The Shadowbearer (An Aegis of the Gods Book)

Chapter 13

The stampeding crowd shook the stonework. Dust and pebbles dropped from parts of the walls. Across the arena, a space cleared around a lone man who stood with a bow pointed in Nerian’s direction. The Royal Guards streamed out from the doorways near the attacker. They also rushed out from the passages close to the King’s throne. People were screaming and pointing to the left. Stefan turned his head. Less than forty feet away, another man dressed like a typical commoner, held a bow also aimed at the King. The crowd cowered away from him. Some sought to leave, but guards at the exits prevented them from fleeing.

“Be calm, my people.” Nerian’s voice, deep yet serene, carried above the panicked cries.

Kahar stood beside the King, sword in hand. The milling mass of people attempting to escape slowed and then stopped altogether.

Palm facing outward, Nerian kept his outstretched arm raised. Face an unreadable mask, he said, “Take your seats again, but leave space for me to deal with those who would harm your King.”

The spectators complied with his wishes despite the nervous mutters buzzing amongst them. Twenty feet of empty seats separated them from each attacker. The effect of Nerian’s voice and demeanor made Stefan want to sit and relax, but he fought against the urge and remained standing. He studied his chest. A ragged gash marred his jacket from one side of his chest to the other. Frayed ends of satin and linen waved in the breeze. The wound stung, and the blood stained the blue to give it a purplish color. The sight of how close he’d come to death and the assassins’ attempt on his King’s life brought a wave of anger bubbling up inside him.

“Empty the arena and prepare for the main entertainment,” Nerian ordered. Perspiration beaded the King’s forehead, but his face was stoic.

Stefan frowned. In all his years, he did not remember seeing Nerian sweat, not even on the hottest days in the armor he always seemed to wear. The clank of gates drew the Knight Commander’s attention below. Guards entered the arena and herded the players from the field. The dartan handlers came next and led the beasts away.

As he worked to calm himself, Stefan wondered why the would–be assassins didn’t fire. The answer came as Nerian gave a slight wave of his hand as if directing a band at a ball. Frozen in the act of shooting, the two attackers rose into the air and floated several feet above the arena. A squeeze of Nerian’s hand into a fist and the men fell to the ground.

Arms flailing, they cried out and dropped their weapons. They landed hard despite trying to roll. One managed to scramble to his feet. The other man’s leg was bent at a crooked angle. He groaned as he struggled to stand. His accomplice rushed to his side and gave him a hand. Together they faced the King.

“My dear subjects,” Nerian began, “what we have here are elite assassins sent by the Tribunal. Two Raijin to be exact.”

Awed murmurs rippled through the crowds. Stefan stared. The Raijin were nothing like he expected. He always pictured them being similar to the Pathfinders, moving with a deadly grace in all they did. These two men seemed normal and unimpressive, but he knew better than to judge them by their appearance. Raijin were among the deadliest swordsmen and Matii within the Tribunal. They were supposed to be worth any five experienced fighters in a battle. Their ability for stealth and infiltration were second to no one’s.

“You had a good plan,” Nerian said to the two men. “Not Forging so I would be unable to spot you beforehand. Using divya arrows to penetrate any Forge I might use or my armor. Too bad you forgot that something as simple as a dish, a piece of stone, or a normal blade has the ability to intercept an imbued weapon when used correctly.” The King gave a sly grin. “I am not above using the mundane.”