The Eyes of God

by John Marco

  “I don’t take orders from you!” Nace spat. With the blade of a Charger still at his throat, he laughed defiantly. “Go ahead and kill us. You’ll never get out of here.”

  “No?” Akeela tightened his arm about Mor’s thin neck. The tension in the chamber had overcome him, drowning him in a flash of madness. “Is that what you want, you greedy old reptile? You want to die?” Again he pricked Mor’s cheek with the dagger.

  “Stop!” wailed Mor.

  “Who’s the coward now, eh?” Akeela asked, jerking him backward. “You dirty bastard. I should kill you for what you did to me!”

  “My lord, stop!” ordered Breck. “We have to get the gate open!”

  Still breathing hard, barely able to think, Akeela glanced at General Nace. “You heard him, General. You’re going to order the gate open, understand?”

  “Never!”

  Breck cursed, took hold of Nace’s hairy head, and put his dagger to his throat. “Mor, do you think we’re bluffing you? Do you think we actually won’t hurt you?”

  Mor was panting in fright, unable to answer.

  “Well, watch then,” said Breck, and quickly ran his blade over Nace’s throat, slicing it open. The general’s eyes widened as blood poured down his chest. The Charger holding him let go, and Nace hovered in shock for a moment before falling in a gurgling pile to his knees. Stunned by the murder, Akeela almost dropped his dagger. Before Nace was dead, Breck rushed to Mor and put his own blade to the king’s throat.

  “Believe me now?” he asked.

  Mor erupted into cries. “Great Fate, don’t kill me!”

  “Are you going to open the gate?”

  “Yes!”

  Breck looked at Akeela, instantly in charge. “Get him out of here.” He whirled on the rest of his men. “Get their weapons and come with us.”

  The Chargers took the swords from their captives, then lowered their daggers and hurried toward Breck. The terrified page went to the Norvans, who all stood in shocked disbelief.

  “Follow us and the old man dies,” Breck promised them. His men were armed now, and having Mor as a hostage buoyed his confidence. With only his dagger in hand, he said to Akeela, “All right, let’s move. Slow and easy, my lord. They’ll let you pass once they see you have Mor.”

  Akeela barely heard Breck’s orders. Still riveted by Nace’s corpse, he stood like a cold statue near the door.

  “My lord, what’s wrong with you?” shouted Breck. “Get going!”

  Collecting himself, Akeela fixed his dagger beneath Mor’s chin and inched to the door. He began to perspire and shake, but he kept his blade against his frightened captive and stepped out into the hall. The fortress rang with sounds of battle, the screams of men and clashing steel. Breck and the others formed a ring around Akeela as they slowly crept out of the room. Breck took the lead, waving frantically when he saw his men up ahead, battling their way into the fortress.

  “Randa!” he called. “Randa, Hanas, here!”

  When the two soldiers saw Breck and Akeela, they shouted at their Norvan opponents. “Look there! Your king is captured!”

  The Norvans continued pouring against the Chargers. Akeela knew he had to act fast.

  “Lower your weapons!” he cried. “Or your king dies!”

  One by one the Norvans noticed their captured king. Slowly the combat ebbed. Randa, Hanas, and the other Chargers fell back, joining Akeela. Mor continued sputtering, blood trickling down his slashed cheek.

  “Stop!” he gurgled. “They’ll kill me!”

  “Open the gate,” Akeela ordered them. “Now!”

  The Norvans simply stared. More of them entered the hall, ready to fight, but their brothers held them back, gesturing to the king.

  “My lord,” called one of them. “Are you all right?”

  “Do I look all right, you idiot?” spat Mor. “Open the gate!”

  “But my lord, there are soldiers coming!”

  “Open the gate and surrender,” Breck ordered, “Or Mor dies.”

  “Surrender?” gasped the Norvan. “My lord?”

  “Seven hells, Virez, they’ve already killed Nace. Just do as they say!”

  The soldier stood in mute shock, then reluctantly ordered his men to open the gate. Relieved, Akeela started forward again, protected now by a wall of Chargers. Virez and his men slowly parted as they approached, careful not to imperil their king.

  “The gate’s being opened,” Virez said. “Now let him go.”

  “When we reach the gate he’ll be released,” countered Breck. “Not before.”

  King Mor let Akeela guide him through the hall, clumsily keeping step with him. His breath came in nervous rasps. “Akeela, you won’t get away with this, you vile little snake. You’ll pay for what you did to Nace. And my son!”

  “Quiet,” said Akeela, “or I’ll kill you.”

  Remarkably, Mor began laughing. “You won’t kill me. You’re a coward! You’ll have your dog soldiers do it for you!”

  Akeela tried not to listen, concentrating instead on reaching the courtyard. At last they came to the double doors of the fortress, both open wide and letting in the morning sunlight. Akeela could hear the calls of his men outside the fortress gates, and the thought that Hogon was near eased his fear. The yard itself was full of Norvan soldiers, but none moved against Akeela and his band. Akeela spied the gate in the distance and saw that Mor’s orders were indeed being heeded. A handful of men were opening the great gates. And beyond the gates, sitting triumphantly upon his horse with a broadsword in hand, was Hogon. The chancellor looked harried and proud, and when he saw Akeela emerge from the keep a disbelieving smile lit his face. Beside him was Raxor, stunning in his black armor, an army of his fellow Reecians at his back. Breck, who had taken a sword from one of the Norvans, waved the weapon at Hogon. A rush of exhilaration passed through Akeela. Like Hogon, he couldn’t believe he’d actually succeeded. His thoughts were suddenly of Lukien, and how impressed he’d be when he learned of this day.

  As Akeela moved toward the gate, Hogon and his men began entering the huge courtyard. The feeling of victory overswept Akeela. But only for a moment. Mor began squirming angrily in his grasp, staring at the gate and rasping hatefully.

  “Reecians?” he growled. “Reecians!” He exploded, thrashing wildly to escape Akeela. “No Reecians will ever take my fortress! Never!”

  Akeela struggled to control the old man, but Mor’s sudden anger gave the old man strength. He kicked at Akeela and elbowed him, fighting to get free. As Akeela hurried him toward the gate, Mor began screaming at his men, “Virez, it’s Reecian scum! Stop them!”

  Breck shouted, “King Akeela, shut him up!”

  “I’m trying!”

  “Virez! Attack!”

  “Akeela!”

  Panicked, Akeela looked toward Virez and knew that he could hear his king. The soldier lifted his gaze toward the gate and realized that Reecians rode with the Liirians.

  “Virez!” Mor cried. “Fight them!”

  “Quiet!” Akeela pleaded. “We’re almost free!”

  But Mor would not be silent. With Akeela’s dagger still at his chin, he continued to call for attack, screaming against his strangled throat for his men to fight. Breck was screaming too, shouting for Akeela to silence their captive. Akeela looked around impotently, wondering what to do. To one side was Hogon and his army, struggling through the gate. To the other side was Virez, finally comprehending his king’s cries. There was no time to waste. Akeela panicked. Mor was bellowing, ordering their deaths. Akeela’s tenuous control snapped.

  “Quiet!” he cried, and drove his dagger through Mor’s windpipe. The flesh exploded with blood. Mor fell backward into Akeela, who stood in horror at what he had done, watching as Mor clutched at his throat. Blood sluiced from the wound, drenching both of them. Akeela dropped his dagger and began to scream.

  “Breck!”

  When Breck saw Akeela, his jaw fell open and his face went white. Akeela was out
in the open, unarmed and wailing, Mor crumpled at his feet. The world around Akeela slipped into darkness. He heard voices, saw men charging at him from both directions, and all he could do was stand there. Terror seized him; Mor’s blood drenched him. And Virez and his men were streaming forward, clashing against his own shocked troops. Breck threw himself into the melee, joining his outnumbered men as Hogon and the others struggled forward. The air filled with screams. Akeela realized suddenly that he was screaming, too. A man was charging toward him, sword drawn, legs pumping as he fought to reach his quarry. Akeela raised his hands uselessly against his attacker, sure that he would die.

  “King Akeela, run!” screamed a voice. Chancellor Hogon thundered forward on his horse. With one smooth move he arced his broadsword through the air, slicing off the offender’s arm. The man screamed and fell backward. Hogon spun his horse toward Akeela.

  “Run, my lord, run!” he commanded. “Get to safety!”

  So Akeela ran. Finding just enough courage to flee, he headed for the gate just as Raxor came through. The War Minister of Reec gave him a disgruntled look, then moved his horse aside to let the young king pass.

  The armies of Hogon and Raxor easily outnumbered the Norvans. Without a king or general to lead them, the defenders of Hanging Man could muster only a clumsy defense. They had been caught unaware by Akeela’s deception, and with the gate of their fortress open like a wound, it didn’t take long for their enemies to overwhelm them. What might have been a long, bloody siege lasted only hours, as the determined Norvans barricaded themselves in the many structures of the fortress, refusing to surrender to their long-time foes. Raxor, eager to avenge the many wrongs Mor had done his people, saw no reason to give quarter. He was as merciless as he’d been in his battles against Liiria, and he relished the fight Akeela had brought him, cherishing it like a long-anticipated gift. Prince Fianor awoke just in time to join the battle, but didn’t survive long. The blow to his skull made him sluggish with his sword, and he died shortly after he awoke, run through by a Reecian spear. Hogon and Breck and the other Liirians joined the bloodletting without reluctance, for they were soldiers and believed in the righteousness of war.

  Akeela had run far from the fortress, but not far enough to drown out the screams of the dying men. He had run until his lungs burned and his legs turned to water, and when he could run no longer he collapsed on a hillside overlooking Hanging Man. For hours he lay there, still covered in Mor’s blood, which would not come off no matter how hard he rubbed. He wept at the ruins of his plan and watched the men battle for the fortress with the detachment of a dream, his eyes blurry with tears. Finally, when the battle was over and the afternoon sun was high overhead, he saw Hogon and Raxor emerge from the iron gates. A train of defeated Norvans streamed out of the courtyard. Without food or horses or weapons, they began the dismal trek into the interior of Norvor. Akeela knew the wounded among them would die on the way, because Hanging Man was remote and Norvor was rugged. Yet he didn’t seem to care that more men would die, and he puzzled over his lack of sympathy. Not long after, he heard Breck calling his name. He did not answer, but Breck discovered him anyway, sitting alone among the rocks of the hillside. Akeela had his arms wrapped about his knees.

  “My lord?” Breck asked warily.

  Akeela said nothing. His eyes blinked lifelessly.

  Breck’s voice softened, gently prodding, “Akeela? Are you all right?”

  “You won,” replied Akeela. His tear-stained face smiled awkwardly. “I saw it all from here.”

  “Yes.” Breck chanced a step closer. His sword was sheathed and his hair was matted with filth, but he was uninjured. “My lord, why didn’t you answer me when I called?”

  Akeela shrugged. “I don’t know.” He held out a blood-stained hand. “It won’t come off. I’ve tried all day, but I can’t get it off me.”

  Breck came and knelt before him. “Oh, Akeela,” he sighed. “Don’t worry. You’ll be all right.”

  “Me?” Akeela laughed. “Why shouldn’t I be all right?”

  “I warned you,” said Breck. “I told you not to do this. You’re not a bloody soldier!”

  “Why are you looking at me like that? I told you, I’m fine.”

  But even Akeela knew he wasn’t fine. Something inside had snapped the moment he’d killed Mor, the moment the old man’s blood spurted against his face. “We have to get back to Liiria,” he said. “I have to see Cassandra.” His smile was fractured. “I’m going to tell her how we conquered the fortress.”

  Breck took Akeela’s hand and gently pulled him to his feet. “All right, my lord. Let’s just get you home.”

  19

  The desert, Lukien quickly learned, was a place of mirages.

  Each day when the sun rose, the sands shifted with the wind, forming pools of watery sunlight on the earth. The dunes seemed to move as if alive, and the dust storms sang in the distance, warning of their approach. There were no trees or rain clouds, only occasional, life-giving cacti; the sun was a constant companion, blithely watching the caravan invading its burning realm. Scorpions and lizards skittered along the rocks, and the bleached bones of unlucky drowa stuck out like guideposts among the shifting sands. Time moved unhurriedly, like syrup, and the vast expanse of nothingness drowned every thought. For five days the travelers had endured the rigors of the desert. Now, unbelievably, their journey was nearing its end. The caravan leader Jebel had told them that Jador was very near, maybe another half-day’s ride, maybe less. But the news did little to buoy the mood of Lukien and his companions. Despite the gaka and headdress he wore, the exposed flesh of his hands and around his eyes had been burned red. Old Figgis had fared no better, and Trager never spoke at all, except to curse the heat. Lukien knew they needed to reach Jador quickly, or else be sick from heatstroke. They didn’t want water or the temporary shelter of wagons any more; they wanted an end to the taunting sands.

  Lukien kept his drowa near the strange wagons as he rode, letting Jebel and Figgis lead the way. Trager kept to the rear of the caravan. After five days of riding, he still hadn’t mastered the ill-tempered drowa, and occasionally grumbled at the beast to behave. Lukien himself had grown accustomed to the humped monster, though his back ached from its loping gait. He had named his drowa Mirage in honor of the shimmerings on the horizon. The beast already seemed to know its name and didn’t question Lukien’s commands. Surprisingly, Lukien liked his silent companion. Drowas were remarkable, and far better suited to the desert than horses. They were powerful and swift when they had to be, and, according to Jebel, the females gave milk to feed their masters. Lukien had already tried drowa milk and thought it disgusting, but it didn’t keep him from admiring the beasts. In the deathlike Desert of Tears, he was grateful for them.

  At mid-afternoon the sun was hottest, and Lukien drew his headdress around his face so that only his eyes peered through. Beneath his gaka, sweat poured from his body. In the wagon next to him, Cahra and two of her younger sisters were watching him, swaying lazily to the rhythm of the caravan. Cahra wasn’t like her siblings. She was the oldest of Jebel’s children and so enjoyed a measure of freedom that made her talkative. She had already exhausted Figgis with questions of Liiria and the lands to the north, surprising them all by speaking their language. Jebel explained that all his children spoke the tongue of the northern lands, because they were traders and needed to be fluent. Cahra had a surprising command of the language. The idea that desert people were quiet simply didn’t apply to her.

  “Lukien is thirsty,” she said. She had a peculiar way of addressing him, but he had gotten used to it. “Water?”

  “Yes,” said Lukien. He sidled up to the wagon, careful to avoid its wide, sand-churning wheels. Cahra told her sister Miva to fetch a waterskin. The youngster did so and held it out for Lukien with a smile. “Thank you,” said Lukien, then lowered his face wrap and took a conservative drink. The water was remarkably cool, and Lukien didn’t want to stop. But he capped the skin and hande
d it back to Miva. Neither Miva nor her sisters took a drink themselves.

  “Your father says that we’ll reach Jador by tomorrow,” said Lukien as he fixed the cloth about his face.

  “Or sooner,” said Cahra. She continued to watch him.

  “By nightfall?”

  “Maybe.”

  Lukien looked ahead. All he could see was more and more rolling sand. “Tomorrow, I’d say.”

  Cahra chuckled. “The desert fools you. Do not expect things. Jador could be right in front of us, and the desert would hide it.”

  “It’s perfectly clear today. If Jador were ahead of us, I’d know.”

  The girl continued to study him, her dark eyes full of curiosity. Because the wagon provided cover, she no longer wore her headdress. Instead she let her hair fall around her shoulders. More and more, she reminded Lukien of Cassandra. “You are strange,” she said. “You do not talk like the old one.”

  “You mean Figgis? No, no one talks like Figgis. He’s impossible to shut up.”

  “You are quiet, like the other one.” Cahra spied Trager. “That one is sour like a grape.”

  Lukien nodded. “That’s our Trager.”

  “You do not like each other.” Cahra leaned forward. “Why?”

  “It’s a long story, girl, and not very interesting.”

  “He calls you captain. He is your servant?”

  “Something like that,” said Lukien. “He serves under me, in the Royal Chargers.”

  “In Liiria,” said Cahra brightly. “Figgis told me about Liiria. He says that your king is a great man, and that he wants to make peace with the world. That is why you are going to Jador, yes?”

  Lukien hated to lie to the girl, but he said, “Yes, that’s right. We’re emissaries from our king.”

  Cahra struggled with the word. “Em-a-sair-ee?”

  “Emissaries. Like friends. We’re going to make friends with Jador.” He gestured to the packs hanging from his drowa’s haunches. “We’ve brought gifts for the kahan and kahana, to show them we want peace and friendship.”