Kellanved's Reach

He nodded, his teeth clenching in effort. ‘Save him,’ he snarled, then slumped back, limp.

Iko pressed his eyes shut then ran for the throne room.

Entering, she found a press of Fedal family troops and Dal Hon allies, probably elite infantry. Before the empty throne stood a heavy-set woman Iko knew from official functions. The woman wore her long black hair piled high on her head in a complicated arrangement and favoured loose flowing silk robes; the Marquessa of family Fedal.

‘Who are you?’ the marquessa called, one thick black brow arched.

Iko turned and calmly locked the doors behind her, then retightened her two-handed grip, readying the weapon. ‘Where is the king?’

‘Do you really know how to use that blade?’ the marquessa enquired sceptically.

‘Where is the king?’

The marquessa merely waved her troops forward. ‘Oh, please kill the fool.’

Iko charged to meet them all.

They closed on all sides – which was exactly what Iko wanted as she spun, the blade whirling about, spinning with her. Fighting now, she became suddenly quite calm as she eased into her so-familiar battle presence. Blood splashed the walls as the whipsword slashed and lashed about her. In moments all were down, the Fedal troops and the Dal Hon elites, though these were the last to fall. The marquessa stared dumbfounded as Iko closed upon her. Backing away, the woman tripped over the raised dais and fell.

‘Where is the king!’ Iko bellowed.

‘Taken away,’ the marquessa stammered.

‘Where?’

Her eyes flicked north – the river – and Iko straightened. Taken by boat, no doubt.

‘You cannot kill me!’ the marquessa almost squeaked, a hand at her breast.

Iko peered down at her. ‘Yes I can.’ And she slashed her throat.

She charged straight for the riverfront where naval vessels docked, and the royal barges and pleasure-craft could be found. She scanned the docks, spotted one such royal craft readying to depart, and ran for it.

The lines had been slipped and a mixture of sailors and troops on the broad deck were poling away from the pier. Some stared, pointing.

Running, Iko leapt and slammed down hard on the stern-piece. The barge’s pilot reached for her, one hand on the tiller. She slashed his arm and he stared, gaping, at his severed wrist. Releasing the tiller, he clamped the stump between his legs, screaming.

The sailors flinched from her but the troops closed, drawing their weapons.

As the barge lazily curled its way downriver towards the harbour, Iko stalked the deck, killing. These men and women proved the most resilient. She could tell they were veterans – probably cashiered or deserted Itko Kan infantry. They parried and counterattacked, but her own training was that of an expert and these veterans, though competent, fell one by one as Iko advanced upon the bows.

Here the obvious leader awaited her, shortsword held negligently in one hand, no doubt an officer herself. The barge spun rudderless now, as most of the sailors had jumped ship.

‘Who are you?’ the woman called.

‘Where is the king?’ Iko demanded. ‘Tell me, or I will kill you!’

The woman nodded as if considering, then drew back a tarp at her feet, revealing the lad, gagged and wrapped in chains. Chulalorn the Fourth stared up at Iko, his eyes huge.

‘Don’t worry,’ she told him soothingly. ‘It will be all right.’

‘They told me to get rid of him,’ the veteran officer said. ‘No trace. No burial site. No cairn or tomb for remembrance … and now you want me to give him to you.’

Iko nodded, her whipsword held ready. ‘Do that and I will let you live.’

‘I can think of a third option,’ the officer said. And she took hold of the lad’s chains and raised him up to set him on the edge of the barge. ‘I think that you will let me live … if I do this.’ And she pushed the boy over the edge, where he disappeared with a splash into the river.

‘Nooooo!’ Iko dived off the barge.

The waters of the Itko river were dark and silty. Abandoning her whipsword, Iko felt about, grasping at the muddy bottom until her screaming lungs forced her to surface for one desperate gulp of air before submerging once more to search again.

Again and again she did so, her breathing ragged, coughing on the dirty water, squeezing mud between her fingers as she searched on and on. But she found nothing. The weak current had drawn her some way past where the lad had fallen and she just floated now, almost unconscious, limp, pulled along towards the harbour.

She lay staring up at the cloudy sky as she drifted along. Then, resolutely, she threw her arms back and ducked her head under, exhaling all her breath. Holding herself under, lips clenched, eventually she could resist her body no longer and her lungs convulsed, drawing in a great spasm of water. She flailed then, her body clawing towards the surface where sunlight rippled so close above, in a last desperate bid to save itself against her will.

But her vision darkened. Her arms weakened. And she hung motionless under the surface and knew nothing more.

*