The Eyes of God

by John Marco

  “That is Grimhold, Sir Lukien,” said Minikin with a chuckle. “The real Grimhold.”

  “But I thought this fortress was Grimhold!” Lukien rushed back to the spyglass for a better look, laughing with delight as he scanned the village. There were Inhumans, all right, but also able-bodied men and women in the streets and working in the fields circling the homesteads. There was even a small pond fed by a mountain stream, with women drawing water from it. It was a beautiful village, a picturesque dream, and Lukien couldn’t contain his glee. “I don’t believe it!” he crowed. “It’s huge! How many people are there?”

  Oh, at least a few thousand now.”

  “What?” Lukien lifted his gaze and stared at Minikin. “All Inhumans?”

  “And not all of them deformed,” replied Minikin. “Lukien, this fortress isn’t Grimhold. It’s only part of it.”

  “But how?” sputtered Lukien. “How so many people?”

  “Think about it, Lukien. If you do, you can figure it out for yourself. As I once told you, Grimhold has existed for many, many years. There was no way this fortress could hold so many people after a while, not once they started having children.”

  Lukien was aghast. “Children? You mean the Inhumans have been breeding?”

  Minikin laughed. “Why should that shock you? We’re people, Lukien, just like you.”

  “But that would take decades,” said Lukien. He went to the window and leaned over the sill. What Minikin had told him was mind-boggling. Surely most of these people had been brought here, otherwise. . . .

  He turned very slowly toward Minikin, regarding her carefully. “Minikin, how old are you? I mean, if there was no one here when you arrived, how could you have possibly brought this many people to Grimhold?”

  “I did not bring them all, Sir Lukien. I told you—most of those people were born here. It’s been generations now.”

  “Generations? But that’s impossible. That would make you ancient!”

  “Well, not ancient precisely,” joked Minikin. “But I do look young for my age.” She reached for the amulet around her neck. “This has kept me alive for many years. Probably more years than you can comprehend. Haven’t you wondered why the myth of Grimhold has persisted so long? The story is nothing new; it was around long before you were born.”

  “I know but. . . .” Lukien shrugged. “How’s it possible?”

  “The amulets, Lukien. They’re very strong. They’ve kept me alive since the beginning. And the beginning was long ago, indeed.” Minikin looped her arm through his and guided his gaze back out the window. “Look out there. There are thousands of us Inhumans now, and the number grows every year. This is why I told you not to worry; we are not as weak as we first appear.”

  “Those people down there, the ones that are, well, normal—are they Inhumans too?”

  Minikin nodded. “Everyone who dwells in Grimhold is an Inhuman, but not all of them have Akari spirits as guides or helpers. Those who are able-bodied do not need them. But they’re the offspring of the people that I’ve brought here. Some of them were born disabled, like their parents. But many are what you call normal, Lukien.”

  “Do they know of the outside world?”

  “Of course. They aren’t prisoners. I don’t keep secrets from them. Everyone knows why they’re here and how they came to be, and they know that Grimhold is a secret place, the only place where the Inhumans are truly safe. They work the fields and build homes and haul water, and they are fit enough to defend Grimhold.” She nudged him with her elbow. “Enough to make an army out of, eh?”

  “Yes,” said Lukien softly. “Yes, perhaps you’re right.”

  It was a tantalizing notion. With so many people, even Akeela’s men would be hard pressed to defeat them. And they had weapons. Besides those he’d found in the armory, he supposed there were more in the village below. But there wasn’t much time. And there was still Insight’s dismal prophecy.

  “Minikin,” said Lukien, “what about what Insight saw? She saw this place in ruins. I admit there are many people to defend Grimhold now, but they’re not soldiers. Even if they can carry weapons, they might be slaughtered.”

  “I know,” said Minikin, “and so do they. But this is their home. They are willing to die for it.”

  Lukien had to look away. “But I don’t want them to die, Minikin, not any of them. It’s not fair. I brought Akeela here. Why should all these people have to pay for my mistake?” He shook his head regretfully. “I wish I could stop it. I wish. . . .” He shrugged, unable to finish. There were simply no answers.

  “Lacaron sees the future as if through broken glass, Lukien,” said Minikin. “The things he tells Insight do not always come to pass. People have power to change things.”

  “I don’t know,” sighed Lukien. It wounded him to think of the good people down below, and the plague he had brought them. “I don’t know if I can lead them.”

  Minikin grinned like an elf. “I have more faith in you than you have in yourself. Remember—you are the Bronze Knight of Koth.”

  “That was a long time ago,” said Lukien.

  “No,” Minikin insisted. She punched his chest with her fingertip. “What is needed is still inside you. Now you must summon it. We still have time before Akeela and his army reaches us, and he may not reach us at all. He has to get past Kadar first.”

  “He will,” said Lukien darkly. “Insight saw it.”

  Minikin grumbled in frustration. “You’re not listening. The future is still ours to make. Kadar is strong, and so are his warriors. They will make Akeela pay for crossing the desert. And if your king does reach Grimhold, we will be ready for him. You will make sure of it.” The Mistress of Grimhold fixed him in a furious glare. “Do you understand?”

  Lukien looked over the miraculous village, remembering his promise to Kadar. If he was to defend White-Eye, then he needed to defend her home as well. “I’ll do my best,” he said finally. “And may the Great Fate help me.”

  49

  Akeela swayed to the gentle loping of his horse, baking beneath the hot sun. The Desert of Tears roiled around him in every direction, an endless sea of sand and dunes and red mountains standing dauntingly in the distance. It was late afternoon and the sun was starting to descend. The procession of men and horses and drowa plowed their way relentlessly west, strangely quiet in the all- consuming sands. Ganjor was now but a distant memory. Akeela thought about his modest chambers at the top of the boarding house with genuine longing. He and his army had only been in the desert two days, but he craved the comforts of Ganjor and its wines as if he’d been away for weeks. Grak had done a remarkable job of getting the things they needed. They had left Ganjor on time, two days after hiring the caravan leader. Once he’d seen the amount of gold he’d had to work with, Grak had no difficulty purchasing the scores of drowa and countless water barrels for their trips. Now the train of drowa strung out behind Akeela in a long, winding line, their backs burdened with food and tents and skins of water. Progress had been slow. Although horses could travel the desert, they could only do so slowly and needed frequent rest. The heat was an incessant enemy. Grak had purchased gakas for the men and white covers for the horses, so that they looked like ghostly beasts lumbering across the sands. Beneath his own black gaka Akeela itched and sweated, cursing the misfortunes that had brought him to this desolate place. Truly, the Desert of Tears had been forsaken by the gods, for never had Akeela seen so much nothingness. Not even Norvor, with its rocks and stretches of burned earth could rival the desert for bleakness. Here there was nothing to see for hours on end, only mountains that never seemed to get closer. Akeela pulled back his gaka, unable to take its stifling heat a moment longer. Cursing, he wiped a slick of sweat from his forehead. Next to him, General Trager rode in stoic silence, his own face hidden beneath black cloth. Beside the general rode his aide, Colonel Tark. The colonel was as silent as his commander. Miraculously, the entire army was silent. Except for the occasional grunts from the dro
wa, there was no sound. Even when they rested, the desert gave them little to talk about. There was water and food and almost no other comforts, and Akeela knew his men longed to return to Liiria. They had served him well and he was proud of them, and he wished he could repay their loyalty. But he knew that he could not.

  Grak had promised that they would be in Jador in less than a week. Along with his brother Doreshen, they had so far done a good job of leading the caravan. Grak had left the rest of his family behind in Ganjor, promising to return soon. The decision had pleased Akeela, for he did not know what kind of fight they would face in Jador, and he didn’t want Grak’s wife or children at risk. It would take a week, Grak had claimed, because the horses required much rest and enormous amounts of water, water which was heavy even for the drowa to carry. It was a great undertaking, but Akeela had taken such bold moves before. It was like building the library, he told himself. Some said it couldn’t be done, but he knew better. And just as he could build a library on a mountaintop, he could move an army across the desert.

  Watching the afternoon sun, he retrieved the waterskin from the side of his mount and took a long drink of the sweet liquid. Grak had warned him not to drink wine while in the desert, claiming it would sicken him. It had been tempting for Akeela to ignore the advice, but in the end he heeded it. It had been the first time in weeks he’d been completely sober, and he found the sensation odd. Not refreshing or pleasant, just odd. Most remarkably, though, the desert had quieted his fevered mind. Here where there was nothing to disturb him, he did not feel the heavy concerns of kingship. Though the sun always blazed, there was something about daytime here that reminded him of night. Akeela reveled in the solitude.

  When nightfall came they made camp. The two thousand soldiers began the work of unloading tents from the backs of the drowa and the cooking fires were lit. Akeela’s own pavilion was erected, larger than the rest, at the head of the camp near the tent that Trager shared with his top aides. Grak and his brother also had a tent nearby, because Akeela liked keeping them close. He knew that he had erred in confiding so much in Grak, but he also liked the desert man’s company, and they often ate together, enjoying the plain food. On this night, Akeela was particularly tired from the day’s ride, so after his meal he went off to the outskirts of the camp to get away from the noise and smoke. There he found Grak, stargazing alone. Like all the nights in the desert, this one was astonishingly clear. Akeela had never known there were so many stars in the heavens. He came up behind Grak quietly, but he knew Grak could hear him.

  “A beautiful night,” he remarked, staring up at the sky.

  Grak nodded but did not look at him. “It is.” There was weight in Grak’s voice, as if he were deep in thought. Akeela regarded him curiously.

  “You’re troubled?” he asked. “Are we not on the right path?”

  “No, my lord,” said Grak. “We make good progress. Do not worry.”

  “But you are troubled, I can tell.” Akeela decided to push him. “Why?”

  “There are things that concern me,” said Grak. He still did not look away from the stars.

  “About this trip?”

  Grak nodded.

  “What, precisely?”

  “I am wondering,” said Grak. “What will you do with so many men when you reach Jador? You say you are after the man called Lukien, but it does not take an army to hunt a single man.”

  His boldness surprised Akeela. Normally he wouldn’t have accepted such forwardness from an underling. “That is my business,” he said simply. “You’re getting paid to take us to Jador, not to concern yourself with their welfare.”

  “But I do worry, my lord,” said Grak. “They trade with me, make me money. And they are good people. I would not want to see them harmed.” Finally he looked at Akeela. “Or have a part in it.”

  “Then you should have said so before you took this commission,” said Akeela a bit angrily. “I didn’t hide my army from you. You could have refused me.”

  “I was afraid,” Grak confessed. Then he surprised Akeela by smiling. “But perhaps I should not have been.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I have been watching you, my lord. You are not what I expected. In Ganjor you are called Jahasavar. Do you know what that means?”

  Akeela shook his head. “Tell me.”

  “It means mad. You are the mad king, and not just in Ganjor. All know of you and think you are brainsick. But I have seen your concern for my family and the good way you treat your men. And now you come out here to look at stars.” Grak grinned. “I think you are not what they say you are, my lord.”

  “Oh?” asked Akeela. “What do you think I am, then?”

  “I think you are the man they used to call you. I think you are Akeela the Good.”

  The term rattled Akeela. He looked away. “That was a long time ago, when I was naive and stupid. And before I had so many enemies.”

  “The desert is a magical place, my lord. It affects all men differently. For you, it has been cleansing. Do you not feel it?”

  “I do,” Akeela admitted grudgingly. “So what’s your point?”

  Grak shrugged. “Perhaps nothing. Or perhaps that you should listen to the good man still inside you.”

  “I am a good man,” hissed Akeela. “I have always been and always will be!”

  “A good man would spare the Jadori, my lord.”

  “You’re speaking very bravely,” warned Akeela.

  “To slay them just to reach the man who wronged you—”

  “What do you know of him?” cried Akeela. “Nothing!” His voice carried easily to the camp as he ranted, “You have no idea of the wrongs Lukien has done me. He must pay, and he will!”

  “All right, my lord,” said Grak easily. His voice was soothing. “All right.” He smiled. “Let us look at the sky, then, and forget our troubles, eh?”

  Akeela took a deep breath, struggling to contain himself. Anger crested in him so easily, yet Grak had a way of easing his mind. “Yes,” he sighed. “Yes, all right.”

  Like a little child he turned his gaze back toward the heavens. For almost an hour he stood there with Grak, neither of them speaking, until it was time for sleep.

  Akeela shared his pavilion with nobody. He slept alone because he enjoyed the quiet and was not afraid of the desert, though he did have two Knight-Guardians posted at his tent entrance. Tonight, Akeela’s sleep was restless. Nightmares consumed him, visions of slaughtered Jadori. He dreamed that he was at the front of a large army, driving hordes of Jadori women before him, naked and weeping for the men he had slain. The ugly image jolted him awake and he lay in his silk sheets, panting. There was not a sound in the world, and the silence was like an anvil, pressing the breath from his lungs. He looked around the darkness, spotted a single candle glowing against the murkiness and fixed on it, trying to remember where he was and convince himself that everything was all right.

  “Fate help me,” he groaned. “What has become of me?”

  No one answered. Within a few moments Akeela had composed himself. His eyelids began to droop and his head floated down to his pillow. He was asleep for only a moment when he heard an inhuman cry. Again he bolted up. Outside his tent he heard a terrible noise and the sounds of men shouting. There was a commotion suddenly as sleeping soldiers awakened throughout the camp. The scream came again, a strangled, guttural cry. Akeela flung his sheets aside and jumped up. Moonlight splayed through the fabric of his pavilion. Against it he saw an enormous shadow creeping skyward. He stared at the wall of his tent, dumbfounded.

  “What the . . . ?”

  Still in his bed clothes, Akeela sprang for the exit. His Knight-Guardians had left their post, then he saw why. A nearby tent was torn and flattened—Grak’s tent. Over it hovered the most enormous creature Akeela had ever seen, a monstrous serpent with a long, stout body and oily, scale-covered hide. Two crimson eyes glowed in its spotted head, shadowed by an enormous hood. The mouth was open, hissing and
spitting, revealing a pair of saberlike fangs. Akeela skidded to a halt, frozen by the sight. Coiled in the creature’s tail was Grak, raised high above the sands and screaming. The Knight-Guardians had their swords drawn, holding them out impotently before them. All around the camp men were waking to Grak’s cries and the monster’s awful noise.

  “By the Fate, what’s that?”

  Akeela spun to see Trager sprinting toward him, half-naked, sword drawn. The general grabbed Akeela’s collar and dragged him backward.

  “Stay back!” he ordered.

  “It’s got Grak!” Akeela shouted.

  Trager shoved him back. “Get away!”

  The Knight-Guardians were quickly joined by others, who formed a broken circle around the serpent. It hovered over them, threatening them with snapping jaws as it squeezed Grak to a ruddy purple. Grak’s brother Doreshen crawled out from beneath their flattened tent, his face bloody, his hands clawing the sand.

  “Grak!”

  The serpent spun at the sound, whipping its neck forward and bursting through the line of men, sending them scattering. Trager roared forward and slashed his sword before the beast.

  “Down, you motherless whore!” he cried.

  “Will, get back here!” ordered Akeela.

  Seeing their king unprotected, the Knight-Guardians swarmed over Akeela, forming a shield and pulling him toward safety. He watched as Trager lunged for the snake, driving his sword again and again at its underbelly. But the monster already had its prize. With Grak still entwined in its tail, it darted away from Trager and slipped swiftly into the desert gloom, Grak’s gurgling screams echoing behind.

  Akeela broke free from his guards. “After it! We have to follow!”

  Trager fell to his knees and shook his head. “No,” he said breathlessly. “It’s too late.”

  “It’s got Grak!”

  “I know!”

  More soldiers came, a pair of whom helped Doreshen to his feet. His eyes were terror-filled as he watched the darkness that had swallowed his brother. Akeela went to him at once.