The Fickle Winds of Autumn

Ilgar banged his goblet down hard on the low table.

“More wine!” he ordered.

The servant bowed and left the tent.

The rich aroma of the roasted goat drifted and mingled with the heavy scent of the smouldering incense.

The food was good - this was definitely the life Ilgar had imagined a king should enjoy.

But he must be careful not to enjoy it too much - he must not allow himself to become soft - he knew only too well what would happen to a

Ruler who allowed himself to indulge in complacency - most likely the very same fate that had just befallen his predecessor.

He shook the thought of the succulent spiced meat from his mind and looked instead at the map of his empire.

Already his plans to unite the tribes and wage war on the cursed Somartans to the south were well advanced - those pestilential upstarts had been getting too big for their boots recently - it was time they were taught a lesson before their hostility could gather any momentum.

Of course, there was still some resistance to his rule among the tribes in the west - but that was to be expected - they were still unhappy that their cousin, the old king’s rule, had come to such a sudden and unforeseen ending.

But soon that would all be forgotten, and his steel would taste the dark blood of the Somartans.

His heart-rate quickened; his muscles flexed and rippled in the evening warmth.

There was no greater feeling - not the food or the wine - not the soft cushions or the dancing girls - all were as dust in comparison.Exclusive © material by Nô(/v)elDrama.Org.

And after the Somartans?

His eyes wandered daringly across the map.

Wasn’t there an entire desert to conquer?

Filled with further riches - glory and gold?

Why be content with just one kingdom?

Yes, he would not grow soft and content like the young fool before him.

The delicious scent of the goat-meat wafted up to him again.

The fine spread of food, groaning on the low table, gleamed up and beckoned to him.

Yes, the ancestors had been right - a cooling breeze by running water, the richly spiced food and wine from Xylim, the despairing death of an enemy and the bright clear stars to look upon at night - there could be nothing finer, or more pleasing in this life.

His mouth salivated.

The goat had been spit-roasted in its own juices over a deep pit of charcoal and herbs - just how he liked it best.

He dug the fat blade of his knife deep into the carcass of the beast and lifted a succulent leg clean up away from the table and brought the moist flesh to his mouth.

In the polished steel of his blade, a brief reflected shadow glided noiselessly behind him.

It could not be Eram - he had been dispatched to make sure that the last of the old king’s loyal retainers had been fed to the scorpions

And none of the servants would dare to sneak about behind him like that - they would present themselves before him and bow their obedience before his throne.

Behind him, the lamp flickered and gutted momentarily - but there was no breeze to cause such wavering that evening.

Ilgar turned and looked behind himself to the right.

“Assassin, is that you?” he called out.

“Yes, my king, I am here,” a voice whispered from somewhere in front of him, to the left.

Ilgar’s fingers tightened around his knife.

It was not possible to trust those from the Fraternity of Assassins - they were not an enemy who would stand and fight in honest combat, where skill and strength and experience with sharp steel would always win the day - they clung to the shadows and did not look into the eyes of their foe as they took his life; they did not stop to smell the warm wet rust of his blood as it flowed out, or hear his gurgling cries - they were little better than the mere magikants - although at least they used close steel for their kills.

“Well?” asked Ilgar. He listened hard against the muffled interior of the tent, not certain if he should trust his senses and face forward again.

“The task has not been completed, my lord. The boy was not there.”

The silent ghostly voice drifted through the stilled air from the shadowy depths of the tent. Perhaps its owner was standing in the far distant dunes, or leaning directly into his ear beside him; perhaps the voice belonged to one who was alive, or perhaps to one who had already joined the ancestors.

Ilgar snapped his head back around.

The pride of the Izani bristled within him.

He knew the value of an honest murder, not this skulking trickery.

He would not be caught cowering over his shoulder like a timid woman.

These were not the values of a true warrior.

“Then why have you returned to me?” he said to the empty tent. “I want his head! And also find out those who have helped him escape, and bring me their heads too! Do not bring yourself before me again until you have completed your obligation.”

The covering at the front of the tent rustled and moved.

Ilgar gripped the knife; the muscles in his arms flexed in readiness.

The servant entered carrying a large amphora of wine.

The servant bowed, then approached the throne and began to fill Ilgar’s golden chalice to the brim.

The rich wine glugged.

Ilgar glanced around the interior.

A flap at the side of the tent rippled slightly - but it might have been a night breeze seeking shelter from the heat of the dunes.

His puzzled eyes stabbed into the deep corners of the tent; they scoured the ornate tapestries and coverings - but the silent tent was empty.