They reached the lower levels and Decado followed Unwallis into a small, lantern-lit bathhouse. There was already hot water in the deep marble bath. Decado sighed. If only he could wash away the sins of his flesh as simply as he could sponge away the dust and the dirt on his body.
“I will leave you to relax, my boy,” said Unwallis, stepping to the long, garden window and pulling shut the heavy drapes.
“I . . . thank you,” said Decado. “I am sorry that I have been so boorish in your company.” Unwallis looked shocked. He stood waiting for some barbed comment. When he realized none was to come, he smiled.
“Enjoy the bath,” he said. Decado removed his clothes and laid them on a chair, placing his scabbarded swords on top of them. Then he moved toward the bath. There was a mirror on the wall, and his anger returned. Decado did not like mirrors. He could not stand to look at himself. The eyes always accused, as if the man in the mirror were someone else entirely. Someone who knew him and, in knowing him, loathed him. Almost against his wishes he stared back at the slender, naked man.
“You do not deserve to live,” the mirror man told him.
“I know,” he replied. Stepping forward, he lifted the mirror from the wall, intending to smash it. Yet he did not. He had destroyed so much in his young life. Instead he placed the mirror on the floor, resting it against a table on which clean, white towels had been laid.
Then he entered the bath. The warmth was welcome. The water was lightly perfumed. Decado sank beneath the surface, running his fingers through his hair to wash off the dust. Then he surfaced and looked around for some soap. He saw several small blocks in a wicker basket to his right. As he reached for one he froze. In the mirror he had placed against the table he saw the reflection of a crossbowman, stealthily moving from the door behind him.
The weapon came up. Decado hurled himself to his left. The twang of the twisted string came to him just before the bolt splashed into the water. Decado heaved himself from the bath and rolled to his feet.
The crossbowman, a slim dark-haired young man, threw aside his weapon and drew a dagger from his belt. Decado darted toward him. Even as he did so he saw the heavy drapes over the garden window drawn back, and two more armed men ran in. The first assassin rushed forward, dagger extended. Decado flung himself to the floor, swinging around to kick the man’s legs from under him. The assassin fell heavily, cracking his head on the marble floor.
Decado came up fast. A second man came at him. Decado leapt feetfirst, his heel slamming into the man’s chin, hurling him back. Rising, Decado ran for the Swords of Blood and Fire. Two more killers had entered the room. They were soldiers, and carried both swords and daggers. Decado drew his swords and ran to meet them. The newcomers were terrified. One tried to run, the other slashed his saber at the swordsman. The Sword of Blood clove into his neck, severing the jugular and slicing through muscle, sinew, and bone. The fleeing soldier had reached the door, but, as he pulled it open, the Sword of Fire plunged through his back. The soldier gave a gurgling cry and slid down the door. Decado spun. The second attacker was unconscious. The first groaned and tried to sit. Blood was smeared above his left eye and flowing down over his right.
Decado ran to the drapes, pulling them shut, then moved to the injured man, pushing him to his back. Resting the Sword of Blood against the man’s throat, he said, “Who sent you?”
“The Eternal has spoken the words of your death,” said the man. “What choice did I have but to obey?”
“You lie!”
“I am not an imbecile, Decado. You think I wanted to come after you? The Eternal ordered me. Personally. Unwallis was with her, and the Shadowlord.”
“I don’t understand,” said Decado, stepping back from the surprised man. “She . . . loves me.”
“I don’t understand, either,” said the man, rubbing blood from his eye. “Are you going to kill me? Or can I go?”
“Sit over there while I think,” said Decado, gesturing to a chair. Moving to his clothes, he dressed swiftly. Then he returned to the soldier. “What exactly did she say to you?”
“I was summoned by my captain, and sent in to see her. She asked me if I was good with a crossbow. I said I was. She said she wanted the death to be clean and fast. Then the Shadowlord said I was to cut off your finger and bring it to him. Don’t ask me why.”
“I don’t need to. What happened then?”
“Nothing,” said the man, but he looked away.
“Be careful, my friend, for your life depends on this.”
The other attacker groaned and started to rise. Decado stepped in, slashing a blade through the back of the man’s neck. The soldier slumped to his face, twitched once, then lay still.
“Oh, careful, is it?” said the first man, his expression hardening at the murder of his comrade. “You won’t let me live anyway.”
“Then you would have nothing to lose by speaking. You would gain a little more time. However, I am telling you the truth. Speak freely and I will let you live.”
The prisoner considered his words, then shrugged. “She said some stuff about you, Decado. Not complimentary. She told Memnon he’d made a mistake with you, and she didn’t want him repeating it.”
“Exactly what did she say?”
The man took a deep breath. “She said you were insane, and she told me to forget the finger. We were to carry your body out into the garden and burn it to ash.”
“Take off your clothes,” said Decado.
“What for?”
The Sword of Fire nicked a cut into the man’s neck. “So that you can live. Be swift!”
The man undressed. “Now get in the bath.”
The slim soldier looked nonplussed, but he slowly waded down into the water. “Good,” said Decado. “Now come out, and pick up the two sabers your friends dropped.”
“I can’t fight you!”
“You don’t have to fight me. Just do as I say.”
Decado followed him across the room to prevent any sudden flight. The naked man took up the two swords. “Now what?”
“Now you can leave—through the garden.”
“Without any clothes on?”
“Alive, though.”
“You’re going to stab me in the back.”
“Just leave,” said Decado, tapping the man’s shoulder with the flat of his blade.
“Whatever you say.”
The man walked to the heavy drape and pulled it back. Then he opened the garden door and stepped outside. Something moved past him in a blur. He cried out and fell back into the bathhouse. Dropping the swords he began to crawl, but his body spasmed. A pale shape appeared in the doorway, large round eyes narrowed against the lantern light. Its thin face was corpse gray, and its lipless mouth hung open. A wide, curved single tooth jutted from its maw. It was stained with blood.
The Sword of Fire lanced out from behind the curtain, spearing through both the creature’s temples. Decado dragged the blade clear, then walked back to the twitching soldier. “You are not dying,” he said. “You will be paralyzed for an hour or two. After that you will be dead. The Eternal does not appreciate failure.”
The man passed out. Decado stood silently, trying to think of what to do. The one joyous, true, and perfect part of his life had been his time with the Eternal. Now she had betrayed him. Decado felt the pain of it, and a cold anger began. He considered striding through the palace and cutting out her heart. Then he would kill Unwallis and . . . Memnon?
The Shadowlord had been like a father to him, helping him with his pain and his rages. And the soldier had said he wanted a piece of bone, and that could only have been used to bring Decado back.
Decado needed time to think.
Swords in hand, he left the bathhouse. The gardens were empty, and he walked around the rear of the building until he reached the stable. There he chose a sturdy chestnut gelding, saddled it, and rode from the palace grounds.
T he battle was short and fierce. Enemy lancers, some two hundred stro
ng, hidden in the woods on the slopes of the mountains, had suddenly charged Alahir’s troop. They had obviously expected the surprise of their attack to disconcert the Legend riders. The enemy were charging from the high ground. All the advantages were theirs. Alahir yelled an order, and his fifty men coolly swung their mounts and lifted bows from saddle pommels. The first volley sent horses and men tumbling to the ground. The charge faltered as the charging men, behind the fallen, swerved their mounts to avoid running down their own wounded. A second volley tore into them. Then a third.
Hurling aside their bows, the Legend riders drew their sabers and heeled their mounts forward. In close-order battle the long lances were of little use, and the enemy let them fall, drawing their own swords. But the impetus of their charge was lost, and they were now facing grim and deadly opponents, who slashed and cut their way through the enemy center. Alahir was relieved to find that his mount—afraid of shadows and swirling cloaks—showed no fear in the battle. He followed his every physical command.
Alahir saw the enemy officer, on a pure white stallion, and heeled his horse toward him. A lancer tried to block his path. Alahir ducked under his slashing blade. The lancer was wearing a heavy breastplate and mail, but his arms were unprotected. Alahir’s saber flashed out, hacking into the man’s forearm and snapping the bone. The lancer’s sword fell from his hand, and Alahir swept past him. The officer beyond, still holding to his lance, made a feeble stab at the warrior closing on him. Alahir struck the lance with his saber, diverting it, then, as their horses crashed together, hammered his saber against the man’s bronze helm. The officer swayed in the saddle. Alahir struck him twice more; the second time the saber cut through the man’s ear and down through his neck. He pitched from the saddle. His white horse galloped away. Even in the chaos of a battle Alahir found himself wishing he had time to catch it. It was a Ventrian purebred and deserved better than the wretch who rode him.
Pushing thoughts of horses from his mind, Alahir swung to find a fresh opponent—but the remaining lancers were fleeing in panic. The younger and less battle hardened of his men began to give chase. Alahir bellowed an order, and they drew rein.
Alahir gazed around the corpse-littered battlefield. Around seventy lancers lay dead or wounded. Alahir scanned the area, seeking out fallen Legend riders. He saw eight bodies, lying unmoving, and nine more men, unhorsed and carrying heavy wounds. Gilden rode alongside. The sergeant had a deep cut on his cheek, almost exactly between the white scars. Blood was flowing freely from it and running over his mail shirt.
“What orders?” he asked.
“Deal with our wounded first, then find two prisoners who will survive a trip back to camp. Then we’ll push on.” He pointed up the mountain slopes. “There’s a fine view of the south up there, and we’ll see how many troops they are funneling through the passes.”
Leaning to his left, Gilden spat blood from his mouth. “Luckily they weren’t great fighters.”
“They were good enough,” said Alahir, grimly. “They just weren’t Drenai.”
Gilden smiled, which opened the wide cut on his cheek. He swore.
“Get someone to stitch that,” said Alahir.
“What do you want to do about the prisoners we don’t need?”
“Let them go—without their mounts.”
“Agrias won’t like that.”
“Do I look as though I care?”
“No.”
In the distance Alahir saw a huge flock of birds suddenly take to the sky, and his mount reared. A deep groan came from the earth. Alahir’s horse bolted. Several other riders were unhorsed. Alahir kept a firm grip on the reins and let the panicked beast have his head for a while, then he gently steered him to the left, seeking to head him back to his troops. Ahead of him a cloud of dust swirled up from the earth, followed instantly by a tremendous thunderclap. The horse, totally panicked now, galloped on. Alahir saw a jagged black line appear on the flatland some fifty yards ahead, as if a giant, invisible sword was scoring the earth. Then the ground suddenly split and a chasm began to open.
Alahir’s first instinct was to kick his feet from the stirrups and roll clear of the horse. However, the memory of Egar’s paralyzing fall still haunted him, his friend lying on the damp earth, unable to move his limbs. If Alahir were to die, it would not be because he fell from the saddle. The horse thundered on. The dust was billowing now, and Alahir had no way to tell how wide the chasm had become.
As the galloping horse closed on the yawning gap, Alahir let out a Drenai battle cry. The terrified horse leapt. For a frozen moment Alahir believed they would not survive. It was as if he and his mount were hanging in the air over a colossal drop. Time stood still. Then the horse’s front hooves struck solid ground. He landed awkwardly, and stumbled. Alahir was half thrown from the saddle, but hauled himself back. The horse came to a stop and stood trembling. Alahir patted his sleek neck, then stared back at the chasm. It was closing behind him. Clouds of dust swirled up once more. In the distance he saw huge trees tumble to the mountainside. Touching heels to the still-trembling horse, he rode back to where his men were clustered together. Most of them had dismounted and were holding the reins of their frightened mounts.
His young aide, Bagalan, looking shocked and pale, called out to him. “What is happening?”
“Earthquake,” replied Alahir. “Speak calmly. The horses are frightened enough.” He was surprised to hear that his voice showed no sign of the fear pumping through his body. His legs felt weak, and he decided not to dismount for a while, but sat, staring up at the ruined woods above. Some of the wounded enemy lancers were also standing, alongside their conquerors, all thoughts of war vanished.
For a short while there was silence among the gathered men. As the dust began to settle Alahir rode to where Gilden was sitting on the ground, having the wound to his face stitched by another rider. “Forget prisoners,” said Alahir. “Get them to dig a grave for our dead, then let them all go.”
Gilden raised a hand in acknowledgment.
Turning his horse, he rode back to Bagalan. The youngster was still pale, and there was a bloody cut on his forearm. Alahir dismounted. From his saddlebag he drew out a leather pouch. Flipping it open, he took out a curved needle. “Sit down,” he said. “I’ll stitch that wound.”
The lad sank to the ground. Bagalan looked up at him. “Why did you leap that chasm?” he asked. Alahir threaded the needle and took hold of his aide’s arm. At first the question seemed odd; then he realized how it must have looked. He had turned the horse and headed directly at the great split in the earth. Looking up, he saw other men staring at him. He chuckled and shook his head.
“Because it was there, boy,” he said, inserting the needle into the torn flesh, and drawing the thread through. Once back in camp, with a few flasks of wine being shared, he would tell them the truth.
Or maybe not, he decided.
A lahir supervised the burial of the eight dead Legend warriors. First they removed the armor. The Drenai were a poor people now, and the cunningly crafted chain mail was too expensive to bury. The head mail coifs and shoulder protectors alone contained hundreds of hand-fashioned rings, involving months of work. The knee-length hauberks, the ring-mail gorgets, the chain leg mail, the helms, swords, and bows would cost more than the average Drenai land worker would earn in several years. Armor was therefore passed from father to son.
Stripped of weapons, each man had copper coins placed over his eyes, held in place by a black strip of silk. Then they were wrapped in their red cloaks and laid carefuly in the mass grave dug out by the enemy lancers. The grave was marked so that the bodies could be recovered later and taken away for a more suitable funeral, where songs would be sung, and their deeds spoken of.
All the dead were well known to Alahir. He had grown up with two of them. And another had been one of his history teachers. This last, a stern man named Graygin, had been nearing sixty, and had tried to hide the fact that the rheumatic had begun to eat away at
the joints of his arms. Alahir had known of the condition. I should have sent him home, he thought.
“The fields are green, the sky blue, where these men ride,” he said, as the warriors gathered around the grave. “They will be welcomed in the Fabled Hall, for they were men, and the sons of men. We will all see them again. Keep them in your minds and your hearts.” He sighed. “When this patrol is over we will gather them up and speak the stories of their lives.” Pulling his mail shirt hood into place, he donned his plumed helm. “Now it is time to ride,” he told them.
Throughout the afternoon they rode a twisting trail, higher and higher into the mountains. Alahir had sent scouts ahead, and they reported no sign of enemy activity. On one section they found the bodies of three lancers, crushed by falling rocks. Trees were down, cutting off the trail in places, and the riders had to dismount and haul them aside or make difficult detours over rock-strewn slopes.
Gilden, his face stitched and bloody, angled his mount alongside Alahir as they topped a steep slope. “Land’s pretty twisted now. Can’t tell where we are,” he said.
“We’ll see better when we crest that rise,” replied Alahir, pointing southwest. A strong breeze was blowing. It was chill with snow from the upper peaks. Alahir shivered.
Turn to the east, said a voice in his mind.
Alahir tensed in the saddle. Gilden spotted the movement. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine. The horse spooked.” Alahir felt anger swell in his heart. He had thought he had silenced the voices years ago, when he had refused to answer them. They had brought him nothing but humiliation and mocking laughter. As a child he would answer them out loud, and other children would stare at him, at first confused, but then would come the jeers.
“Alahir’s talking to ghosts again!”
Stupid Alahir. Alahir the Loon. “The poor boy is unhinged,” he heard an old woman tell his mother. So he had stopped speaking to them, and stopped listening to them. Gradually they died away. In truth he had never really expected them to stay away for good. His grandfather had gone mad, people said. He had dressed in rags, covered his face in mud, and moved about on all fours wailing like a hound. His great-grandfather, on his mother’s side, had also been insane. Gandias had walled up his wife and two of his sons, and had taken to murdering travelers on the high road above Siccus. It was even said he drank their blood. His trial had produced shocking evidence of his debauchery. When he had been taken to the scaffold Gandias had shrieked and begged, insisting that the voices had told him to do these dreadful things, and that he was not to blame.