The Eyes of God

by John Marco

  While they had shopped for their drowas, Figgis had explained his conversation with Tamaz, the Jadori. He had learned from the lizard rider that Jador was still at peace, just as Figgis had suspected, and that they still had a kahan and a kahana, just as they did decades ago when Figgis was a young man in Ganjor. Back then, Figgis had recalled, the kahan had been a man named Kadar. So it had surprised and elated Figgis when Tamaz told him that the Kahan of Jador was still Kadar, apparantly the very man who had ruled Jador all that time ago. It might have been his son, Figgis supposed, but he prefered to think it was still the same man, and that a magical amulet was keeping him alive. Kadar’s wife, the kahana, was called Jitendra. This news draped a pall over Figgis’ theory, because he remembered Kadar’s wife as having a different name. Still, it was enticing.

  Deciding there was no harm in explaining their pretense to Tamaz, Figgis had told him that they were emissaries from King Akeela of Liiria, and that they had brought gifts for the Jadori kahan in hopes of opening up diplomatic relations. The news had pleased Tamaz, who told Figgis that Kahan Kadar would welcome the Liirian visitors. But he had refused to speak more about Kadar, and that puzzled Figgis. The librarian had decided not to push the man further, but had taken his evasiveness as a good sign.

  “Perhaps they are not allowed to speak of the kahan’s magic,” Figgis had theorized.

  Lukien didn’t really care. He was just glad they were on their way to Jador, and that soon he might confront this Kahan Kadar. If he and his wife did indeed have the magic amulets, he would steal them. In the quiet of the desert, it seemed a remarkably simple plan.

  For Cassandra, Lukien reminded himself.

  He wasn’t a thief, but for Cassandra he would become one. For Cassandra, he would do anything, and that troubled him. He was far from home now, maybe about to die. He had risked his brotherhood with Akeela and imperiled his soul, if indeed he even had a soul, and as the wind played across the sand Lukien wondered what life would be like without her. In the little time they had spent together, he had fallen deeply in love with her. He imagined he could accept her as Akeela’s wife, as long as she was close and he could look at her. But if she died. . . .

  She will not die, Lukien told himself. I won’t allow it.

  With Cassandra’s face filling his thoughts, Lukien closed his eyes and went to sleep.

  17

  At the bridge of Roan-si, Chancellor Hogon and his army of Liirians paused to look across the glistening River Kryss. They had traveled many days to make the rendezvous, and the infantry and horses were exhausted from the march. But the sight of the river heartened them, and the opposing army that had come to meet them put a smile on Hogon’s face. He narrowed his eyes against the strong sun, recognizing Raxor’s flag. The Reecian war minister’s standard was a green flag embroided with a snarling lion, in the same colors as his brother. From the looks of Raxor’s camp, the Reecians had arrived at least a day earlier. Tents and pavilions had already been erected, and a few small cooking fires burned among the huddled troops. The scouts that Hogon had sent ahead had reported that Raxor was anxious for his meeting at the bridge. Already Reecian soldiers were riding out of camp to greet them. Hogon put up his hand and bid his company to remain calm. He had five hundred infantry with him and almost a hundred heavy horsemen, all of whom still distrusted their new allies. But Raxor had come just as his brother had promised, and Hogon had his orders. So far, at least, Akeela’s plan was working.

  “Dusan, you will accompany me,” said Hogon. “Kass, stay back with the others.”

  The chancellor’s aides frowned at each other.

  “Sir, is that wise?” asked Dusan, the younger of the two.

  He had been with Hogon for five years, yet still saw fit to question him. “You should have at least two men with you, for protection.”

  The Chancellor of War chuckled. “Protection from what? They’re our allies now.”

  Lieutenant Kass snorted, “Allies. Who believes that, truly?”

  “Your king believes that,” said Hogon sharply. “And look, they have come.”

  “So you trust them?” asked Kass.

  Hogon didn’t answer. He didn’t have to trust the Reecians. Like Liiria, they had a stake in defeating Norvor, and that would keep them honest, at least for now. And despite his violent history, Raxor was known as a man of his word, not only in Reec but throughout the continent. Hogon had battled Raxor many times, but he had never hated the man. He respected him.

  “See that the men rest, Kass,” said Hogon, “and that the horses take water. Dusan, come along.”

  With Dusan following close behind, Hogon trotted toward the bridge. Roan-si Bridge was wide and sturdy, and would easily accommodate bringing the army across. It had been built by the Reecians long before Akeela had come to power, but had been abandoned during the bitter stalemate, used mostly by traders and merchants. Roan-si, Hogon knew, was an old Reecian phrase meaning “meeting place.” The irony of the name wasn’t lost on the old man. Those who had built the bridge had supposed it would bring the two nations together, but only Akeela had been able to do that.

  As he neared the stone bridge, Hogon recognized Raxor among the approaching soldiers. When the Reecian noticed Hogon’s single companion, he paused for a moment, ordering all but one of his soldiers to stop and wait as he himself rode on. He wore a surcoat over his black armor and metal studded greaves, and his ebony warhorse matched his own dark hair, combed back and slick with oil. He was a big man, like his brother, and as he trotted onto the bridge his eyes met Hogon’s with an air of mistrust. Hogon remained arrow-straight in his saddle, not even blinking as he rode to face his longtime enemy. Never before had he been this close to Raxor. The urge to draw his sword was almost irresistible. There was no sound on the bridge, only the clopping of horse hooves on stone. Behind Hogon, Dusan was silent.

  The two men rode toward the crest of the bridge, their aides keeping back a pace. Hogon stopped his horse and raised his hand in greeting.

  “Raxor.”

  The War Minister of Reec nodded. “Hogon.”

  They looked at each other without the smallest hint of friendship. Raxor was unreadable. Hogon felt the breeze strike his face and decided he should say something.

  “You’ve come,” he said. “To be honest, I didn’t know if you would. Thank you.”

  “My king commanded it,” said Raxor. “Is that not why you are here, Hogon?”

  Hogon nodded. “It is.”

  “You look tired,” the Reecian remarked.

  “It is a long march from Koth.”

  “And from Hes,” agreed Raxor. “But we have rested. We arrived yesterday.”

  “Good. Then you are ready to march on Hanging Man?”

  “We are.” Raxor hesitated, sizing up Hogon. “Chancellor, I have a question from my brother. He wants to know how his daughter fares.”

  Hogon grimaced. In the tension of the moment, he had forgotten that Karis had been told of Cassandra’s illness. The messenger that had asked for his help against Norvor had delivered that bad news as well.

  “I’m sorry,” said Hogon, “but the queen does poorly. She has some good days, but she is very ill. Her physician says she may be dead in a month or two.”

  “And the quest your messenger spoke of? How does that go?”

  “No word yet. But we have sent out our best knights in search of the amulets. If they exist, our men will find them.”

  Raxor’s face betrayed his sadness. “It is a fool’s errand,” he said. “If Cassandra has so little time, how can your knights save her?”

  “They will do their best,” said Hogon. He did not believe in Lukien’s quest either, but thought it best not to say so. “As I said, if the amulets exist, our men will find them.”

  “Then I will dispatch that news to my brother, and tell him to begin mourning his daughter,” said Raxor bitterly. “Now, what news of your king?”

  “King Akeela still rides for Hanging Man. He will a
rrive there on the morrow. We will attack the day after, just past dawn.”

  “Will there will be a signal?”

  Hogon shook his head. “No. My orders are to attack an hour past dawn. Akeela assured me he would be ready.”

  Raxor grimaced. “With respect, I have met your king, Chancellor. He doesn’t seem capable of this mission.”

  “Maybe. But he’s not alone. He has fifty men with him, including one of his best Chargers. When we attack, they will be ready.”

  Raxor looked over Hogon’s shoulder, toward his Liirian army. “You have brought a goodly force with you.”

  “Five hundred infantry and a hundred cavalry.” Hogon surveyed Raxor’s troops in the distance. “Almost as many as you, it seems.”

  “Indeed. We will be formidable . . .” Raxor almost smiled. “Together.”

  Hogon returned the crooked grin. “Together,” he echoed. The word felt odd to him. “We live in strange times, Minister,” he said, then proceeded across the bridge with Raxor.

  18

  The Norvan fortress of Hanging Man clung to the edge of a cliff, one sheer face turned toward the churning river below. Defiant flags overhung its battlements, snapping in the wind, while countless scores of armored men milled about its courtyard, barely visible through the surrounding iron gate. A single turret rose from the fortress, its gray stone weather-pitted, its arrow slits perpetually watching the River Kryss. Beyond the fortress lay Norvor, a land of formidable mountains and hot southern summers. Hanging Man’s shadow fell across the River Kryss like a drawbridge. The fortress had stood for six decades, guarding Norvor and its diamond mines from its Reecian neighbors. It had earned its name during the first Reecian’Norvan war, when Norvan soldiers hung their Reecian captives on the wall facing the river, so that any who approached would see their grisly trophies and be warned. The name had stuck, but not the practice, for there had been no war between the uneasy neighbors for many years, and Norvor had quieted as its brutal leader aged. Akeela knew very little about King Mor, but he knew that he was very old, and that now he was very angry. Angry enough, it seemed, to return to his warlike ways.

  It was just past noon when Akeela and his contingent of Chargers arrived at Hanging Man. The sun beat down on his cape-clad shoulders. His horse moved sluggishly, eager for a rest, and the warmth had wilted Akeela’s spirits, which withered further at the sight of Hanging Man. For eight days they had ridden, finding what shelter they could in Liirian villages, until they had crossed the Kryss and entered Reec. After that they had been on their own, and the lack of sleep and decent food had plagued Akeela. He wasn’t as hearty as Breck or the others, and he knew that it showed. Breck rode very close to him, watching him like a concerned brother.

  “They see us, my lord,” said Breck. He ambled his horse alongside Akeela’s, pointing at the great turret.

  “No doubt,” said Akeela. His insides clenched. From the looks of the fortress, King Mor had been busy. There were catapults and heavy wagons and stables housing war horses, all plainly visible and meant to send a message. Akeela no longer doubted Mor’s intentions. It was expensive to move so many men and so much equipment; Mor wasn’t bluffing. He intended to attack Reec if his demands were not met, even if it meant war with Liiria.

  “Keep riding,” Akeela told Breck. The lieutenant called the order down the line, and the fifty horsemen kept moving. The men in Hanging Man’s courtyard began opening the great gate.

  “My lord?” Breck whispered.

  “Yes?”

  “Are you all right?”

  Akeela nodded. “Yes.”

  Breck leaned in closer. “You don’t have to do this. We can still turn around. Just say the word.”

  But Akeela couldn’t say the word. Frightened as he was, he knew there was no turning back. Hogon was already prepared, and Raxor with him.

  “I can’t explain this to you, Breck. It’s just something I have to do.”

  “But you’ve never done anything like this before.” Breck kept his voice low, but his tone was earnest. “Forgive me for saying this, but you’re not a soldier, my lord.”

  “Shhh,” Akeela urged. “No more talk, all right? It’s done, and I’m not backing down.”

  Akeela took a breath to still his doubts. Mor’s arrogance had brought them to this, and if Mor died in the battle, then Akeela wouldn’t shed a tear for him. There was more at stake than one man’s life—there was Liiria, and Akeela’s rule over it. He couldn’t let Mor or Baron Glass or anyone else think him a weakling.

  Cassandra doesn’t want a weakling for a husband, thought Akeela. She wants a hero, like Lukien.

  He rode ahead of Breck, checking himself as he approached the fortress. He felt the slender length of his dagger against his breast, his only protection. Up ahead, the great gate of Hanging Man beckoned. A contingent of soldiers waited there, dressed in the peculiar armor of Norvor, their heads hidden beneath winged helmets. Akeela searched the crowd for Mor, but did not see the old man.

  “Ho,” he called to the men. “I am King Akeela of Liiria. May we come ahead?”

  “You may come,” answered a sentry, “and ten men with you. No more.”

  Akeela shook his head. “I won’t walk into a lion’s mouth without protection. I have fifty tired men with me, and they all need rest and food.”

  “And I have my orders, King Akeela,” said the sentry. “King Mor has said ten men only may enter.”

  Breck leaned over, whispering, “Refuse.”

  Akeela hesitated. If his plan was to work, Mor needed to think him a coward. He called to the sentry, “Twenty men. Otherwise I will not enter.”

  The Norvans mumbled amongst themselves. Finally their leader relented. “Twenty men is agreed. Come ahead.”

  “And you will see that the rest are fed?”

  The sentry agreed, and Akeela had Breck count out twenty of the Royal Chargers. Together they rode forward. Akeela took careful notice of the gate as he passed through it. If their plan was to succeed, they would have to keep the gate open as long as possible. The sentries in the courtyard bowed slightly to Akeela as he entered the courtyard, taking his horse. Akeela dismounted, surveying his surroundings.

  “This is Lieutenant Breck,” he told the wing-helmed sentry. “He will accompany me everywhere, is that understood?”

  “King Mor expected you to have a bodyguard,” replied the leader. There was a trace of humor in his tone. “He’s waiting for you inside.” He began to order the fortress gates closed. Akeela quickly interrupted him.

  “Don’t you dare close those gates until my men are taken care of,” he said sharply. “I want them fed, and I want feed for their horses as well.”

  The sentry reluctantly agreed, telling his companions to see to their “guests.” “The rest of your men can take their ease here in the yard,” he said. “We’ll see to their horses as well, but they’re not to accompany you to the meeting. And they’re not to draw their weapons for any reason.”

  “Then don’t give them reason to do so,” said Akeela.

  The guard seemed to smile beneath his helmet. “Your bodyguard may accompany you to the meeting. And as I said, King Mor is expecting you.”

  With Breck beside him, Akeela followed the sentry out of the yard, through a portcullis and into the main keep. A wide hall full of torchlight greeted them. Soldiers and servant boys walked the stone floor. Akeela felt his pulse quicken. Up ahead was a large pair of wooden doors guarded by two more soldiers. Both wore the ornate armor of Norvor, polished to a luster, and sported winged helmets. As Akeela approached, they uncrossed their halberds and bowed, then turned to open the creaking portals, revealing a large, dark chamber. Akeela stepped across the threshold. In the room was an oval-shaped table, laden with bread and cheese and flasks of wine. Three men were seated at the far end. Two of them rose when Akeela entered. Mor, seated in the center, did not. His watery eyes watched Akeela; his thin lips parted in an amused smile. A spotless white cat lay in his lap, purri
ng as Mor stroked its long hair. Mor had dressed for the meeting, wearing a resplendent emerald cape and an elaborate collection of gem-encrusted rings. His pate was speckled with age spots, making him look even older than the last time Akeela had seen him. His dark gaze drifted over his guests.

  Akeela bowed. “King Mor. It’s good to see you again. Thank you for agreeing to meet with me.”

  Mor inclined his head. “You’ve come quicker than I’d suspected, young Akeela. Anxious for peace, are you?”

  “I am, my lord,” said Akeela. “I’m hopeful we can come to some sort of arrangement.”

  The Norvan king continued stroking his pet. “You know Nace and Fianor.”

  The two men remained standing, bowing slightly to Akeela. General Nace was Mor’s top military man, now in command of Hanging Man fortress. The younger man, Fianor, was Mor’s son. As next in line for the Norvan throne, he accompanied his father everywhere. The prince had strange, mismatched eyes and platinum hair that harkened back to what his father might have looked like in youth.

  “This is Breck,” said Akeela, “a lieutenant of my Royal Chargers and one of my closest aides. He’ll be staying with me inside Hanging Man.”

  The sentry that had brought them to the chamber said, “My lord, King Akeela has brought about fifty men with him. Twenty of them have been allowed inside the courtyard.”

  King Mor smiled. “Twenty? Bargaining already, King Akeela?”

  “They make me feel safe, my lord,” replied Akeela. He remembered how he needed to play the weakling. “I’m sure you understand.”