by Peter David
The next thing he knew, someone was shaking him violently. There were shouts from all around him, and he looked up to see that his father was looking down at him, a mixture of awe and annoyance upon his face. “Do you hear me? Are you awake?” He roughly slapped Lailoken’s face, and Lailoken nodded.
He pointed at the carcass of the fallen unicorn and said, “Did you do this?”
Lailoken couldn’t tell what the right answer could possibly be. That was how contradictory his father’s tone sounded. Finally deciding that the truth was the preferable way to go, he took a deep breath, let it out slowly, and said, “Yes. I did.”
The warlord grunted upon learning this. He asked nothing of Lailoken’s condition, apparently thinking that it wasn’t of all that much consequence. He stepped back and walked over to the unicorn. He prodded the beast’s body with the toe of his boot, then kicked it more forcefully. The unicorn didn’t move.
“It’s smaller than I expected,” he proclaimed, which surprised Lailoken since the beast looked large enough to ride. Then, managing to set aside his disappointment, he declared, “Come. Let’s take it home, to the banquet hall.”
“Father…” Lailoken managed to say, as a couple of the hunters helped him to his feet.
The warlord turned and stared at him. “What?”
Are you proud of me? I finally killed something for you. Did I do well? Will you speak my name with love? Do you have anything to say to me? Are you finally satisfied, you bloody bastard, you…
“Nothing. It…is nothing, father.”
“Good,” said the warlord, and he marched stiffly away while his beaters and huntsmen and aides began to tie the unicorn, just above its hooves, so that it was dangling from a long pole suspended at either end upon the shoulders of burly men.
“Good hunt, sir,” one of the hunters said. Another patted him on the shoulder in a gesture that would have been unthinkably familiar for Lailoken’s father but was acceptable to the young man.
“Let me take that for you, young lord,” said one of the spearbearers, and he reached for the spear that Lailoken was holding.
Lailoken instantly pulled the spear away from the bearer, and his face twisted in anger. “You do not touch this,” he said. “No one touches it.”
The spearbearer immediately stepped back, raising both his hands in a palm-forward gesture indicating that he was not looking for trouble. “Yes, young lord. I mean, no, young lord. Whatever you say, young lord. I was merely doing what I thought I was supposed to do.”
Allowing himself to calm after his initial, slightly crazed reaction, Lailoken simply nodded, and said, “Yes. Yes, of course. I can…sympathize. We all do what we are supposed to do…and let the gods sort out the rest.”
AS THE FULL moon, like a great unblinking eye, rose in the night sky, there was massive celebration in the warlord’s banquet hall. The warlord sat on his throne, basking in the reflected glory of his hunters. To hear the story as it was being told and retold, it had been the warlord himself who had struck the fatal blow to the great horned creature. It had merely stumbled through the woods, fighting the inevitable, and collapsed dead right at Lailoken’s feet.
Still, there were women draping themselves over Lailoken as he reclined against an assortment of pillows beneath him. Only the warlord was upon a chair, upraised so that his servants would bring food to him. Everyone else was seated on pillows scattered upon the floor around the low-slung table.
The main course, naturally, had yet to be brought out. Lailoken made distant, disinterested small talk with the women, courtesans all, jockeying for attention of the warlord’s son. The reason was obvious: to gain something for themselves. Riches. Title. Position. Lailoken would be a superb acquisition for an ambitious young woman, and he knew that all too well. Consequently, he trusted none of them and despised them all. Nevertheless, out of a sense of courtesy that his father would no doubt have found absurd, he tried to put on a positive face and tolerate them.
“What was it like?” one of them chirped.
The question caught his attention. “What was what like?”
“Killing the beast. Killing the unicorn.” The other women were wide-eyed as the one doing the asking leaned forward, hanging on Lailoken’s shoulder. “What was it like?” she inquired.
He couldn’t even bring himself to look at her, fearing that he would lose his temper and strangle her so that no further stupid questions could emerge from her throat. “It was like murdering the better part of myself,” he said.
“Ooooo,” said the girl, then pondered it a moment. “What does that mean?”
“If you have to ask,” replied Lailoken, “you will never understand.”
At that moment a roar went up as the carcass of the unicorn was hauled in by several servants. It had been dressed up a bit, the blood cleansed from its hide, but it was still hanging upside down. Staff holders had been erected at either end of the table, and the long rod from which the unicorn was dangling was set into them, first one end, then the other. There were “ooos” and “ahhhhs” from everyone present, for only a few of them had actually been out beating the bushes or a part of the hunt. A couple of females actually swooned into the arms of their men, although Lailoken cynically suspected that it was merely an act in order to gain attention and sympathy.
The unicorn’s eyes remained open, although they were now opaque. It was like a thick fog had rolled in over an ocean, making it impossible to see the roiling blue waves. Its tongue was hanging out slightly from its mouth. Lailoken was seized by an urge to reach over and try to bring its eyelids down over its eyes out of respect. But he resisted the impulse, unable to bear the thought of what his father would say in response to such an action.
Stepping down from his throne, the warlord walked with that unmistakable swagger that indicated to Lailoken that his father had already consumed more mead than was probably good for him…and as the evening was young, it was terrifying to think what he was going to be like by the end of it.
“Bring me my chalice,” called the warlord, “and the weapon!”
Lailoken’s eyebrows knit, unsure what weapon the warlord was demanding to see. Moments later, however, he understood, and his blood boiled in fury. He knew the warlord’s chalice only too well. It was wooden, but ornate and rimmed with jewels…a magnificent vessel that he’d acquired from some plundered hoard somewhere, ostensibly from some manner of secret society who’d fought to the last man to protect it. It was a drinking vessel that the warlord saved only for special occasions such as this. But Lailoken’s spear was also being brought forward, stains of the unicorn’s blood still visible upon it.
Before he even knew what he was doing, Lailoken was on his feet and pointing angrily. “That’s mine!” he cried out against all better judgment. “You had that taken out of my chamber!”
The warlord stared at him placidly as the cheering and shouting from all around instantly subsided. His voice was very quiet when he replied, which was always dangerous. When he roared with anger, much of it was for show. When he spoke softly, that was when the recipient of his words was in the greatest peril. “All that is in this place,” said the warlord, “is mine. Even that which is yours is mine, and merely something that I let you have at my sufferance. It is debatable whether you contributed anything to the successful conclusion of the hunt. However, I am doing you the courtesy—the honor—of making you a symbolic participant in this ceremony by utilizing your spear. Do you have a problem with my extending that honor to you?”
There is no honor in this. What we’ve done—what I’ve done—dishonors us all. We all deserve to die. Those were the words that hammered through his mind, but he dared not speak them. Instead, his teeth gritted, he replied, “No, father.”
“Are you quite certain?”
“Yes, father.”
The warlord still made no move, the air crackling with tension. Then, as if his son had not spoken, he swept his arms wide in a theatrical manner…the spear in his l
eft hand, the cup in his right. Addressing the entirety of the hall, he cried out, “Behold! The creature known as the King of Unicorns! A king without followers; a lord without a land. See how I have laid him low! See how this moment will remain a message for all those who think that they are truly greater than they are!”
He jabbed the spear forward toward the base of the unicorn’s throat and, with practiced ease, pierced a large vein. This movement prompted a cheer from the onlookers, even though Lailoken flinched involuntarily when the spear penetrated.
Blood immediately began to pour out of the gash, and the warlord brought the cup around and down. The blood was thick and slow, which was to be expected since the beast had been dead a few hours. It didn’t gush so much as it dripped in a thick, steady stream. The warlord held the cup steady, grinning, and there were continued whoops and cries from all around.
Lailoken had not sat back down. Instead he stood there, his fists clenched. Without even bothering to look at his son, the warlord tossed the spear in his direction. People on either side scattered as the weapon wafted through the air. Lailoken twisted sideways, just to make sure he was avoiding the spearhead, and caught the shaft one-handed.
The warlord watched with fascination as the cup filled with blood. It filled nearly to the top, then the warlord stepped back and held the vessel high, ignoring the slow stream of unicorn blood that continued to spill upon the floor. “To the unicorn! Gods willing, he’s learned his lesson!” He tilted the cup to his lips and began drinking the blood.
Watching with disgust, Lailoken’s lips twitched convulsively, and a deep nausea began to rise up from his stomach. Concerned he was going to be sick, he gripped the spear firmly and started to turn away.
That was when he heard something he’d never heard before…that no one in the warlord’s court had ever heard: the sound of the warlord screaming.
He had just drained the cup, and there was still blood on the edges of his thick beard and mustache. Suddenly he let out a screech, and his eyes went wide with terror. Everyone was taken aback as he continued to howl, grasping at his throat. Stubbornly, even amazingly, he was still clutching his golden chalice. He tried to speak words, and they might have been cries for help, but it was impossible to be sure.
Lailoken strode quickly forward, not sure what he could or should do. The warlord saw him coming and staggered toward him, reaching out without even looking as if he was aware of what he was doing. The cup began to slip from his fingers and, reflexively, Lailoken caught it.
The instant he did so, he felt as if some sort of incredible current of energy was passing through him. It was unlike the burning sensation he’d experienced before at the time of the unicorn’s death. Instead it was far more powerful, unlike anything he would have thought remotely possible. Once, many years ago, he had witnessed a great, dark funnel of wind and fury descend from on high and go crashing through a forest, uprooting trees and boulders alike. High above it in the sky, blinding illumination had crackled across the clouds, and Lailoken knew that he was seeing the untrammeled fury of the gods unleashed. As horrifyingly fascinating as it was, he hoped he would never witness anything like that again.
In this case, he wasn’t witnessing it at all. He was feeling it firsthand.
Blinding flame erupted from both the chalice and the head of the spear. It was no natural color, but instead a combination of pink and purple, not unlike the unicorn’s horn. The two jets of fire did not go straight up. Instead they crisscrossed directly in front of Lailoken, merging and forming a massive fireball that would have blinded him if he’d looked directly at it.
People were running, screaming, falling over each other, and even killing each other to try to get away. The warlord’s mouth was still open, but no noise was emerging from it. Instead he was standing there, arms out to either side, convulsing wildly, and Lailoken saw a last, desperate look in his eyes. Lailoken would spend the rest of his existence wondering what exactly that look was supposed to signify, or even if his father had the faintest idea that his son was standing in front of him.
Then, from the fireball that was roaring directly before Lailoken, a new stream of fire—larger and even more powerful—emerged. It slammed into and through the warlord, and the warlord went up in flames. It spread outward like a spider’s web, infusing everyone else in the chamber. It leapt to the walls, the tapestries, the ceiling. Everything and everyone was suddenly aflame, and burning most furiously of all was the trail of unicorn blood that had come from the beast’s dripping corpse.
Courtiers and courtesans, servants and flunkies, none were spared. Everyone was burning, his or her skin blackening and turning to ash far faster than any fire could have, or should have been able to accomplish. Even as they fell, they came apart, their bodies unable to retain cohesion, and their corpses blew apart into free-floating cinders the instant they struck the floor.
Lailoken had been screaming as loudly as his father, but now, mysteriously, a strange sort of peace settled upon him. He realized that he hadn’t actually been in any pain. Something was protecting him from the fury that he was channeling, making him merely a vessel for the ravaging power. He could have thrown down the chalice, tossed aside the spear. Instead he simply stood there and watched, no longer afraid.
And then he began to see the events from outside his body. It was as if a third eye of some sort had opened within the back of his brain, enabling him to see things that no one else was capable of perceiving. He saw himself from a great height, standing there with the spear in one hand and chalice in the other, while he was completely surrounded by the fire. Everything was aflame. Even the body of the unicorn was burning now, and as for the people themselves, the ones who were in their final, dying spasms…well, he knew he should feel something for them. Pity. Sadness. Mourning. The nubile women who had been courting him, the hapless servants who really didn’t deserve to be annihilated. Even his father…gods, his father was dead, mere gray specks whipping around in unearthly winds being generated by who-knew-what?
He knew all the emotions he should be feeling. Unfortunately—or fortunately, depending upon one’s point of view—he felt none of them. He was indifferent, as if watching the death throes of an ant colony that had been flooded out by a passing squall. Lailoken wondered, in that same distant manner, whether he was simply in shock and therefore not processing the information correctly, or if they just really, truly weren’t worth getting especially upset about.
You will learn and understand came the words. Lailoken didn’t comprehend their origin; they appeared to be coming directly from the blaze itself.
Teach me, Lailoken asked.
I shall, said the blaze, and the flames converged upon him.
RESIDENTS OF THE nearby village had come running when they saw the plumes of smoke in the air. They arrived and stood helpless, watching the great house of the warlord go up in flames. Even as they watched, they knew that they were seeing something that was not of this Earth. The colors of the flame were simply not right.
Not only that, but there should have been a charnel-house smell emerging from the place, the stench of burned flesh. Certainly many had died within, which was fairly obvious by the lack of escapees in the vicinity. But there was no smell. What sort of flame could possibly have been so vicious, so hot that the corpses would have been incinerated rather than simply cooked.
Helpless to do anything to stop it, the villagers stood around, praying that the wind would not blow the flame in the direction of their homes. And there was much muttering about demon involvement. That either the gods from above or below had looked upon the activities of the warlord and intensely disliked what they had seen, and had meted out appropriate punishment.
There were cries and shouts as the high towers of the castle gave way and collapsed upon themselves, landing on the lower sections and crushing them. There was even more muttering then, for the villagers truly had no idea how to react. None of them were huge admirers of the warlord, who was cruel
in his moods and vicious in his temper. On the other hand, his reputation had served to protect them, and they were grateful for that and apprehensive about what was going to happen now that he was most definitely dead.
So the villagers did what all simple folk do in such instances: They began to pray. The village priest, seizing control of the situation, led them in continued supplications to the gods, asking them for strength and guidance. A small goat was brought forward from a nearby farm and promptly sacrificed as an offering. This continued all through the night and into the morning hours without let up, until dark clouds coalesced above and began to pour rain down upon the uncanny conflagration.
There was a steady hiss as the water streamed down, and soon there was nothing but a vast haze of smoke hanging in the air, and it was damned near impossible to see anything. The villagers had ceased their prayers once the rain began, instead falling back to the shelter of the woods and watching from a safe distance until the last of the oddly colored flames was extinguished. Then they began chattering with one another, each asking the other what should be done, and naturally none of them had a better idea than the others as to what the best way to proceed was.
“Look!” one of the villagers, a sharp-eyed farmer, suddenly cried out, pointing in the direction of the castle ruins.
Others looked to see where he was indicating, and there were gasps from all over as they slowly verified that their eyes were not deceiving them.
From deep within the mist that was now hanging over the castle, an individual was emerging. No one could quite make out who or what it was, for he was covered with soot. His hair was long and thick, hanging down around his face, which in turn was grime-besmeared.