Haddan hurried inside with Wryth and rubbed his chin as he stared at the spreading pool of blood. “A shame. Anskar was a good man and a better soldier. I had hoped one day to sway him to our cause.”
Mikaen did not care. The matter had been settled. Instead, he eyed Wryth. “The general said you have something urgent to address.”
Wryth found his voice after the initial shock. “Yes. Word has just reached me, of a lost weapon that might yet be retrieved from Cloudreach. And Vythaas readies another set of weapons to aid us in our cause.”
Mikaen frowned. “What weapons?”
Wryth told him.
Mikaen paled and stared back at Anskar’s body.
And here I thought I was ruthless.
41
MIKAEN STOOD ATOP the deck of the warship Tytan, named after the god of storms. The massive gasbag hung overhead, swaying like an anxious horse. The balloon’s draft-iron cables groaned all around. Six levels below and under the craft’s thick keel, men scurried about the docks, readying the ship for departure.
Across the field, a similar skirmish was waged around a second warship, the Pywll, christened after the giant who held up the skies. This morning, only one such craft had been scheduled to depart for Cloudreach, but after what his father had learned in the Shrivenkeep, King Toranth had ordered the Pywll to join the Tytan. He intended to stop this insurrection before it had a chance to start.
Mikaen appreciated his father’s resolve.
He watched a dozen Mongers, armored Gyn brawlers in leather and carrying axes and steel maces, file into the stern of the Pywll. They were followed by chained thylassaurs, even a pair of steel-helmed scythers, massive hunting cats with fangs jutting past their snarling lips.
He also knew each warship carried a full century of knights and a score of Vyrllian Guards, along with half again as many horses. The flanks of the Tytan, like its twin, bristled with draft-iron cannons and giant ballistas seated with iron-tipped spears. Along the ships’ lower flanks, small doors hid stocks of barrels, ready to rain alchymical fires on the lands below.
Mikaen knew such power was not solely to burn out the seeds of a burgeoning insurrection—but also to salt the ground afterward. After such a blazing show of force in the highlands, none would dare raise a voice, let alone a sword, against the king. Likewise, it would rally the people around the Massif flag. Mikaen had learned how a pageantry of force could flame the hearts of the common folk to a more fervent pride in their king and kingdom.
But Mikaen also knew this spectacle was not only for their own people—but also for the armies of the Southern Klashe. The act would be a fiery flag waved at the lands to the south. Hálendii had twenty more ships like the Tytan and Pywll, moored here and at strategic locations throughout the kingdom. Word would spread from the highlands to the Klashe, showcasing the king’s resolve and warning of the futility of any attack.
Mikaen rubbed a cuff of his sleeve on the breastplate of his light armor. He honed its surface to a silver sheen in the shadows of the massive gasbag, recognizing there was one final aim behind all this ferocity. It was why Mikaen had decided to follow Anskar’s lead and don his armor before striding across the war docks to the Tytan. His father wanted his son’s esteem to shine brighter. If war truly came, the people would know they had a thunderous king and a son forged of deadly silver to protect them.
Mikaen stared to the east, to the cliffs of Landfall. Maybe it was better that the assassination attempt on Kanthe had failed in the swamps. It would have been an ignoble end for his brother, the final tally of a debauched life. Now Kanthe’s death would serve a greater purpose for the kingdom. The Prince in the Cupboard would be cast as the dark usurper, slain by the kingdom’s shining heir.
Mikaen sighed toward those misty highlands.
Thank you, brother. Your blood will polish my armor even brighter.
The firm pound of boots drew his attention to the deck of the Tytan. His father approached, draped in full royal regalia, all dark blues and polished black leather. He looked like a storm cloud on the move.
Mikaen met his father, ready to drop a knee and say his good-byes.
Instead, Toranth grabbed his son and hugged him hard. “I know this is a hard task I ask of you, Mikaen.” He released the prince and held him at arm’s length, gripping his shoulders. “But know this. I would not be angry if you simply brought your brother home. I believe I would even welcome it.”
Mikaen bowed his head, trying to hide his disappointment in his father. Even now, faced with insurrection, the king refused to harden his generous heart. Mikaen fought to keep the bitterness out of his voice, reminding himself that he would be merciless steel in his father’s stead, wielding death where it was needed.
Mikaen cleared his throat to speak. “Father, I will do all in my power to return Kanthe to Highmount. This I promise.”
Toranth nodded, satisfied. “I know you will. As to the girl who was prophesied to bring ruin, she must be slain with no quarter given to those who aid her.”
Mikaen dropped to a knee. “It will be done,” he said, again hiding yet another lie in his heart, one recently seeded there.
After the bloody events in the Shrivenkeep, he had considered if there might be a better use for the girl, a young woman of mysterious power and shadowed lineage. I could keep her for myself. He sensed she could become a strategic piece in a grander game of Knights n’ Knaves. He even weighed bedding her, half-sister or not, and drawing her power into his own lineage.
The ship’s horn sounded and was echoed in turn by the dockmaster down below. The Tytan was readying to disembark. Across the field, the same resounding notes rose around the Pywll.
Mikaen stood back up.
His father clasped him by the forearm, finally saying his good-bye. “I know you will do me proud, Mikaen.”
“Thank you, Father.” He placed a fist on his breastplate, over where the Massif house sigil had been engraved into its silvery steel. “Long may you rule.”
His father offered a rare smile, like a sun through thunderclouds, then turned and headed off the warship.
Mikaen watched him depart, only to have his eyes drawn to Haddan and Wryth. The two had their heads bowed together by the other rail, looking like they were arguing. He strode across the deck. They both looked his way, straightening when he joined them.
“Is something amiss?” he asked the pair.
Haddan’s hard countenance was even stonier. “Once we reach Cloudreach, Shrive Wryth wishes to divert the Pywll to pursue his stolen artifact, which he believes to be somewhere northeast of Lake Eitur.”
Mikaen turned to Wryth. “The bronze woman?”
The Shrive folded his hands into the wide sleeves of his gray robe. His tattoo-shadowed eyes were narrow slits of fury. “I received word shortly ago from the Shrivenkeep. A refinement of calculations that offers a more precise location of this weapon. It must be secured before it vanishes again. With war pending, we cannot risk losing it, especially to the Klashe.”
Even as a prince, Mikaen could not command these ships. He was still only an eighthyear at the Legionary. His father had rightfully assigned Liege General Haddan to lead this assault. Still, both men looked to him to resolve this dispute, perhaps knowing he would be king one day, or maybe it was a measure of respect for how coldly he had dispatched Anskar. Most likely they looked to him because they needed a wind—any wind—to push their stalled sails in one direction or the other.