"Stop! I saw something." Imar froze, turning from side to side, leaning slightly, as if about to throw. "No, I must have imagined it. My nerves are on edge, that's why... Let's go!"
The old man's whisper was barely audible, but to Ned, whose ears had grown accustomed to the silence of the tunnels and caves they'd been traversing for hours, the old Atroc's words seemed to thunder like the tolling of a bell. Perhaps, however, the strain of his nerves had heightened his hearing to that of a forest beast.
"This way!" Imar whispered, somehow miraculously finding the necessary passages and passages in the complete darkness—practically by touch, save for the phosphorescent wand he held in his hands. Its light was so weak, so diffuse, that even if he tried, it couldn't serve as a source of illumination.
The Northern Ispas didn't have cave passages like these. Incidentally, this is another reason why the Southern Ispas survived the Great Betrayal, when they wanted to quietly eliminate this Ispas as well—who needs a dangerous and powerful organization outside the authorities' control? Certainly not the king. But try finding Shirduan fighters in these passages, especially when a poisoned arrow or bolt could fly from behind every stone. There were attempts to clear the dungeons, but... after leaving around a thousand people dead, the authorities chose to forget about the elusive killers. The threat was declared destroyed, and the Shirduan sect was forgotten.
Ned and the old man climbed a long, sloping corridor lined with red brick, like a sewer pipe. The old man pulled back the bolt securing the hatch and paused, sniffing his hands, which were painted dark gray camouflage.
"They lubricated it. Someone lubricated the bolt. The rust was removed. The hatch was used, and quite recently. You have to be extremely careful."
"We're already being extremely careful!" Ned couldn't resist.
"When you get a poisoned arrow in your back, then you'll remember what I warned you about," Imar retorted grumpily. "Now, quiet down, stop talking and communicate using sign language."
Atrok slowly, slowly lifted the hatch cover, listened, and immediately put it back in place:
"Trouble. We're in trouble. Something's happened. Something that doesn't fit into our plan. Voices, noise, everyone's running. Most likely, Shirduan's fighters have infiltrated here and eliminated someone. I suggest we go home. The situation is too unpredictable."
"Let's think about who might have been eliminated if all the fuss is about Shirduan's fighters. Who could it be? Who might they be targeting in the royal palace?"
"The king," Imar snapped, "only the king. There's no one else influential, no one worth the trouble, in the palace tonight. Unless you count the prince. And they need the prince. They won't kill him. So, the king. They eliminated the king. What is this—impatience? A desire to seize power quickly? He was already dying! Wait a day or two, and that's it!"
"Or maybe he died himself? That's what all the fuss is about. A change of king is a big deal. And Shirduan's fighters were just peeking in and had nothing to do with his death..."
"Perhaps so," the old man admitted reluctantly. "But I don't believe in coincidences. Where Shirduan is, there's death. They did kill the king, after all, you'll see. So, shall we go back?"
"If we go back, the prince will already be on the throne tomorrow," Ned replied discontentedly. "And that means everything's up in smoke. And Sanda will most likely be killed. And all our plans will be ruined too. If we don't get to the prince now."
"You're basically right," Imar nodded. "But do you realize how dangerous it is in the palace right now? Amid all this chaos?"
"I don't think it's much more dangerous than before the fuss started. We just need to make sure no one stumbles upon us and that the amulets that divert attention don't wear off. Right now, there's a lot of commotion, people are confused—we could get caught up in the crush and slip through. We know where the prince's bedroom is. If he's not there, then he's in the library."
"Well, there's a point to it. We can't delay. You've made things difficult for us, but... well, let's go!"
The old man lifted the hatch cover and slid through the hole as nimbly as a young lizard. Ned followed.
The kitchen was empty, and the two men activated their amulets without interruption. Then they approached the door, and the atrok said with concern:
"There definitely were. Traces of witchcraft. They used a master key. They didn't lock it, they just covered it—see the piece of cloth, to seal it? That was to keep it from opening and revealing where they'd gone. Besides, they wouldn't have found the entrance anyway. The hatch, when closed, is invisible on the stone floor. Well, are you ready? Then let's go!"
This moment was the most dangerous – if someone saw that the kitchen door opened and closed by itself, and no one appeared from it, then…
Imar leaped through the crack between the door and the frame, Ned following him, and both were immediately forced to press themselves against the wall—people rushed down the corridor, oblivious to their surroundings. They were heatedly discussing something, and from fragments of conversation, Ned realized that the king had died. But they weren't looking for assassins—according to one of the servants, behind whom a pair of scouts set off down the corridor in the right direction, it turned out that the king had been killed by a drunken, mad guard who had committed suicide. And now they had sent for Hirsos of Amun, whom the king had named as the funeral director before his strange death; he should soon arrive at the palace.
The scouts exchanged glances, and the old man gestured: "Shirduan. They've staged an illusion. We need to hurry. Otherwise, we could get into trouble."
Following the servants, they reached the staircase they had seen on the palace plan.
All day before the sortie, both Ned and the old atroc carefully studied the palace plan that Cenerad had obtained for them from the Agar library, having torn a page from a book. The healer later grimaced and said it had cost him great mental and physical effort, as well as his underpants, soaked in the sweat of fear, and if Ned ever forgot this and abandoned the old healer without help, his seven generations would be cursed, for they would be the source of deformities. Amela grew angry and said that only men could make such idiotic jokes. To which Cenerad replied: who said they were jokes? If they found out how he had defaced a valuable book, not only would he never be allowed into the Agar library again, but he would also have to flee the capital again—why, they would ask, had he ruined the book by tearing out the palace plan if he hadn't intended to attack the lives of the crowned heads? The ones who had recently been murdered?
These stairs led to the library. They decided to visit it first, but they kept passing it. Rumor had it that the prince was an inveterate bookworm, staying in the library until the early hours.
The prince was a mysterious creature. No one could say anything good or bad about him. He never left the palace and never interacted with anyone. There was only one portrait of Bordonar—that of a ten-year-old boy. It hung on the wall in the Agar library, next to Iunacor's.
Senerad had to stare at the image for a long time in order to recreate it upon arrival using a special spell that pulled the image from memory.
The only question was how closely this image corresponded to the current prince's actual appearance. How could one recognize a rather mature youth, roughly the same age as Ned, from a portrait of a ten-year-old boy? The location of the prince's bedroom was also unknown. While the library was definitely still in place and hadn't been moved, the prince's bedroom could have been moved many times.
Both the first and second questions were resolved quite simply: a captive servant was needed. No one but the servants could point to the prince or tell him where his bedroom was. They decided to leave the question of capturing the servant for last; first, they had to visit the library.
The long staircase was deserted. Courtiers were rushing, bustling, and running in the corridor, but the path to knowledge, to the repository of wisdom, lay open and unguarded. Who needed these scrolls and books? There were more important matters—the funeral feast, the feast in honor of the accession to the throne. The master of ceremonies would arrive soon, and many would be in trouble if Amunsky was displeased. Almost all the servants in the house were his people; they feared this nobleman like fire.
The scouts climbed the worn, old parquet-covered steps, devoid of any carpets, to the second floor and found themselves before a door—tall, heavy, and ancient. Its brass handles gleamed dully in the light of a lone lantern, the wick of which someone had turned down, presumably to make it burn longer.
The men exchanged glances, and the old man made a gesture that meant, "There's someone in there!" Ned nodded and gently pulled the door open. It swung open silently and smoothly, not a creak breaking the silence. "Someone's oiled the hinges," Ned thought, and focused on the task. And the task was simple: find the prince.
Near the far shelf, lined with heavy tomes, someone was asleep on the sofa, snoring like a longshoreman. A guy of about eighteen or twenty, not very big, not very small—an ordinary guy, the kind you'd find on the street. He was dressed in simple trousers, worn leather ankle boots, and a jacket. His face was clean-shaven, but there was a cut on his chin—probably from careless razor blade shaving. Ned often got caught like that, too, especially when shaving with the Left's razor-sharp blade. He looked like he'd rip his neck open at any moment.
"Him?" Ned asked quietly, peering into the boy's face. "I wouldn't want to kill the wrong one. Don't you think he's a bit underdressed for a prince? I dress better than that..."
"Yes, something's wrong," Imar agreed. "And the prince's hair is lighter. Although the artist might have painted it as light, in reality it could be much darker."
"We need to wake him up and find out who he is. If it's the prince, that's one thing, but if it's one of the servants, he'll show us the prince's bedroom."
"We need him to see us," Imar remarked reasonably. "We're removing the illusion amulets. They don't work until they touch the skin, which means the charge lasts longer."
"I know. Even the kids know that. Kids from the Shirduan sect, of course," Ned chuckled.
"Yes, yes... I forgot again," the atrok chuckled. "Enough chatter. We're showing up."
They removed the amulets and placed them in the pockets of their camouflage suits. Then Ned walked up to the boy, who continued to snore like a boiling kettle, and firmly shook his shoulder:
- Hey, stop snoozing. Come on, get up!
The boy shuddered, twitched under Ned's hand and, opening his eyes, asked in fear:
"Who are you? I'm only here for a short while, just to sleep! Gentlemen, don't scold me, I'm just a simple servant, not a robber, I wasn't planning on taking anything from here!"
"Shut up," Imar sighed, dissatisfied and disappointed. "Who are you? What's your name?"
"I'm Assur, the groom's assistant! No one comes here at night, the sofa is comfortable, and the prince doesn't scold me if I sleep here. I'm an orphan, so I have nowhere to live. Except with the grooms. And they're rude—they drink, swear, smoke weed—it's disgusting. It's nice and quiet here..."
"So you can recognize the prince by sight?" Ned asked. "And you know where his bedroom is?"
"Of course I know," the guy blinked. "I see him every day, yes. I can find out. Have you come to kill him?"
"What business is it of yours? Even if we kill you!" Imar growled. "Watch your own life and pray to all the gods that we don't twist your head off. Get up. Show me where the prince's bedroom is. Is he there now?"
"How can I know where the prince is? Are you kidding me? He's a big shot and goes wherever he pleases! But I'll show you the bedroom. He's probably there, yes. It's night, after all... But how will you get in? They'll spot you right away, and me too! And then they'll chop off my head for bringing murderers into the house!"
"They won't cut us off. We'll disappear now," Imar chuckled and put the amulet around his neck, tucking it under his shirt. "Is that okay?"
"Great!" the guy exclaimed in admiration. "So, yes, we can go through. And you too?"
"Me too," Ned nodded and put on his amulet.
A few seconds later, the scouts were already walking towards the door following the servant, who had been warned that if anything happened, he would die first.
The boy strode briskly, the scouts, protected by amulets, barely keeping up with him, and Ned even had to whisper that if the groom lost his pursuers, he'd get a knife in the back of the head, which would make it difficult for him to chew. The boy slowed down a bit, and everything went smoothly from there.
Passing the servants, the trio walked through the entire second floor and found themselves in front of an inconspicuous door, like everything else here, made well and with high quality, from durable oak, covered with varnish.
Assur nodded towards the door and said in a low voice:
"The prince lives here. I won't go in there, please let me go. I've done everything you wanted—I brought you to the prince. If I go in there, I'll be in trouble. Please let me go..."
"No way," Imar chuckled. "You'll go in there and point us to the prince. If he's there, I'll spare your life."
"Really? You promise?" the guy asked hopefully. "You won't cheat?"
"I always keep my word," Imar said grimly, gesturing to Ned. "Be on your guard. I don't like this guy! He's too quick! And a traitor. He betrayed his master, and he'll betray anyone. He's a corrupt creature!"
The boy pushed the door open, stepped over the threshold, and stepped aside, toward the wall. The scouts followed him in, prepared for anything. At least, that's what they thought.
Ned glanced around – at the walls of the long, windowless room, hung with weapons, at the guardsmen frozen in shock in full combat armor, lined up in a square – apparently some kind of formation in connection with the coming events – looked back at the guy busily locking the door and throwing the key somewhere to the side, and whispered to Imar, whose eyes widened in surprise:
– A trap. This is not the groom's assistant. This is the prince. Grab him!
The prince, not being a fool, rushed forward so fast that the floor beneath him almost began to smoke, ran into the very thick of the guards and screamed in a breaking voice:
- Scouts! Kill them! Kill them! They came to kill me!
The guards' commander glanced around in bewilderment, and the soldiers began to look around too—they saw no one around. The commander shrugged and asked:
– Did Mr. Prince see someone in the corridor? Was someone chasing you?
"No! They're here! They're wearing invisibility amulets! They forced me to come here—I said I was the groom's assistant and would lead them to the prince. They want to kill me! Don't let them near me!"
"Alright, your future royal majesty," the commander shrugged. "Serrik, Aus, Ista, Krast, Marm, Gort, surround the prince and take him to the far corner! The rest of you, stand shoulder to shoulder, shields raised, weapons drawn! Stand close to the wall. We're moving toward the exit, slowly and carefully. If they're here, we'll push them out. Hey, you idiots, you better surrender, you don't stand a chance! There are too many of us, fifty of us here! And there are fifty of us in the break room! Come on, guys, it looks like they don't understand human language."
The soldiers lined up at the opposite wall, where the prince huddled in the corner, protected by powerful bodies in steel armor, and they walked forward, holding their swords in front of them and cutting the air with them.
"To the walls!" Imar gestured, pulling out his Tiger Paws—special gauntlets with razor-sharp spikes that can be used to climb trees, the walls of houses, and even kill people just as effectively as a forest beast with its claws. Luckily for the scouts, the walls of the room were lined with wooden plates, covered with numerous marks from the guards' training. These scars from dull steel swords were so numerous that only a highly experienced observer would have been able to discern the scars from the steel Tiger Paws. But who would have guessed that a human could climb walls like a spider or a fly?
The scouts ran up to the walls, chose places free of hanging weapons, and, driving spikes into the walls, quickly climbed up, above the head level of the tallest of the guards, pressing themselves against the wooden plates and praying to the gods that the charges of the amulets would not run out while they were sitting on top.
The squad walked all the way to the door. Naturally, they found no one and froze, awaiting orders.
"You see, Prince, you're imagining things," the commander said, slightly reproachfully but respectfully. "Let's escort you to your bedroom and post a guard outside. No one will get through, not even a mouse, let alone some scouts! Calm down and let's go get some rest—you need to prepare for tomorrow's coronation ceremony. You must be rested and handsome, so you can show your radiant face to the people."
"They're here! They're hiding here! What do you think I am, an idiot or something? What are you talking about," Bordonar suddenly changed the subject. "What coronation?! While the king is still alive?"
"Didn't you know? Your father, King Iunacor, gave up his soul to the gods tonight. I offer you my sincere condolences," the commander said respectfully, dropping to one knee and bowing his head before the prince. Everyone did the same, except for those guarding Bordonar, who shielded him with their bodies. Ned noted the professionalism of the guards.
– So that's it. That's why they're here… Hey, you murderers! I know you can hear me! I'll still get you! Whatever! Guys, they're here! If they were on the floor and now they're gone, where could they have gone? On the walls. They're on the walls! They couldn't have gotten through you, so they must have climbed the walls. Sergeant, line everyone up in the center, get the campers up, we'll smoke the idiots off the walls. Follow the walls, look for scratches. Fresh scratches. They could have gotten onto the walls with a Tiger Paw – that thing for climbing walls! I've read about one! Everyone, move! Hurry! Do not open the front door under any circumstances!
"We're in deep trouble! And you've shit yourself like a donkey. But you're young, so how could this old donkey get caught? How could we not recognize the prince in this guy? He's dressed poorly, you see! Idiots!"
– You know what, you should have kept quiet. You kept quiet for two days, and you should have kept quiet some more! Where have you been?
"But you didn't want to listen to me. You wanted to think for yourself. So you came up with this idea. You sensed something was wrong with the boy! The old ass sensed it! You saw him walk past the servants and they parted for him! You thought it was strange! By the way, why are you following Imar's lead? I'm keeping an eye on his actions – back in Northern Ispas, the most worthless atroc was far stronger and more skilled than this Great One! Even a former one! Why are you looking back at him? Command! Decide! You're the elder! Magic? No magic? What does magic have to do with it? This isn't about magic. Mages aren't commanded by mages, but by rulers, so what? Mages obey. Do as you deem necessary, and that's that! And by the way, which demon did you decide to spare the prince? You decided in advance, even before you came here. Why?"
"Because the boy didn't deserve to die. He didn't, and that's that. And if I kill him, I'll become like you. And that's not good. And also, it's not profitable to kill him. While he's alive, he's bargaining chip. A threat. We can exchange him for Sanda—if we have to. We can kill him, if necessary—I can decide to do that—the lives of Sanda and my friends will naturally outweigh the life of one boy who had the misfortune of being born a prince. And I'm not ashamed to admit it.
"Ha! What's so shameful?! Your own life is more important, of course! So, what are you going to do? Climb to the ceiling? They'll pierce our butts with spears. And remember, the amulets will wear off soon? Then the real fun will begin! Come on, Brother Ned."
- You're not my brother! And anyway, sit down and shut up!
"Aha! And you'll be ruining this body by stabbing it through the ass! Thank you! Use your brain a little and figure it out – the old fart is frozen on the wall like a piece of shit, and you're right there too! If you don't find a way out within five minutes, all is lost. By the way, the prince is a smart one! Remember what Silena said about him? That he's not such a moron as everyone thinks, even though he's a bookworm, a scribbler. Not all scribblers and bookworms are morons, incapable of defending themselves from their enemies. Did you see how quickly he reacted to your appearance? He lay there with his eyes closed, listening to you asses talking, plotting your schemes. And then he came up with his own version and fed it to the asses!"
– Stop calling us donkeys, you bloodthirsty maniac! Shut up, you brute!
- That's it, don't get mad, I'm leaving... Don't you love the truth? And what are you? Donkeys! Ha, ha, ha!
Ned almost snorted in indignation, but his brain, preoccupied with the conversation, continued to work tensely, as it always did in moments of dire danger. And when the door to the other room opened, admitting a new squad of guardsmen—sleepy, half-dressed, but determined and dangerous—Ned nodded to Imar, who was watching him half-turned: "Let's go!" And they, like two giant spiders, began to move quickly along the wall, trying not to disturb the shields and swords nailed to the boards.
The scouts moved toward the break room—where no one would expect them. They would reach the prince later. In any case, if they were captured here, they would never reach the prince. So they had no choice.
The door opened and closed like a trap, ready to snag an unwary intruder.
Ned gestured to Imar, "You first!" He nodded affirmatively, moved to the door, and when it opened again, jumped down behind the soldiers and darted through the doorway. A couple of minutes later, Ned did the same, and a couple of minutes after that, they were lying under one of the far cot beds, their shoulders pressed together and pressed to the floor like two cornered rats.
The air smelled of cat meat, foot wraps, stale linen, and alcohol. "But it's better than the smell of blood, especially his own," Ned decided. The soldiers were chattering, and the sound of blows could be heard—they were hacking at the walls, jabbing them and the ceiling with spears adorned with sharpened, sword-like tips—the kind Ned had left behind in the Corps barracks.
"I wouldn't want to get hit in the side or in more private places with such a spear," Ned thought.
"How much charge is left on the amulets?" the sergeant asked, almost silently, just with his lips.
"I don't know," Imar replied, just as barely audible. "Just a little. If they don't leave in fifteen minutes, we'll have to fight. You'll kill the prince. I can't kill that creature."
"Why can't you?" Ned chuckled.
"Because I promised not to kill him. And you didn't. Forgive me, am I getting old or something... I don't like myself today. Such gross mistakes... I should have interrogated the guy on the spot, injected him with truth serum and bound him with a truth spell, but I rushed it. I thought I'd be hard to fool. And then some brat went and... well, take command, Ned. I'm not worthy of command. Shame. Shame on me."
- What a disgrace! You old ass!
– Stop calling him an old donkey! He's not an donkey!
"You think the hallmark of a donkey is its ears and tail? You're wrong... Let's make a bet: the prince will come here any minute and announce that the enemies are hiding in this room and it's time to exterminate them."
– I won't argue. Most likely, that's what will happen.
"Then get your swords ready. And let the old donkey prepare his spells..."
– Prepare your spells. We will fight. They will be here soon.
"They'll come, yes. We won't sit back," the old man sighed. "Well, we'll show them what Great Atrok is. They shouldn't have messed with us. They should have let them go. The prince is clever, clever, but still stupid—he desperately wants revenge for his fear. But overall, he's a smart boy. You know, he's more suited to be king than your Sanda is to be queen, that's for sure..."
He wasn't given the chance to finish. The door burst open with a bang, and guards poured out, filling the room like spring waters filling a forest pond. Their numbers grew, they formed a line, and from behind them came the prince's voice:
"They're there, for sure! They ran into another room—they have nowhere else to go. Hit them, boys! Their amulets are about to run out of power, I heard them say that!"
"Bitch!" Imar whispered, crawling out from under the bed and shaking off the cobwebs, moldy crumbs, dust, and dirt. The amulet must have worn off, because the soldiers roared in unison:
– There they are! One! No, two! The prince wasn't lying! Well done! Grab them, push them against the wall! Be careful, boys, and try to take them alive – we'll have to interrogate them!
"Well, screw you," Imar said sullenly and, raising his hands up, shouted out a spell to summon demons.
The air smelled of a toilet, then roses, then bread, garbage, sea waves... and the entire crowd of soldiers fell down, clutching their stomachs and rolling on the floor in pain.
"Sorry, guys, we just want to live," Imar muttered and, moving his hands, sent another batch of demons to the new batch of soldiers who had entered the room.
The soldiers groaned, blood poured from their mouths, and Ned knew—in a few minutes, they would die. Not one of them would live longer than half an hour. And the horror was that most of them were good men, they had their own mothers and fathers, wives and children, beloved girls—and now they were forced to die on a floor worn by thousands of feet in hobnailed boots. And only because they had honestly fulfilled their duty. These men were not enemies, not adversaries—ordinary soldiers who had joined the military to earn a little money. Like himself.
Ned almost threw up at the thought.
Yuragor's voice, coming from within his consciousness, saved him:
" What are you standing there for, idiot? Get to the prince, cut down the rest, and run away! Otherwise, all your suffering, all your labors will be in vain, and Sanda will be killed! And they'll kill the old donkey who's lost his nerve! Run! Run, Ned, don't hesitate!"
And Ned ran. In his hands snaked dull gray blades covered in patterns like frost ligatures, his eyes glowed like two red coals, and his face was pale and determined, as if he were going into his last battle.
Ned didn't notice the guardsmen groaning beneath his feet, didn't notice the corpses he strode over like a charging buffalo toward his goal. Getting the prince and killing anyone who stood in his way—that was the primary objective.
The guard was already reaching for the lock with the key, trying to open the door and lead out the prince, who realized that the victims had turned into hunters, when Ned immediately chopped off the soldier's hand, which was inserting the key into the keyhole.
With his second blow, he cut the throat of the guard standing next to the prince; blood from the severed hand and from the broken throat drenched the prince from head to toe, and the boy staggered, almost fainting.
The other bodyguards attacked Ned, trying to reach him with heavy swords and a spear—but no use! He dispatched them in seconds; the steel of his armor proved ineffective against the demonic swords. Good, strong, but ordinary, it crumbled under the blows of the super-sharp steel as if it were made of paper.
A minute later, it was all over. The prince was left standing alone, surrounded by hacked corpses.
Bordonar was pale. He stared at Ned with unblinking blue eyes, as if trying to memorize the visage of his killer and carry it into the afterlife—perhaps one day they would meet and he would take revenge on the scoundrel. The prince was pale, but his voice, though quiet, was firm when he asked his question:
- For what? You don't want me to sit on the throne?
"Yes, we don't want you on the throne," Ned confirmed, his voice tense. "Sorry, lad, nothing personal. You were simply in the wrong place at the wrong time. You're clever, you almost got it. But we're not simple assassins."
"I already understand," the prince sighed. "Please, when you kill me, make sure I don't suffer. Kill me cleanly. What a pity I didn't finish my treatise on the history of magic... and didn't conceive a child. Wait a second, I'll pray to the Creator..." He paused, then added, craning his neck upward: "Go ahead, I'm ready!"
And Ned struck.