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Gebrem and Kyroun strode swiftly through the streets of the well-to-do section of Khambawe. Although the area had not suffered as much damage as those closer to the docks, the Uloans and the tsotsis had still exacted a toll of destruction. Soot smeared the painted walls of estates and pools of gore congealed in the gutters.
Despite their advanced years, the two holy men were practically running to their destination – the Gebbi Zimballa, the place of refuge to which the Emperor and Empress had been taken. When they had awakened from their weariness-induced torpor, Almovaar had issued a warning that was heard by both the Seer and the Leba: Alemeyu and Issa were in danger. But the deity had told them nothing more than that.
The Amiyas and Initiates followed. Survivors in the street gaped at the grim-faced procession of magic-users who had saved Khambawe. Some followed out of curiosity, then others, then more. Soldiers and civilians alike streamed behind the clerics as they made their way to the haven, which was located beyond the city.
Despite the fatigue from which they were just beginning to recover, Kyroun and Gebrem did not falter when they passed the last of the estates on Khambawe’s perimeter. Silently, they proceeded through a swath of clipped grass, artfully arranged flowerbeds and groves of fruit trees. In the distance, they could see the Gebbi Zimballa. They noticed that the flowers were trampled, as though many feet had trod them into the ground.
And they saw something else coming rapidly toward them.
A yellow, black-spotted shape streaked past the crowd so swiftly that only a few realized that it was the Emperor’s cheetah, Makah. The beast was running as though it were pursued by demons, and it paid no attention to the people in its path. And everyone saw the red trail the great cat’s bloody paw-prints left on the grass. The spoor came from the Emperor’s refuge.
Kyroun and Gebrem hesitated only a moment before breaking into a run. Uneasy murmurs rose from the throng that followed them.
Soon they reached the royal refuge. Its broken doors hung askew from their hinges. No guards came out to greet them. The only sound to be heard was the ominous buzzing of hordes of flies.
Inside, the Leba and the Seer and the others saw what they had steeled themselves to find. Mangled corpses lay in heaps throughout the courtyard of the refuge. Others hung from windows and sprawled on stairways. Among them were the noisome remains of many of the Uloans’ jhumbis, as well as the spider-scarred bodies of the islanders themselves.
Gasps and choking sobs escaped the throats of some in the crowd. Those who could no longer weep simply stood and stared in disbelief. The Gebbi Zimballa was supposedly the safest spot in Khambawe; even during the worst days of the Storm Wars, it had never fallen. How could so many Uloans have breached it, many Matile asked themselves. It was a question none of them could answer.
Shaking his head in sadness, Gebrem moved forward, leading the others through the palace, searching through the jumbled corpses for familiar attire, a familiar face, dreading what he knew he would find. Then, in the ancient throne room, he saw a glimmer of the blood-spattered, ceremonial armor of the Emperor.
Dardar Alemeyu’s face was a crimson mask that was almost unrecognizable. Behind him lay the hacked body of the Empress Issa. Alemeyu clutched the Sword of Issuri in his stiffened hands. The blade was crimson to the hilt. Many Uloan bodies were scattered around him, along with those of the Matile soldiers who had guarded him to the death. The Emperor had died defending his wife and his people – a death that would raise him to heroic proportions in the future annals of the Matile.
So there was something beyond vainglorious arrogance in you after all, Cousin, Gebrem mused as he gazed down at his boyhood rival and adult nemesis. There was courage ...
He allowed himself a moment to mourn what might have been, had he and his relative begun their lives as friends rather than enemies.
“So ... Eshana will be Emperor,” he murmured aloud.
Although Gebrem’s tone was low, a soldier overheard him.
“No, Jass Gebrem,” he said. “The Dejezmek is dead. I saw him go down during the charge in the Market Square.”
All eyes then turned to Gebrem. For he was the one who stood next in line to Jass Eshana in succession to the throne. Now, Gebrem was the new Emperor of Matile Mara.