Chapter 29: A Sudden Assassination Attempt

291 AC. Valyrian Empire. Astapor.

The day for a walk was simply marvelous. A light morning rain had cooled the heated cobblestones, the clouds in the sky shielded passersby from the blazing sun, and the cool wind from the bay brought with it the scent of sea salt and iodine.

Daenerys had long been asking me to stroll with her through Astapor and visit a few markets, so I decided to grant my sister’s request today. The weather was magnificent, and when else would we see each other? The army’s departure would take place in three days, and the gods only knew how many months this war would last; a siege is not a swift affair.

“Oh, Visy, just look how beautiful!” the white-haired imp tugged at my sleeve, pointing her hand toward the center of the small square.

“They say this fountain is over four centuries old,” I said, looking at the architectural masterpiece, and tousled the little girl’s hair, making her squeak and jump away.

“Don’t ruin my braid!” Dany stamped her foot, causing the hem of her long pink silk dress to swirl, exposing her ankles adorned with filigreed silver bracelets.

A cheerful giggle sounded from behind, and a mirthful Mae darted past me, immediately beginning to smooth the princess’s hair, joking with my sister all the while.

“Your Grace,” a tense voice spoke up over my right shoulder.

Looking around silently, my eyes met Liao’s, and he gave a barely perceptible nod toward one of the roofs. The square was surrounded by two-story stone buildings, the first floors housing various shops and stalls, while the second floors were residential, home to the building owners and their families. Now, standing fully erect on one of the roofs, barely a few dozen yards from our procession, was a man clad in light armor, a hooded cloak, and a mask. One of his hands held a crossbow, while the other was raised to the sky and clenched in a fist.

The next moment, I caught sight of red smoke rising into the sky half a mile or so away, followed by two more plumes on the opposite side. Signal smoke. One of the patrols had encountered a major threat and lit smoke canisters filled with alchemical foulness. Things were bad; it seemed most of the guards and legionary patrols were distracted, and we could not expect reinforcements.

“To arms!” my cry echoed across the square.

The ordinary people who had been watching the ruler’s promenade from a distance, sensing danger, immediately scattered and ran.

However, more than fifteen people in the crowd remained standing. The light cloaks, so popular in Astapor for protection from the scorching sun, flew to the ground, revealing the gleam of chainmail and the bright flashes of broad red belts embroidered with gold. In their hands, the opponents already gripped miniature, arm-length pick-hammers. A hammer on one side, a sharp iron beak on the other. Excellent weapons against well-armored opponents, capable of piercing plate with the beak or causing a concussion from a hammer blow to a helmet.

Figures of crossbowmen, about ten of them, appeared on the nearest roofs. My Praetorians hadn't been idle either. The ten marching in front immediately wheeled right, forming a shield wall, and leveled their short spears. The ten guarding my company from the rear instantly repeated the maneuver, covering the backs of their comrades from the archers on the rooftops with their shields. Daenerys, Liao, Mae, and I were enclosed in the middle, protected on all sides by the Praetorians.

“Mae, keep your magic shields up and cover Daenerys. Liao, the projectiles are yours,” I muttered, watching an old acquaintance of mine step out from the crowd of men armed with war-hammers.

A sinewy, tall man with sunken eyes, sharp cheekbones, and a short beard smiled wryly. A gold chain was wound around his left forearm, a large ruby set in yellow metal rested on his chest, and in his hand, he gripped a pick-hammer adorned with silver embossing.

“So we meet again, you vile heretic,” the R’hllor priest dripped venomous scorn. I remained silent, focusing on my sensations. The magical focus of this servant of the Pit’s spawn blazed like a bonfire; he was simply overflowing with an energy unknown to me. In my magical perception, it felt like a flame choking with smoke that smelled of burnt meat and blood and radiated a penetrating cold. Strange associations... it seems the offended demon has given its slave a drop of its power.

“Silent, are you? Rightly so. Fear of the Lord of Light has shackled you!” the man laughed, a flicker of madness shining in his sunken eyes. “Order your men to lay down their arms and surrender, along with your foul sister. The Lord is merciful and magnanimous; he has commanded you be brought to the main temple. There you will renounce your service to those accursed lizards and accept your destiny! You will become Azor Ahai and temper your blade in the heart of the one you love! And then you will gift all mankind the dawn after the Long Night, having defeated the Other!”

The fanatic looked with anticipation at my sister, who had paled with fear, and bared his teeth in a semblance of a smile.

I flinched as if struck. No, the madman’s words were irrelevant to me; who cares what R’hllor desires? I was more concerned by the five mages lurking near the windows and doors of the closest buildings.

“Liao, on the first floor, in the nearest stalls, five mages are hiding. Each is about half as weak as you, but be careful,” I muttered quietly.

“Understood.”

“Hold out for fifty heartbeats,” I whispered.

“What are you saying, you accursed here—” the priest began furiously, but instantly fell silent. A stream of roaring fire shot straight toward him, forcing him to erect a deflection shield. The fire, meeting the barrier, bypassed the mage a moment later and engulfed a trio of the nearest enemies in a wave. The cries of people burning alive sounded across the square.

Behind me, the thud of crossbow bolts embedding themselves in scutums was heard, followed by the whistle of wind blades launched in retaliation.

“Hold the line!” the decarch bellowed, seeing the mob of warriors armed with war-hammers charge toward us.

“Ha-ha-ha! Fire will not harm me, for I am a faithful servant of the Lord of Light and Fire, R’hllor the Almighty!” the priest shouted, and twelve large fireballs, literally humming with overflowing power, sped toward our ranks.

I had to stop dousing the opponent with fire and defend myself. Mana flowed through my body like a swollen river, and biting my lip until it bled, literally straining my veins, I began to set up deflection shields. Circular barriers burning with blue flame appeared before ten of the fireballs. Upon impact, the balls were enveloped by my fire and, changing trajectory, flew straight back into the enemy ranks. The two fireballs I failed to intercept slammed into the Praetorians’ shields, which were enveloped in the white light of protective magic. The bodyguards were unharmed, but the charge accumulators on their scutums were completely depleted.

“The Pit!” a cry rang out behind me.

Glancing back for a moment, I saw clay pots flying directly toward the Praetorian ranks. Following them were three flaming arrows and a couple of swamp-green magical bursts. The mages hiding in ambush had entered the fray. I hope Liao handles it.

Meanwhile, the ranks of the enemy charging the decarch’s squad, which I was covering, were considerably thinned. Those enemies hit directly by the blue fireballs instantly fell to the ground, screaming in insane pain, but the rest continued their charge. Weak amulets on their necks flashed like small stars, bursting, but covering their wearers from the tongues of flame.

The priest, clearly exhausted after deflecting half the projectiles, pointed a trembling hand at me and whispered the words of a spell. Feeling the raging torrents of power weaving together at the will of the enemy mage, I gritted my teeth and decided to use a trump card I had mastered quite recently.

“The wrath of the fiery depths, the heat of the flaming rivers, the terror that fell from the heavens,” the words in the High Valyrian tongue roared from my throat, aiding the powerful spell. “Firestorm!”

“The Hand of R’hllor!” the priest’s frantic voice echoed mine. Half the magical reserve stored in my focus plummeted into the void, and a sphere of white fire ten yards in diameter formed above my hands, raised to the skies. The power of the spell was so great that even constrained by the vise of my will, the flame crashed down on my shoulders and those nearby with a searing heat. Before the R’hllor priest, a red, clawed hand burning with red flame appeared, comparable in size to a single-story house.

It seemed he no longer cared about his warriors. The enemies were already clashing with the Praetorians, ignoring the spear thrusts that pressed against the red film covering their bodies, and fiercely drove their hammers into the shields, trying to reach my soldiers’ bodies. The Hand of R’hllor lunged toward me, and no longer restraining the Firestorm, I sent my spell straight to meet the clawed hand. My sphere was faster. The spells collided four yards from the priest, and a blinding flash of light engulfed me. My ears rang from the roar of the fire, and my magical sight was literally obscured by a veil of raging fire-mana.

A moment later, the elemental frenzy was over. Only a black spot remained where the priest had stood, and the entire square behind him was scorched by magical fire. The beautiful fountain had turned into a grotesque figure of a melted candle, the cobblestones were cracked from the heat, half the houses in the square were ablaze, and the air was so hot it burned the lungs.

“Activate the amulets!” I rasped.

The crunch of shattered amulets was heard, and the Praetorians, filled with borrowed power, charged at the formerly invulnerable enemies. Turning around, I surveyed the squad that had been covering Liao. Half the fighters were covered in soot, a couple were coughing up blood, but the men held their ground. It seemed the decarch had also commanded the activation of the amulets, and now the warriors, shielded from the bolts of the surviving archers, pressed against three women who were firing flaming arrows and fireballs at them. Liao was holding up, blocking most of the magical attacks and still managing to counterattack, having chopped up a quarter of the crossbowmen with wind blades.

Looking indifferently at the two broken bodies lying a short distance away, I grimaced, recognizing the traditional robes of the Harpy priestesses. The women lay on the ground with unnaturally twisted arms and shattered ribcages. It seemed Liao hadn't been stingy with his mana and hit the mages with an aerial ram.

“Third formation!” I commanded, raising my hands and sending strands of magic behind me, toward the burning houses.

The Praetorians instantly halted their advance, dropped to one knee, and covered themselves with their scutums. Liao, perfectly familiar with all my bodyguards’ tactics, dove down like a fish, pulling Mae and Daenerys down and covering them with his own body, as well as several magic shields.

“Die!” a renegade priestess screamed joyfully, beginning to form a new spell with her companions. But my magic was faster.

The remnants of my magical reserve plummeted into the act of subjugating the elements, and a moment later, a wave of fire swept over our heads, falling in a monstrous torrent onto the heads of the traitors and archers entrenched on the roofs. Amidst the roar of the fire, no one heard the frantic screams and shrieks.

Looking back, I confirmed that all the warriors with war-hammers had also been killed. The burning houses, which had caught fire after the collision of the Firestorm and The Hand of R’hllor, now only gave off black smoke; all the fire had been used to suppress the last enemies.

Staggering, I leaned my hand on the braced shoulder of the quickly approaching Liao.

“Retreat to the pyramid and declare martial law. No one is to leave the walls of Astapor. I have already given the order to Avero; he will soon return from his ride and will burn any ships leaving the port.”

“It will be done, Your Grace,” the Aero-mancer nodded, adjusting his grip on my battle-exhausted body.

Consciousness plunged into darkness.

******

291 AC. Valyrian Empire. Astapor. The Ancestral Pyramid of House Targaryen.

Willem Darry looked thoughtfully out the window where the setting sun painted pink patterns on the sky. His chair stood near Viserys’s bed, on which the young man lay unconscious due to magical exhaustion.

Only the two of them were in the Emperor’s chambers; the young princess had recently been led away by Mae. Daenerys had been thoroughly frightened by the attack, and the little girl was even more worried about her brother. The Targaryen showed her fiery nature, refusing to leave her brother's quarters, and only with the coaxing of Mae and the handmaidens responsible for her upbringing since birth were they able to lead the princess away to dinner.

The healers merely shrugged, and Maester Aemon recommended only a deep, healthy sleep; according to him, Viserys had simply depleted his magical focus, which only meant bed rest for a couple of days.

“How is the situation in the city?” Darry asked quietly, noticing Veela in the reflection of his polished cup.

“Tolerable,” the young woman replied in a whisper, sitting down on a neighboring chair and pouring wine into her silver cup.

“Tolerable?”

“Yes,” Veela grimaced, unable to maintain her perpetually cold mask of detachment. “Attacks occurred in five locations in Astapor. Each squad consisted of ten to fifteen pieces of trash, completely over-dosed on Crimson Dust, that filth from Yi Ti that acts on people like milk of the poppy and wine, only stronger. They were commanded by R’hllor priests. Weaklings capable of launching barely a dozen flaming arrows, but it was enough for the patrol squads. The madmen cut down everyone indiscriminately; the guard has lost twenty-three men killed and twice as many wounded. And no less than thirty of the ordinary smallfolk were cut down, if not more.”

“And while all the squads were being mobilized to suppress the threat, Viserys was attacked,” Darry nodded. “Clever. Where did the Harpy priestesses come from?”

“The captured priest has already cracked. They found malcontents among the handmaidens of the Harpy. The fools were angry that the High Priestess did nothing to prevent the construction of the temple to the Fourteen Gods in Astapor and was aiding an unbeliever, a Valyrian, no less, in conquering historically Ghiscari cities. Those bitches let the senior R’hllor priest and a squad of temple guards into the city, waited for reinforcements from five priests, and decided to attack.” Draining the silver cup in one gulp, Veela dabbed her scarlet lips with a white handkerchief and grimaced. “I feel like I’ll be sleeping on the move and eating on the run for the next ten days. We’ve uncovered the intelligence network of these fanatics, and it will take a lot of work to root the rats out of their holes.”

“You do your best,” Willem grunted under his breath. “I understand you are not omnipotent, and you have few experienced subordinates. It hasn't been ten years since your organization was founded. But take my advice: search under every stone, but find all the bastards. When Viserys wakes up, he will clearly not be pleased with such a lapse in intelligence.”

“I know that myself,” Veela muttered irritably, clenching her fists and looking worriedly at the sleeping face of her master.