The Eyes of God

by John Marco

  Before he knew what he was doing Trager jumped from his horse. He scanned the cliffs for a way to scale them.

  “General, no!” cried Tark. “What’s the matter with you? He’s baiting you, can’t you see that?”

  Trager looked at his aide, desperate for him to understand. “I know, Tark, but I must. And you watch, all right?” He called out to all his men, “All of you, watch me! Watch me defeat this vermin once and for all! Then you’ll see who the best really is!”

  Under the threat of Grimhold’s arrows, the hundreds of Liirian horsemen watched helplessly as their leader turned away and started hiking his way up the cliff. As Trager climbed he heard Tark calling after him, cursing.

  “You’re as mad as Akeela!” cried Tark.

  Trager ignored the colonel’s charge. None of them understood. None of them could ever understand.

  “You didn’t grow up in that bastard’s shadow, Tark,” he grunted as he slogged up the rocks. Tark couldn’t hear him, but it didn’t matter. His destiny was waiting at the top of the cliff.

  High in the northern turret of Grimhold, Gilwyn waited with White-Eye and Minikin, watching the extraordinary events unfolding outside. They had waited until they’d heard Lukien’s order before opening the shutters, and had experienced a wonderful but brief surge of pride. Seeing her Inhumans so well prepared for battle had made Minikin almost weep. Gilwyn had felt the very same. But then Lukien had started talking, and everything went astray. Minikin almost hung over the window in disbelief as she watched Trager begin shimmying up the cliff. At the top was Lukien, swishing his blade and stretching his muscles in preparation.

  “Vala’s Grace, what’s he doing?” exclaimed the little woman. White-Eye joined her at the window, as dumbstruck by the knight’s actions as her mentor. With the help of her Akari she could see everything that was going on. She turned toward Gilwyn for an explanation.

  “Gilwyn? What’s he doing?”

  Gilwyn pushed past her for a better look. The Liirian soldiers were hardly moving. In the cliffs were the countless Inhumans, aiming their weapons down on them. He could see Baron Glass on the northern slope, standing in dumb surprise with his mouth open. Apparently he didn’t know what Lukien had planned either.

  “He’s going to fight Trager himself,” said Gilwyn.

  “Why?” shrieked Minikin. “He doesn’t have to do that! He’ll be killed!”

  The lump in Gilwyn’s throat grew as he realized Lukien was sacrificing himself. “If he can take out Trager. . . .”

  “But he can’t!” said Minikin. “The man’s only got one eye!”

  Gilwyn reached for White-Eye and took her hand. “He’s doing it for us,” he said. “The Liirians won’t attack if they lose Trager.”

  White-Eye nodded but was unable to speak. There was still every chance in the world that they would soon burn in Amaraz’ fire.

  Lukien waited at the top of the cliff, exercising his sword arm and listening to Trager curse as he hiked his way up the rocks. In the distance he could see Minikin in Grimhold’s turret, her face tight with shock. Baron Glass was on the northern slope, calling orders to their comrades and periodically shooting Lukien an admonishing glare. Lukien knew the old baron had figured out his plan. Clearly, he didn’t approve. But Lukien was past caring. He had been prepared to die since fleeing for Jador, and he knew the consequences of his actions. In fact, he was content and pleased with himself.

  How well I know you, Trager, he thought as he sliced his sword through the air. How easy it had been to coax him up.

  In a few minutes Trager had bested the cliff and appeared on the ledge to face Lukien, stepping out from behind a huge outcropping of brown rock. He had sheathed his sword and let it rest at his side as he watched his opponent. His eyes took measure of the ledge and smiled.

  “You’ve chosen quite a stage for our showdown, Lukien.”

  Lukien let his sword fall to his side. Trager was a pitiful sight, his once gleaming silver armor now scratched and filthy from the hike. He noticed the way his old nemesis favored his side a bit as he breathed.

  “Your wound,” he said. “Still hurts?”

  Trager’s grin was maniacal. “Not enough to save you.”

  “I knew you’d come,” said Lukien. “I knew you just couldn’t resist trying one more time to beat me.”

  “Why shouldn’t I try?” sneered Trager. “I’ve had to live with your memory every day of my life. Now I’ll finally get a chance to prove to everyone what a bag of wind you are.”

  Lukien gestured toward the waiting Liirians below. “You’re losing them, you know. They don’t believe I killed Akeela. They know what you are, Trager.”

  “They follow me, Lukien, in a way that no one ever followed you.” Trager took a step forward, his face reddening. “I made them the greatest soldiers on the continent. But do I get any praise for that? Does anyone talk about me the way they speak of you? You’re a gods-cursed traitor and they still revere you. They don’t know what you’re really like!”

  Lukien shook his head, almost pitying the man. “They see the truth in you, that’s all.”

  “The truth? You made me, you bastard! I was the one who held Akeela together when you ran out on him!” Trager spit at Lukien’s feet. “You sicken me. You call me a coward, but I was there to pick up the pieces after what you did to Akeela. And he never once thanked me for it. Never once!”

  “You both went mad,” said Lukien. “But that doesn’t mean you should be allowed to go on.” He hefted his sword. “You need to be put down, Trager. Like a rabid dog.”

  Trager’s eyes gleamed as he unsheathed his blade. “I’ve waited a long time for this,” he said. “I’m going to love watching you die.”

  There was hardly time for Lukien to raise his blade. Trager charged, swinging his sword in a blinding arc and nearly catching his torso. Lukien’s blade slashed down to parry, then twisted to repel the attack. At once Trager came at him again, slashing at Lukien’s blind side, a tactic the Bronze Knight had expected. He was stunned by Trager’s swiftness, amazed that a man could move so fast. Again and again Trager pressed, pushing Lukien toward the edge of the cliff. The ground beneath him began to crumble. Lukien heard the stunned gasps below, felt the rocks giving way. Snarling, he gritted his teeth and counterattacked, desperately holding his ground, putting all his strength into an inch-by-inch advance. The sudden burst surprised Trager; Lukien watched his eyes widen. He pressed his one advantage, going for Trager’s wounded ribs and catching his torso with the flat of his blade. The armor dented as the blade found its mark. Trager hollered in angry pain, falling back and saving Lukien from the edge. Lukien kept on, swinging his blade for Trager’s legs. The wounded general’s weapon parried every blow, dancing from point to point with expert speed. Countering, he brought up his armored forearm and smashed it unexpectedly into Lukien’s face. Lukien felt his nose explode in pain, saw the blood erupt in a blinding spray. He staggered back, instinctively bringing up his blade to block the blow he knew was coming. The sword clattered as Trager’s blade slide down its length, barely missing his armored fingers. Blinded and in pain, Lukien fought to clear his face of blood. The awful pain drove him on, and again he pressed his attack, catching the surprised Trager once more in the torso. This time the general doubled over as the blade pierced his armor. But again he brought up his sword too soon for Lukien. Despite his pain his blade was everywhere, countering every blow Lukien mustered. Finally Lukien broke off, exhausted and blind. This time Trager didn’t counter. Both men took a much needed rest, panting as they paced around each other like maddened tigers. Lukien wiped the blood from his eye and saw that Trager was staggering, favoring his wounded side. Blood ran down the general’s silver armor.

  “You won’t beat me,” Trager seethed. “I won’t let you!”

  Lukien thought his lungs would burst. Fighting to catch his breath he spat, “All talk, Trager. Always all talk!”

  The insult baited Trager into striking. He p
lunged madly ahead, his sword out before him like the horns of a bull. Lukien danced aside and brought down his blade, catching Trager in the back of the thigh. But Trager didn’t howl. Instead he brought his blade about and smashed it into Lukien’s back. The stroke paralyzed Lukien. The last bit of air shot from his lungs in a jolt of pain. He stumbled, falling to his knees, his back on fire with agony. Hardly able to move, he looked down and saw he was again at the cliff’s edge. Again the rocks beneath him threatened to give. Far below, the wide eyes of Trager’s men watched in horror. Lukien struggled for strength. Trager was behind him somewhere, stalking slowly forward. There was only one chance left, and he had to time it perfectly.

  He didn’t turn or listen for the approach. He barely even moved. Instead he watched the faces of the Liirians, sure that they would betray the death blow. A second later he saw their eyes widen just as Trager’s shadow fell on the rocks. With his last bit of strength he lifted his sword and moved aside, pushing it into Trager’s descending belly. Trager’s blade fell from his fingers and tumbled into the canyon. Lukien lay gasping on his knees, his old adversary impaled like an insect on his sword. A ball of blood gushed from Trager’s mouth. Lukien held him there for all the world to see.

  “You’re beaten,” he whispered hatefully. “I’m still the best!”

  Exhausted and dazed, his back screaming with pain, Lukien pulled his blade from Trager’s belly and got to his feet, kicking the general onto his back. He stared down into the man’s contorted face. Trager looked up at him, coughing blood from his punctured innards. A strange smile swam on his face.

  “I’m right, you know,” he gasped. “You were always Akeela’s favorite.”

  The words struck Lukien as hard as any sword. He knelt down beside the dying Trager, looking at a man who might have been so much greater, if only he hadn’t been forced to contend with a legend. He realized that he had won, and that never again would Trager haunt him. It was time to give the man his due.

  “I know,” he said softly.

  Trager’s expression became suddenly calm. “Finish me,” he croaked. “Don’t let me die like this.”

  “A man like you deserves the worst of deaths,” said Lukien. “I should let the vultures eat you.”

  “But you won’t,” gasped Trager. His odd smile twisted. “You owe me. You know you do.”

  Lukien’s vengeance fled as he stared down into Trager’s brainsick face. Without malice he picked up his sword, raised it high above his head, then lowered it like a guillotine and chopped off Trager’s head. His strength quickly ebbing, he picked up the head and stood on the edge of the cliff.

  “Here’s your general!” he cried, then tossed the grisly trophy down into the clearing. “Leave this place!” he ordered. “Or die like your demented leader!”

  The world around Lukien grew blurry. It was all he could do to hold himself up. Far below, the ranks of Liirians began talking among themselves. Lukien wavered on his feet, about to faint from the pain. Down his back he felt hot blood sluicing from his wound.

  Then a figure rode out from the ranks of horsemen, who took off his helmet to reveal his weathered face. He stared up at Lukien in dumb amazement. Lukien stared down at him, sure he didn’t recognize the old soldier, doing everything he could to keep himself from falling.

  “Bronze Knight,” cried the man. “I am Colonel Tark. Will you join us?”

  The question shocked Lukien. He staggered forward to stand at the very edge of the cliff. “I have killed your general, and I will kill you too if you don’t leave us in peace.”

  “You are one of us, Captain Lukien. You’re a Lirian. And I do not believe you killed our king.” Colonel Tark swept his hand over his dwindled army, who began nodding agreement. “None of these men truly believe it. You don’t belong with these people, Captain. You belong with us.”

  The wound in Lukien’s back was agonizing. Even breathing was an effort. “I . . . I cannot,” he gasped. “That time for me is over. Go now. And never return.”

  Colonel Tark’s expression was grave. “We need you, Captain. We need a leader. What will happen to us now?”

  Lukien tried to answer but couldn’t. Pain overcame him, coursing through his back and brain. The world around him spun rapidly around, and the last thing he heard was Colonel’s Tark’s cry of alarm. Then he collapsed to the ground, and all went dark.

  60

  Amaraz’ fire never came.

  Colonel Tark and his Liirians left the canyon without Lukien, letting the leadership of the band fall on Tark’s shoulders. Once they’d seen Trager fall, they knew there was nothing they could do to save themselves. The Inhumans were too numerous, and they had lost heart and honor following their demented general. In the final hours Tark had seen that, but it had been too late. The old colonel regretted his life in service to Trager, and told his men that they were murderers, not at all like the Royal Chargers Lukien had commanded, and that they should be prepared to die for what they’d done. With the last shreds of honor left to them, many of the Chargers obeyed Tark’s call to surrender. Most, however, were like Sergeant Marrs, who refused to turn himself over to the folk of Grimhold, and rode out of the canyon alone.

  But with Minikin and her people, Colonel Tark found a mercy he didn’t expect. He and his men were sent back to Jador weaponless, guided by envoys from Grimhold with assurances that the Jadori were not to harm them. This was the word of White-Eye, the new ruler of Jador. At Gilwyn’s pleading she had let the Liirians live, though they had killed her father and slain hundreds of her countrymen. It was the greatest act of kindness Gilwyn had ever seen, and it made him adore White-Eye even more. He knew that she had done it for his sake alone.

  In Grimhold, the Inhumans quietly rejoiced in their victory, though Lukien had been badly wounded and lay near death. For two days he remained in bed, motionless, being comforted and watched over by Gilwyn, White-Eye, and Baron Glass. His death was imminent now. The knight had lost a great deal of blood, and the wound in his back had begun to fester. And try as Minikin might to reach his mind, it was clouded and dark inside his brain, with only the slightest stirrings of life. Despite their victory, a pall fell over Grimhold.

  By the end of the third day, Gilwyn had lost all hope. He had White-Eye now and a new home, but his closest friend was dying, and he could not bear the loss. He sat alone in his chamber, the one he had shared with Lukien, staring into the light of a candle, brooding over memories. He missed Figgis more than ever. If the old librarian were here, he would have known what to say to comfort him, but he was dead now like everyone else. Just like Gilwyn’s mother. Just like Lukien was soon to be. A plate of food that Farl the houseboy had brought him lay cold and untouched on the nearby table. The halls outside his chamber were silent. All the Inhumans had stopped celebrating their victory now, because they knew the man that had won it for them was dying.

  “Gilwyn?”

  Gilwyn looked up at once and saw White-Eye in the doorway of his chamber. She moved like a ghost and always surprised him. It was a pleasant surprise, though, so he smiled at her.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to disturb you.” White-Eye shrugged. “Your door was open a little so I came in. Baron Glass said you had come here.” Her blank eyes had a peculiar way of questioning him, and did so now. “Why aren’t you with Lukien?”

  “What good would it do?” Gilwyn looked down at his plate and pushed it further away. “He’s dying. Minikin said so.”

  White-Eye came into the room and knelt down beside him. She took his hand and gazed at him. “Then you should be with him, no?”

  “I can’t,” said Gilwyn. “I can’t face it. Looking at him like that. . . .” He stopped himself before grief could choke him off.

  “I would have given anything to have been with my father when he died, Gilwyn,” said White-Eye. “You have this chance. You should take it.”

  “Why?” Gilwyn flared. He wrenched his hand away from her, not wanting to be comforted. He wanted to
be angry. “Why does everyone have to die? Why won’t Minikin save him? She has the bloody amulet. She could save him in a moment.”

  “And let him live like your Queen Cassandra? A prisoner from his own people? You know he wouldn’t want that, Gilwyn. And only the spirit of the amulet can decide who may wear it with honor.”

  Gilwyn didn’t want to hear her logic, or any more of Grimhold’s magical riddles. Lukien was dying, and that was all that mattered to him.

  Minikin knelt alone in her little prayer chamber, communing with Amaraz. She thanked him for sparing Grimhold and confessed her anger with him, explaining how worried she’d been for her children, the Inhumans.

  Amaraz listened patiently.

  He was pleased that their alliance would continue, but he could also sense her melancholy. Up on the altar, the amulet that held his essence pulsed in quiet sympathy. Minikin told Amaraz how worried she was about Lukien, and how guilty she felt over his impending death. Lukien was not to blame for the things that had happened to him, she explained.

  Amaraz continued listening, patiently.

  The Mistress of Grimhold chose her words carefully. She had a great favor to ask the spirit. She explained to him how Lukien had saved them, how he had battled Trager to keep the Liirians from Grimhold and to spare his “army” from even one death. He was a good man despite his faults, she told Amaraz, and though Amaraz already knew the story he continued to listen.

  Finally the spirit of the amulet asked his mortal friend what it was she wanted from him.

  With all the deference she could muster, Minikin made her request.

  For what seemed like an eternity, Lukien drifted in darkness. It was not like a dream or nightmare, not like conscious thought at all. It was wholly different, black and terrifying, a maze from which he could not escape or glean a sliver of light, or even find a voice to scream. He was in emptiness, barely aware of himself. Occasionally other voices reached him, breaking through the darkness to offer words of love and encouragement. But Lukien could not answer them. The voices were familiar but intangible. Lukien could not remember who they were or even why they had come to him. He was in blackness and in pain, and that was all he knew.