King of Swords (The Starfolk)

by Dave Duncan

  Also by Dave Duncan

  The Starfolk King of Swords (Fall 2013)

  Queen of Stars (forthcoming)

  “The Dodec Books” Children of Chaos

  Mother of Lies

  Chronicles of the King’s Blades Paragon Lost

  Impossible Odds

  The Jaguar Knights

  Tales of the King’s Blades The Gilded Chain

  Lord of Fire Lands

  Sky of Swords

  The Monster War

  A Man of His Word Magic Casement

  Faerie Land Forlorn

  Perilous Seas

  Emperor and Clown

  A Handful of Men The Cutting Edge

  Upland Outlaws

  The Stricken Field

  The Living God

  The Great Game Past Imperative

  Present Tense

  Future Indefinite

  “The Omar Books” The Reaver Road

  The Hunters’ Haunt

  The Seventh Sword The Reluctant Swordsman

  The Coming of Wisdom

  The Destiny of the Sword

  Stand-alone novels Against the Light

  West of January

  The Cursed

  A Rose-Red City

  Shadow

  Strings

  Hero!

  Wildcatter

  Pock’s World

  Wildcatter

  The Brothers Magnus Speak to the Devil

  When the Saints

  Writing as Sarah B. Franklin Daughter of Troy

  Writing as Ken Hood Demon Sword

  Demon Rider

  Demon Knight

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Text copyright © 2013 by Dave Duncan

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by 47North

  P.O. Box 400818

  Las Vegas, NV 89140

  ISBN-13: 9781477807392

  ISBN-10: 147780739X

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2013936766

  Cover illustration by Chase Stone

  To those fans the faithful few

  who have stayed with me all the way,

  for a quarter of a century.

  You know who you are.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  The sign said CAMPGROUND CLOSED in large letters, but three successive visitors ignored it on that chilly spring evening.

  The first was a lanky young male riding a bicycle laden with two packs, a bedroll, and a guitar bag. The barrier was a single beam, pivoted at one end and secured at the other by a chain and padlock. He lifted the bike over the beam, scrambled over it himself, guitar and all, and then cycled off in search of a picnic shelter where he might spend the night without being rained on.

  The second intruder was a bear, ravenous after its winter sleep. Gaunt, mangy, and ill-tempered, it had been foraging in the forest for fresh plant shoots and tearing open rotten logs in search of grubs—poor fare that did little to relieve its hunger. As darkness fell, it caught the scent of something delicious and nourishing, possibly a newborn fawn. Summoning its reserves of energy, the bear hurried off to wherever that tantalizing odor might lead it. It reached the campground at much the same time as the boy, but did not enter by the gate.

  Third was a twentysomething female driving a shabby, well-used Winnebago. She pulled to a stop just short of the gate, jumped down from the cab, and hunched down to inspect the muddy ground. She was tall and solid, but she moved as if her bulk came more from muscle than fat. Her hair and eyes were dark and gleaming. She wore jeans and a plaid flannel shirt.

  The cedars and hemlocks were no longer dripping, so the last rain had to have stopped several hours ago. Since then a single truck had gone through and returned later with a much lighter load, judging by the depth of its tracks. Fragments of bark on top of the mud suggested that the rangers had delivered a load of firewood for summer visitors. After the mud had dried enough to become much stiffer, the only other traffic had been a bicycle whose rider had dismounted at the bar. His footprints indicated a tall man, size thirteen cowboy boots with a hole in the right sole.

  A troop of Hells Angels might have deterred her, but little else. The padlock was no problem, either. It took her all of four seconds to open the lock and swing the bar up on its counterweight. She drove through, leaving the gate wide open behind her.

  Where the trail divided up ahead, she found the washrooms and the woodpile—two joys of the unspoiled wilderness. Having parked at the nearest campsite and built a generous fire, she perched on a folding chair and attempted to eat the gas station sandwich she had unwisely brought along for supper. The Winnebago stopped its clicking and dripping, leaving only the barely audible trickling of a nearby stream and the crackle of the fire as it shot red stars up like decoys to lure in the wild variety. Soon she could see the first of those peering down at her through gaps in the forest canopy, and she knew that millions more would join them shortly. In a badly abused world, the Canadian wilderness still offered wide tracts of solitude and forest, and Vancouver Island’s were among the most accessible. The evening was cool and pleasant, heavily scented with conifers, spoiled only by the vile sandwich and the twenty ounces of revolver dragging down the pocket of her coat.

  She had little time to enjoy her solitude before a shaky lamp beam flickered through the trees. Soon the cyclist pedaled into view, heading toward the gate and going slowly on the rough track. He stopped beside her campsite, setting one size thirteen bare foot down on the mud. His boots were slung on his back now, alongside the guitar. His hair shone silver in the firelight, but it was a youngster’s hair, long and thick, pulled back over his ears and secured in a ponytail at the nape of his neck. He wore jeans, a checked shirt, and a lightweight jacket, which hung open in denial of the cold. In spite of his height, he looked young and vulnerable when he smiled.

  “You should go inside, ma’am. Or leave. There’s a bear. They can be dangerous at this time of year.”

  “Grizzly or black bear?” she asked.

  “No grizzlies on the Island, but even a black can be nasty.”

  “And are you sure it wasn’t an elk or a moose?”

  “They can be dangerous too.” He flashed white teeth in another smile. “I saw bear tracks earlier, and I just heard so
mething moving. That’s enough for me. I’m gone, lady.”

  “You think you can outrun a bear on a bicycle?”

  “You’d be amazed how fast I can pedal when I’m motivated!” Laughing, he pushed down on a pedal and wobbled into motion, disappearing around the bend in seconds.

  The woman rose and walked over to the edge of the trail, pulling the S&W Special from her pocket. She stared into the darkness in the direction where the cyclist had disappeared.

  Two minutes… three… She heard the rattle of the bike just before his light flickered back into view. Pedaling furiously, he yelled a warning to her, which she ignored. A bear could outrun a horse over a short distance, so the biker would have had little chance even on a concrete highway. On that rutted, stony mud, it was a wonder that the bear hadn’t already caught him. As they came level with the watcher, it did. Boy, bear, bicycle, and guitar crashed a screaming, snarling tangle in front of her.

  The bear was on top, with a boot in its mouth and one paw stuck through the bicycle’s wheel. A handgun was not a hunting rifle. She had to make the first shot count by putting it into the correct skull. Jostling for position, she put a foot on the guitar, crushing it. As she watched, a paw raked the boy’s chest in an explosion of blood that made her cry out. The bicycle was being ripped into scraps, and it seemed that its owner would suffer the same fate. But then the bear shook its head, spat out the boot, and rolled over on its back, stone dead. Gripping the revolver firmly in both hands, the woman shoved the stubby barrel between its open jaws and fired. The shot barked obscenely loud, leaving her ears jangling in the deadly silence that followed.

  From the bottom of the heap came a whimper of pain. The boy tried to sit up. In a remarkably steady tenor voice he said, “Can you get this damned thing off my legs, please?”

  That was no trivial problem, given that the carcass weighed as much as two big men. Had her supplies included a rope or chain, she would have been tempted to tow the brute off with the truck, but they didn’t. It took several minutes to free the boy, and he did most of the work. Although his face was coated with mud and probably bruised from hitting the ground, it seemed to have suffered no more than that. His left forearm was bleeding, but his worst injury was the savage clawing that had raked him open from neck to belly, four parallel slashes streaming blood. His clothes were in tatters, and his thick leather belt had been snapped in half. She gripped his good arm to help him upright and tried to wrap it around her shoulders, but he resisted.

  “Can walk,” he muttered. “I’ll be all right.” He pulled his arm free to hold up the tattered remains of his jeans.

  She held his elbow and guided him back to her chair by the fire. Amazingly, he seemed to be shaking less than she was.

  “You shot it?” he mumbled.

  “I certainly did! What do you think I did—hit it with your guitar?”

  “Just that I thought… Never mind.” He slumped down onto the chair.

  “Stay there!” she said fatuously, and ran to the door of the Winnebago. She disappeared inside, then returned with a bundle of towels. “Here, let me see.”

  He was crouched in the chair, doubled over, head down, blood dribbling onto the ground. “I’ll be all right.”

  “No, you won’t! You’ll bleed to death if you don’t get any help. Now sit up!”

  Reluctantly he straightened up. She spread a towel over his chest wounds, and blood soaked through it instantly, black patches in the firelight. He used another to wipe the mud off his face.

  “You don’t have a cell phone, do you?” she asked.

  “Wouldn’t work out here. Thanks for the rescue. I’m Rigel Estell.”

  “Mira Silvas. I’ll bandage you up as best I can, and then we’ll get you to a hospital.”

  “No hospital.” He spread the second towel modestly across his lap. “There’s a pump by the washrooms. If you bring me a bucket of water, I’ll get cleaned up. I have a spare pair of jeans… or at least I did.” He peered past her at the remains of his bicycle, crushed under the bear. He was either remarkably calm for a man who had so narrowly escaped a nasty death, or he was already in shock.

  She disappeared into the Winnebago and returned with two bottles of mineral water. “This isn’t distilled,” she said, “but it must be safer than campground water.”

  To her annoyance he wasted the first by tipping it over his head, drenching his body in a tide of liquid mud. His face was narrow and bony, with high cheekbones, and pale, slightly almond-shaped eyes. Most people would have described him as “a good-looking kid” when he wasn’t grimacing with pain and covered in swellings and scrapes. His flaxen hair had fallen loose and hung in tangles around his shoulders.

  She pulled away the bloody towel so she could empty the second bottle over his chest, exposing the long scratches. With absurd modesty, he tried to pull the remains of his shirt over them. She pushed his hands away.

  “I’m no doctor,” she said, “but I think it’s mostly superficial. Just flesh wounds.” But there had been little flesh there to start with and some of the cuts had gone down to the bone. “You’re lucky you had that belt on, or the brute would have disemboweled you.”

  She reached for the tatters of his jeans. He pushed her away and doubled over.

  “For heaven’s sake! I’m a married woman. I’ve seen dicks of every size and damned near every shape. I’ve played with more balls than a golf pro. You don’t have anything I haven’t seen before. You still have it, don’t you? You didn’t lose anything irreplaceable?”

  “No. But close enough,” he mumbled. He was speaking to his blood-soaked thighs. “I need more water and some bandages, that’s all.”

  “You are going to hospital. Have you any idea where the nearest one is? Tofino? Port Alberni? If we can find a phone, I’ll call for a helicopter ambulance.”

  “No hospital,” he repeated. “No hospital and no doctors.”

  “You’ll bleed to death.”

  “I won’t. I heal quickly. Please just get me some more water.”

  “Is this some religious nonsense? Are you one of those fanatics who doesn’t believe in medicine?” When he did not answer, she tried again. “It’s not medicine you need; you need stitches to close those gashes.”

  “No hospital,” he muttered to his knees.

  “You’ll do as you’re told! I’m going to bandage those cuts and then get you to medical help.”

  “No!”

  “Yes. Only a hospital can give you what you need. Hell, you need antibiotics, and rabies and tetanus shots too. You’ll probably go into shock before we even get there. Stop behaving like a maniac, Nigel.”

  “Not Nigel. Rigel.” He kept his head down. “Mira, I am grateful for your help, but I can’t go to a hospital or see a doctor. I’d rather die. That’s final.”

  “No it isn’t. What happens to me if I let you die? You’ll have to give me a very good reason. Are you on the run?”

  He did not speak. She wondered if he was about to faint.

  “Rigel! Answer me. I have a gun, remember.”

  He made a muffled sound that was close to a chuckle. “You’ll shoot me to stop me from bleeding to death? All right. I’ll let you help me, but you must promise not to take me to a hospital.”

  “I’ll promise anything. Stack of Bibles. Believe it. Now sit up.”

  He straightened up with a whimper of pain. “Look, then.” He gestured down at his chest.

  “Look at what?”

  “No nipples.”

  “Oh.”

  “Or a navel,” he said. “Now do you understand?”

  She laughed nervily. “You trying to tell me you’re some sort of alien?”

  He didn’t answer.

  Chapter 2

  The woman reacted better than Rigel had expected she would. She snorted and pushed his wet hair aside to look at his right ear. “Not pointed,” she said. “Or hairy. Perfectly good ear.”

  “It’s set too high on my head.”

 
; “Nonsense! You’re just being hypersensitive. As far as your chest goes… well, you must’ve had some kinky plastic surgery. To hide a bad burn, maybe.”

  She had found the most obvious solution.

  He said, “No scars.”

  “Doesn’t mean a thing, especially if you were very young when it happened. As a working hypothesis that’s better than thinking I’m crazy… and right now the only thing we need to focus on is saving your life. Let’s go inside, where I can see better.”

  If she wasn’t a matter-of-fact, no-nonsense type, she was playing the role well. But why did she carry a gun? He had made it a lifelong rule not to trust anyone, and people who carried guns were dangerous. Something about that fight with the bear had felt wrong.

  He let her help him up. He felt shaky now, and tried to focus on fighting the pain load. He could deal with that, but not doctors, not a hospital. His lack of nipples and a navel wasn’t all of it. He was different in other ways. His hair and eyes were white. And as soon as they tested his blood group or DNA, they’d lock him up in a zoo.

  “Can’t tolerate drugs,” he said, leaning on her shoulder as they walked. She was a square, solid girl, easily able to bear his weight. “Painkillers, antibiotics… I shot a roofer’s nail through my foot when I was a kid and they gave me a tetanus shot. I went into anaphylactic shock and damned near died.”

  “An allergy can do that. Doesn’t mean anything.” Still steadying him, she opened the door to the Winnebago.

  He resisted. “I’m going to get blood everywhere.”

  “Doesn’t matter.”

  He climbed in shakily, and she followed. One side was lined with miniature cupboards, a sink, and a refrigerator, the other with a narrow bench covered in rumpled bedclothes. Two large suitcases filled the double bed over the truck cab. The place looked clean as a whistle, but had an old, fusty smell.