Heroes Die by Matthew Woodring Stover Read Free Book Online

PROLOGUE
    1
    WITH MY HAND on the doorjamb, some buried-alive instinct thumps
within my chest: this is going to hurt.
    I take a deep breath and step inside.
    The bedchamber of Prince-Regent Toa-Phelathon is really pretty
restrained, when you consider that the guy in the bed there rules the
second-largest empire on Overworld. The bed itself is a modest
eight-poster, only half an acre or so; the extra four posts—each
an overcarved slab of rose-veined thierril thicker than my
thigh—support lamps of gleaming brass. Long yellow flames like
blades of spears waver gently in the breeze from the concealed
service door. I close the door soundlessly behind me, and its brocade
paper–covered surface blends seamlessly into the pattern of the
wall.
    I wade through the billowing carpet of silken cushions, a knee-high
cloud of vividly shimmering primary colors. A flash of maroon and
gold to my left, and my heart suddenly hammers—but it’s
only my own livery, my servant’s dress, captured briefly in the
spun-silver mirror atop the Prince-Regent’s commode of
lacquered Lipkan krim. The reflection shows me the spell, the
enchanted face I present: smooth, rounded cheeks, sandy hair, a trace
of peach fuzz. I tip myself a blurry wink and smile with my sandpaper
lips, ease out a silent sigh, and keep moving.
    The Prince-Regent lies propped on pillows larger than my whole bed
and snores happily, the silver hairs of his mustache puffing in and
out with each wheeze. A book lies facedown across his ample chest:
one of Kimlarthen’s series of Korish romances. This draws
another smile out of my dry mouth; who would have figured the Lion of
Prorithun for a sentimentalist? Fairy tales—simple stories for
simple minds, a breath of air to cool brows overheated by the
complexities of real life.
    I set the golden tray down softly on the table beside his bed. He
stirs, shifting comfortably in his sleep—and freezing my blood.
His movement sends a puff of lavender scent up from the pillows. My
fingers tingle. His hair, unbound for napping, falls in a
steel-colored spray around his face. That noble brow, those flashing
eyes, that ruggedly carved chin exposed by careful shaving within his
otherwise full beard—he’s everybody’s perfect image
of the great king. The statue of him on his rearing charger—the
one that stands in the Court of the Gods near the Fountain of
Prorithun—will make a fine, inspiring memorial.
    His eyes pop open when he feels my hand grip his throat: I’m
far too professional to try to stifle his shout with a hand over the
mouth, and only a squeak gets past my grip. Further struggle is
discouraged by his close-up view of my knife, its thick, double-edged
point an inch from his right eye.
    I bite my tongue, and saliva gushes into my mouth to moisten my
throat. My voice is steady: very low and very flat.
    â€œIt’s customary, at times like this, to say a few words.
A man shouldn’t die with no understanding of why he’s
been murdered. I do not pride myself on my eloquence, and so I will
keep this simple.â€

DAY ONE
    â€œ Hey, I’m not the only guy who kills people.â€

DAY TWO
    â€œ What’s wrong with you? You never even get angry!
Even a shout would be better than this, than this, this calm . . .
nothingness.â€

DAY THREE
    â€œ Sometimes I wonder if you really respect anything
besides power.â€

DAY FOUR
    â€œ You have no principles at all.â€

I spring out onto the balcony—I’d shoot that cocksucker
if I could be sure of missing Lamorak—and level my bows on the
guards across the Pit. They have no such reservations; even as I’m
bringing my bows into line, eight of them fire. Some miss, but about
five quarrels slam into Rushall’s chest and drive him spinning
back against the wall. He slides to the floor with Lamorak beneath
him.
    I fire both bows from the hip.