Lyim surveyed the scene, unmoved. He turned back to Isk. “Show me the manor.”
The assassin pointed down the street, farther into the heart of the town. As they moved down the broad avenue, shapes could be seen moving through the smoke: Qindarans, looting whatever was left in the devastated buildings. He could hear the sound of doors being broken, furniture smashed, screams from fugitive citizens discovered in their hiding places.
The village had the misfortune to lie along Lyim’s route of advance at the eastern foot of the Kharolis Mountains. Behind his army stretched the flat, cold, seemingly endless Plains of Dust. Ahead, the land rose into a mighty mountain range that cut across the continent from Newsea in the north to Ice Mountain Bay in the south. To cross from west to east involved a trip of more than thirty leagues over a series of high, rugged mountain ridges. This land was home to mountain and hill dwarves, living both below ground in the huge, subterranean fortress of Thorbardin, and in countless villages scattered through unmapped hidden valleys.
The Kharolis Mountains were an unbreachable barrier to an army, if not for one pass. Lyim intended to march straight across that opening, because on the far side lay the great elven forest of Qualinesti—and the Tower of High Sorcery at Wayreth.
Towns such as this one provided Lyim’s force with much-needed experience in attacking. His army, which had begun as nothing more than a rabble of civilians, was now at least a rabble flushed with victory. Dozens of similar villages and settlements in their wake had been reduced to scorch marks on the ground. With each battle, the Qindarans became more convinced of their own invincibility and the righteousness of Lyim’s cause. And with the land stripped of all forage and shelter behind them, the force had little choice but to go forward.
Lyim’s thoughts were cut short as he and Isk approached an imposing structure dominating the center of the town. Its walls were thick, built of closely fitted, mortared stone, and its heavy wooden doors were bound in iron. The building was not a castle, but clearly it had been built with some consideration toward defense. Against normal attackers, it would have been a substantial redoubt.
Lyim stepped up to the stone wall and examined a breach that had been torn through it. The hole was taller than he was, and almost a full arm-span wide. Enormous stones that had been ripped from the wall were scattered up to forty paces away. Around the edges of the hole, clearly visible, were deep, parallel grooves—claw marks. Lyim ran his finger along one of the gashes and marveled again at the strength that could have gouged out such a mark.
Isk was watching his master as he studied the breach. “Most of the people have overcome their fear of the nabassu. Having them lead the attack creates tremendous confidence.”
“I don’t want the nabassu at the forefront of the army from here on out,” Lyim ordered. “They will be kept back, as a surprise reserve.” He stepped into the gloom beyond the torn stone wall.
Isk followed Lyim through, but the potentate’s attention was focused on the interior. His eyes adjusted to the dim light, and he slowly took in more details of the building. They were standing in a great hall with a high, vaulted ceiling. Most of the building appeared to be one large room, a common architectural feature of the region. The windows, which were high above the floor, were small to begin with. They were still tightly shuttered against the attack. Lyim motioned upward to Isk, who in turn shouted an order to a group of soldiers. Moments later, shutters banged open and beams of light streamed in, forming gray shafts in the smoky air.
The light revealed that the stone floor of the room was covered with blood. Spatters and splotches marked where injured persons had fallen, pools stood where corpses had lain, and long smears showed the tracks where bodies had been dragged to the heaps that now filled the corners. Men and women, children and elders, all were piled haphazardly against the cold walls. Most were humans, though many dwarves were also evident. “There must have been hundreds of them in here,” Isk remarked.
Lyim made no immediate response. He studied the scene for several moments more, then turned back toward Isk. “Continue searching the town. Every cellar and haystack should be turned inside out. Kill everyone who is found. I want no prisoners.
“Also, if you see Salimshad, tell him that I want his report in my tent immediately.”
Isk nodded. “I’ll see to it, Sire.”
Satisfied, Lyim strode toward the front door. Several soldiers raced ahead and raised the bar, still in place where the defenders had put it, and opened the door for their potentate. Lyim stopped and examined the outside of the door. It was covered with scorch marks where flaming arrows had been fired into it, but the wood had never really ignited.
All of the arrows were burned away, but the arrowheads were still embedded in the wood. Lyim reached up with his gauntleted right hand and grasped the edge of one that barely protruded from the surface. Pinching it between his thumb and forefinger, he wrenched it free. Any normal man using blacksmith’s tongs would have struggled with it, but it had been easy with the strength of the gauntlet.
You see, Ventyr, how easily we can work together, Lyim thought. Nothing has changed, really. We’ve lost the palace, but gained our freedom.
The sultry voice of Ventyr responded, coldly and as if from a great distance. I never desired freedom. I have told you, as long as you are Potentate of Qindaras, I must and will serve you.
Lyim smiled. Just as I have told you, my servant, that if you ever betray me again, as you tried to do with Guerrand, I will see you thrown into the hottest volcanic inferno in Neraka. You are still useful to me, but I will not tolerate betrayal from any servant.
There was no answer. It seemed to Lyim that Ventyr’s will had weakened considerably since the destruction of the palace. She acted almost like a human who had suffered a tremendous shock. The gauntlet was withdrawn where it used to be vibrant, dull and apathetic where it used to be clever and imaginative. He realized that he had come to think of Ventyr as a completely free entity in Qindaras. Now he understood how closely the gauntlet was tied to the palace. Without that focus and outlet for the absorbed energy, Ventyr seemed to feel almost purposeless. Most of her efforts went into maintaining control over the nabassu. Lyim was not certain whether Ventyr’s current attitude toward him was petulance over the palace’s destruction, or an actual weakening. He didn’t care, as long as she did as she was commanded and absorbed the energy of the tower when he entered it.
This close to his goal, with Kirah to distract him otherwise, he cared only that his power continue unabated.
Now Lyim returned to his camp outside the town to celebrate another victory and await the arrival of Salimshad.
* * * * *
Kirah sat hunched over the brazier inside Lyim’s tent. She tried hard not to hear the tormented groans from the dying men outside, but it was an impossible feat. Sons called for mothers, husbands for wives. The howls and barks of village dogs were cut off in mid-voice; she knew why, could see their heads being severed by Lyim’s troops just for the sport of it.
The tent flap flew back suddenly with a loud cracking sound. Kirah, her nerves as tightly strung as lute strings, jumped back from the brazier at the unexpected noise. Lyim burst through the sunny opening, face bloody and scratched above his broad smile. The flap slapped closed behind him, cutting off the burst of light.
“They tumbled like ninepins,” he said happily, though a bit out of breath. Lyim kicked a camp stool into position by the brazier and settled himself upon it with a contented sigh. “I’ll have to wait for Salimshad’s report, but it looks like we lost less than two score of our troops.” Lyim unbuckled his heavy breastplate and let it slide to the floor, then unlaced the thick, padded shirt he wore beneath the armor. He held out a leg toward Kirah expectantly.
She knelt before him and slipped the boot from one foot, then the other. “I’m glad you weren’t hurt.” She looked to the cuts on his face. “At least not terribly. Let me clean those wounds,” she offered, raising a slender hand to
his face tenderly.
Lyim pushed her hand away to lean into the warming brazier. “They’re just scratches.” He grinned at her, almost a scornful look. “Your concern touches me.”
She had gotten accustomed to his cynical need for her. Theirs was a cat-and-mouse relationship. Still, Kirah looked at him oddly. “You know I’m concerned, Lyim. I didn’t want you to set off on this crusade of yours to begin with.” She got on her knees and took his left hand, the one without the gauntlet, into her smaller ones. “It’s not too late, you know. Let’s go back to Qindaras and begin rebuilding,” she pleaded. “Right now. Right away.”
Lyim snatched his hand back and stood up, hands jammed onto his hips. “Why would I give up the battle when I’m so near reaching my goal? I’m winning!” He pointed through the tent flap. “I’ve just decimated an entire village, losing less than two score of my troops.”
“You’re butchering surprised villages full of farmers and merchants.” Kirah looked into his dark eyes intently. “The Council of Three won’t try to stop you with a handful of frightened village militiamen. They are going to challenge you with a real army long before we reach the Tower of High Sorcery, and all your people will die for nothing.”
Lyim threw his head back and laughed. “The Council? They couldn’t stop a stampede of rabbits! I have Ventyr back under control; I have my nabassu! They can’t stop me, Kirah. Not anymore.”
“They also have Bram.”
Lyim snorted. “His magic had little effect against me. It was Guerrand whose suicide caused the destruction of the palace.”
Kirah’s heart lurched at the reminder. “But that’s just my point! I’ve already lost Rand! Must I lose you and Bram as well?”
Lyim looked at her slyly. “That’s what this is about. You’re not afraid for me, but for your nephew.”
She shook her head. “I’m afraid for you both. For all of us.”
Lyim shrugged. “You made your choice back in Qindaras, Kirah. So did Bram. Unfortunately for him, he chose to side with the losers. You were much more far-sighted.”
Kirah cocked her head, listened to the groans of dying men outside. “Was I?” she asked rashly, knowing she risked his wrath. “Slaying innocent men, women, and children hardly seems like the winning side to me.”
“Shut up!” Lyim’s hand curled into a fist, and he raised it to strike her. Kirah stood defiantly. His hand dropped back slowly, and his face took on that bemused smile he wore of late. “I’d forgotten what a little hypocrite you can be,” he said instead. “You’re bold enough to enjoy warming my bed, yet the sounds of a few men dying prick your conscience. You disappoint me, Kirah. You used to be tougher.”
Kirah’s eyes narrowed angrily. “I’ll admit that I want you,” she said, stiffening her back, “but I hate what you’re doing.”
“What is it the bards say?” Lyim posed, then snapped his fingers as if the answer had just come to him. “Love me, love my flaws.” He shrugged again. “In any event, you made your choice, my dear. It’s too late to turn back now.”
Kirah scowled at him fiercely, though she shrank inside. “My conscience wrestles with that every moment.”
Lyim snatched at her arm, pulling her into his embrace. “Every moment, except those spent right here.” Lyim wound his hand through her pale hair and tugged her head back for his kiss.
Refusing to be distracted, Kirah pushed with all her strength against his chest. “Why can’t you be content with being the most powerful man in the Plains of Dust?”
“Do you think I’m looking for contentment?” Lyim asked incredulously. “The Orders of Magic and all their unthinking dogma nearly ruined my life. I would be dead now, or worse, if I hadn’t been smarter than they are. I can’t let that go unavenged.
“You’re growing tiresome, Kirah,” he said sourly, pushing her away. “I came in here to share my victory with you, but all you’re doing is putting a damper on my joy.” Scowling, Lyim spied a wine flask on a small table near the brazier. He snatched it up, yanked out the stopper, and sniffed the contents. Satisfied, he threw back a mouthful of the rosy liquid and settled himself again onto the small chair by the brazier.
“Never mind,” he grumbled. “Salimshad will celebrate with me. Where is he, anyway? He should have reported by now.”
Kirah sat quietly, aware that she had already overstepped the limits of safe restraint.
The tent flap flew back again, startling both Lyim and Kirah. “What the—?” muttered Lyim. He turned his shoulders to look behind him toward the door. “That better be you, Salim,” he growled, shielding his eyes against the burst of sunlight. “I hope you have two good excuses prepared, one for why you’re so late, and the other for why you didn’t see fit to knock.”
“Please forgive this humble servant for intruding, Sire,” trembled a voice unfamiliar to both Kirah and Lyim. “Master Isk sent me here with an urgent message, and I—”
“What is it, man?” Lyim demanded harshly, screening his eyes. “Damn it, come away from that blinding light so that I can see you!”
The man hastened to do as he was told. His face was streaked with sweat, and his clothes were spattered with mud. Away from the light, Lyim saw that he was little more than a boy.
“Give your message!”
“Salimshad is dead, Sire.” The boy spoke the words in a burst and stepped back, his head bowed.
Lyim shook his head once, quickly, as if he’d heard wrong. Kirah could see the light of understanding dawn slowly in his eyes. He held very still. “How?”
“He was overseeing the execution of captives, as you ordered,” the boy explained. “One of them had apparently concealed a knife, and—”
“Are you saying he was careless?” Lyim had the wired tenseness of a tiger watching prey. Kirah recognized the pose, and she grew frightened for the boy.
The boy’s mouth opened and closed wordlessly. “I don’t know that, Sire. I only know what I was told.”
Lyim’s eyes locked, unseeing, on the boy’s. “And who told you this?” His gauntleted hand flexed around the flask until it burst.
Leave! Kirah hissed to the trembling boy inwardly. Run while you still can!
It was already too late.
Lyim’s gauntleted hand sprang forth like a snake and closed about the boy’s throat. He lifted him off the ground, the boy’s feet kicking helplessly.
“Lyim, let him go!” Kirah cried, trying desperately to break through his trance of anger. “He didn’t kill Salim; he only delivered the message!”
With a last, desperate gurgle, the boy stopped struggling and his eyes rolled shut in death. His toes slowly drooped like wilting petals.
Still holding the dead boy high by the throat, Lyim burst out of the tent. “Isk!” he bellowed.
Looking through the open flap, Kirah could see the nearby troops moving away. They were accustomed to scenes of horror and brutality, but greatly feared the anger of their potentate.
The assassin hustled through the dead bodies to Lyim’s side, his expression grim.
“Next time, deliver your own message.”
Looking at the boy’s crumbled windpipe, Isk must have realized he’d made the right decision sending the boy in.
“I’m sorry about—”
Lyim cut off the assassin’s words, whether apology or condolences. “You’re second in command, now.”
Isk barely suppressed a smile. “Yes, sir—”
“We’re continuing on immediately,” Lyim interrupted again tersely. “The Council of Three must know we’re coming by now. Undoubtedly they’ve prepared some sort of ambush for us between here and Wayreth. It’s time they learned what they’re really up against. Gather the troops and prepare to leave at once.”
“But, Sire,” Isk began hesitantly. “The troops have fought since dawn. They’re tired—”
“They’re lucky they’re not dead!” Lyim snapped. “Which is what will happen to anyone who is not ready to head out at high sun!” Lyim spun arou
nd to glare at Kirah, whose pale face poked through the tent flap. “And you, my dear, had better develop a taste for this battle. You’ll be riding behind me from now on.”
With that, Lyim dropped the boy carelessly and stepped over his lifeless body on the way to see about readying the nabassu for flight.
* * * * *
Before returning to Bastion and the preparations for war, Bram stopped in his uncle’s sunny study in the gallery. Memories of Guerrand were ripe here, inspired by the familiar, heady scent of the herbs Rand gathered for his spells.
Bram stepped behind the desk made neat for the first time before their departure for Qindaras, settling himself in Rand’s chair. He sat silent and unmoving for many moments, hands cupped over his mouth in a pensive pose. When he was ready, he slid open the drawer where Rand had slipped a wax-sealed letter on the day of their departure.
“Read this if something happens to me and I don’t return,” Rand had said.
Bram traced a finger over his name on the envelope. He turned it over quickly, broke the wax seal with a flick of his thumbnail, and pulled the folded parchment forth:
My dearest friend Bram:
It occurs to me now, as I write this, that you are my dearest friend. I feel like my last words to you should be ripe with inspiration. Yet the only thought that comes to mind is something I said to you once before, on the stairs of the keep as I stole away to follow my dream: “Remember to always do what you know in your heart is right.”
This comes to me now, I think, because it is good advice. If you are reading this, I have followed it myself. I knew from the day you returned from Primula’s realm that I would soon learn the meaning of the Dream. After so many years of wondering, I welcome it, whatever the outcome. I did, after all, promise myself to the Art.
Be of good faith, Bram. And remember, a man with nothing to die for has even less for which to live.
The Seventh Sentinel Page 26