This one brings also a gift from his King for the Emperor of the Stormlands.” One of the envoy’s attendants stepped forward to unlock and open the coffer lid. Hu Yuan dropped to one knee, offering Lyrilan a clear view into the box. Precious stones in seven colors sparkled there like frozen flames.
Volomses came down the steps to accept the coffer for Lyrilan. Such a splendid gift was common as the first step in reaching any accord between monarchs. It was a good beginning.
As Volomses took the coffer into his bony fingers, the Uurzian guards on either side of the envoy rushed forward. At first Lyrilan thought they meant to slay his guest, but in the next second he realized they were rushing the dais, not the ambassador. One of their armored shoulders collided with Volomses and sent him tumbling. The box of jewels spilled its contents across the floor of polished marble.
A spearman rushed at Undroth, and two more lunged at the guards stationed directly behind the throne. A fourth man had dropped his spear to unsheathe a dark longblade. A great fire opal flashed on its pommel. As the swordsman leaped up the steps toward the throne, other spearmen behind him turned to strike at their brothers.
Lyrilan saw the face of Mendices beneath the visor of the winged helm. The long nose and heavy brows were unmistakable. The clangor of spears against shields filled the air, and the death grunts of impaled men. The Khyrein envoy and his attendants cowered at the foot of the dais. They were caught helpless in the middle of this sudden coup.
Undroth turned a spear-thrust from his belly with the blade of his broadsword. The dais guards engaged the two men charging at them. Mendices stepped between them all and thrust his blade at the Emperor’s heart.
Yet the Blade of Gyron never reached Lyrilan’s breast. Mendices drove his arm forward in a strike both straight and true, but his sword had become a pale vapor rising from his fist and fading into nothingness.
Lyrilan smiled at the empty-handed assassin. “You made the wrong choice,” he said.
Mendices’ eyes grew round as Lyrilan breathed another, less identifiable series of words into his face. He shivered and fell at the Scholar King’s feet, a bag of splintered bones and torn flesh. A small cry escaped his lips, and twin streams of crimson spilled from his mouth to run along his cheeks. The winged helm fell from his head.
Undroth struck down the rebel accosting him, sinking his broadsword deep into the man’s skull. The dais defenders drove their foes backward with clever spear-thrusts, down to the bottom of the polished steps, where they impaled them almost at once. Only the most skilled of spearmen were selected to stand this close to the throne, and here was evidence of their worth.
Between the avenue of pillars, the remaining rebels were being cut down. Some attempted to flee when they saw the coup had failed. More guards rushed into the hall and skewered them without mercy. In all, fifteen rebels were killed in a matter of moments, with only three of Lyrilan’s loyal spearmen lost. Somehow, Mendices had persuaded fifteen men to join his foolish vendetta. The former Warlord lay still alive, yet broken and dying, at the foot of the throne.