by Stephen Deas
But that was no excuse. He glanced around. The other riders were gone away now, off to the tower to hear Hyrkallan storm and bluster. These souls were his.
“As for the rest! You served the Usurper. You are sentenced to die.” He drew out his sword and counted them as he spoke. Eighteen men and women. Him and Jostan and Nthandra watching over them. Three riders. If they ran, some of them would escape. That’s what you should do then, isn’t it? Why do you stay?
“Hyrkallan said that we should let them go,” said Jostan.
Semian ignored him. “Or you may choose a different master. Fall to your knees and pray to the Great Flame. Give yourselves to the fire and you may be reborn. You may live again. Refuse the fire and die now.”
Nthandra hadn’t moved. Her hand was resting on her sword. He took another look around to be sure. No other rider was close enough to pay them any attention. They were all busy with whatever Hyrkallan had set them to do.
“Justice and Vengeance!” Semian roared. “Fire or death!”
They didn’t run. They begged and pleaded and cried and one by one fell to their knees, praying as Semian had told them to do. They were liars though. Semian walked among them, and as he passed each one, he laid a hand on their head and saw into their heart. One he found, only one who truly believed. The rest of them were liars, all liars. He wrenched the one soul worth saving to his feet, pulling him up by his hair, and pushed him toward Jostan.
“Take this one away. We’ll deal with him later.”
Nthandra still didn’t move. She didn’t turn away either. She was here for revenge. They all were. And the Flame is with me. Masked as a blood-mage, but I know who you are really are, and you promised Nthandra would be the first. So we will see . . .
He went back to walking among his prisoners, waiting until Jostan was out of sight. Two of us now. The rest of them thought they were saved. He could feel it. Liars. All liars. As soon as Jostan was gone, he lifted his sword. And now, truly, we will see . . .
“Liars!” he screamed as his blade chopped down. “You’re all liars! Burn in the truth of the Great Flame!” For a split second, as Nthandra drew her own sword, he didn’t know whether she meant it for him or for them. Then she stabbed a man as he started to his feet and chopped the legs out from another, screaming at them something that even Semian couldn’t understand. The others ran, but not far. The rest of the Red Riders nearby saw to that with bows and swords, mistaking the rush of men for an attack. When they were all butchered, Semian dragged their bodies into a pile. The other riders watched now, faces mixed with curiosity, awe and horror. As much as anything, Semian knew, this was a lesson for them. They were young, most of them, the ones that Hyrkallan hadn’t taken with him to the tower. Young and scared and angry. Perfect for his purpose. Some of them had just cut a man down for the first time. Now they were realizing what they’d done. Justice, that was what it was. Hard, cold justice. They needed to learn that now, needed to learn what it would mean to follow the Great Flame.
When the pile was done, he called Vengeance. He climbed onto the dragon’s back. From up there, he could see right across the eyrie. The bodies below seemed small and distant, not really human anymore. Semian closed his visor and Vengeance set the bodies ablaze. “The Great Flame reclaims its own,” he shouted out. He closed his eyes and let the sound of the fire wash over him.
“What in the name of Vishmir’s cock are you doing?”
Semian lifted his visor and looked down from his saddle. Hyrkallan was back, puffed and out of breath. GarHannas was with him, and two other older riders that Semian didn’t know.
“What happened?” GarHannas looked sickened. “What did you do? They were common folk. They had no part in this.”
Semian could only laugh. “We are all the same before the Flame. Did you take my words to the tower?”
“Are you mad? The alchemist, the servants and one of the riders have come out. The rest of them saw what you did and chose to stay inside.”
“Then you should kill the alchemist for serving the Usurper, and the rider too! The servants from the tower can have the same choice as those we caught outside!”
“And what choice was that? Get down here, Rider! If you claim to serve Princess Jaslyn then I am your lord and you will beg me for mercy.” Hyrkallan looked ready to climb up and rip Semian out of the saddle with his bare hands.
Semian spared him the trouble. He slid to the ground and spat at the old dragon-knight’s feet. “We are the Red Riders, not some gang of bandits. You should know since you chose the name. If you don’t have the stomach for holy work then step aside for someone who does. I’ll lead them myself.”
“You will not.” Hyrkallan’s fist landed on Semian’s jaw, knocking him down. The other riders bowed their heads as Hyrkallan glared at them, one by one. Inside, Semian smiled. He’d seen their faces light up, if only for a moment. Here and there, embers smoldered inside them. Kithyr was right. He would have them. Today, tomorrow, the next day, the when didn’t matter; he would have them.
He looked at Hyrkallan as the old knight walked away. And he knows too.
The common folk from the tower were as devious and insincere as the ones outside had been. Semian couldn’t see even one worth saving, but Hyrkallan let them all go anyway. He let the alchemist go too. The rider though was one of Zafir’s. One that Semian knew. One with nothing worth saving. Even Hyrkallan had to see that. Yet he was merely stripped and whipped and sent running naked away.
“We are the Red Riders,” Hyrkallan shouted at the tower. “Take those words to the Usurper you serve! We will not rest until justice is served.”
“Justice and Vengeance!” shouted someone else.
“Justice and Vengeance!” came another. Hyrkallan spun around, and the riders fell silent. Slowly he nodded.
“Aye,” he said, too quietly for the men in the tower to hear, but the words carried to Semian well enough. “And vengeance, if justice alone will not serve.”
They finished looting the eyrie, taking everything they could carry and use and destroying what they couldn’t. When they left, the tower was still intact. Let them live, Hyrkallan had said. Let them carry my words to where they need to be heard.
Semian smiled to himself. Yours. And mine.
Hyrkallan led them back to their camp in the Spur, never straying far from Semian as they flew. As soon as they landed, he and GarHannas took Semian away out of sight of the others. Semian didn’t try to resist.
“We’ve taken another three dragons.” Hyrkallan’s voice was a low growl. “Three more for the Red Riders, three fewer for the Usurper. Another victory. I will not mar it by a hanging. I know you, Rider Semian. I know you served Queen Shezira faithfully and well. I know what you did at the redoubt. So you will merely be flogged, in front of these riders who serve our cause, and we will cut you down in the morning and you will never disobey me again. If you do, you will hang. I’ll tie the noose around your neck myself. Do you hear me?”
Semian met his stare. “Justice and Vengeance, My Lord. For the Great Flame never rests and neither shall its servants.” Hyrkallan shook his head in disbelief and walked away. GarHannas and the two riders who flew at Hyrkallan’s side took hold of Semian. He let them strip him and then lead him to a tree and bind him to it. He could feel the Flame, burning triumphant in his heart. The flogging, when it came, was only pain after all, and he was a man who’d been consumed by fire.
Late in the night when everyone was asleep, when it might only have been a dream, a voice whispered in his ear. A woman’s voice. Nthandra of the Vale.
“I am with you, Rider Semian. I found the alchemist again, as we were leaving.” A bloodstained knife flashed in the starlight to cut his bonds. “Justice and Vengeance, Rider Semian. I hear the words. Justice and Vengeance.”
6
THE UNBELIEVER
Good things never last. Never did, never would. After Drotan’s
Top, the speaker had to answer. And answer she did. Wi
th dragons in the skies and . . .
The last of the soldiers was on his knees, gasping. He had an arrow sticking out of his back. Hyrkallan snarled and casually kicked him over. Before the soldier could move, Hyrkallan drove the point of his sword down into the man’s belly. The soldier gasped and rolled over. It would take him a good few minutes and a lot of pain to finish dying, but Hyrkallan didn’t care too much about that. Sell-swords were scum. The realms would be better without them. At least that was something he could be sure of. As for everything else . . .
Three weeks had passed since the heady victory of Drotan’s Top. Three weeks of playing cat and mouse with the speaker’s dragons. Three weeks of hiding among the mountains, achieving nothing, watching everything he’d aspired to slip away. Three weeks to wonder if he was wasting his time. To think that if he’d stayed in Southwatch, Deremis would still be alive. Three weeks and he’d lost three dragons back to Zafir’s patrols and not one single rider had come over to his cause. Three good dragons too. Three weeks to wish the Red Riders had never been born. Three weeks to watch Semian’s madness spread a little further every day. Nthandra, Shanzir, Jostan, Riok and the rest. The young ones who thought they could set the world on fire. He closed his eyes. Shanzir hurt the most. She was almost a daughter to him. She flew with him on B’thannan. She was his spotter. She was his scorpioneer now that Deremis was gone.
Best not to think about that. He kicked the dying man in the ribs and then left him to get on with it. Over on the far side of the clearing, Rider Hahzyan and the Picker had another pair of sell-swords and were stringing them up to one of the trees. As he drew closer, he could clearly see that the sell-swords were dead. One of them had had his belly slit open and his guts were trailing all over the ground, dirt and pine needles sticking to them. The other had had his head hacked half off. Hyrkallan was about to ask Hahzyan what he thought he was doing when another figure emerged from the nearby trees. Kithyr. The blood-mage. Hyrkallan stopped. He gave the mage a long hard look and a chill ran through him. Evil. We’re driven to this. No wonder they were turning away from him. Now he turned away too. Best to let the mage get on with his business. Best not to watch.
Hahzyan clearly thought the same. Only the Picker stayed. The Picker was another strange one. Not a rider, like the rest of them, but he’d shown his mettle on the Night of the Knives. Hyrkallan had seen him kill two Adamantine Men. No mean feat for a man who didn’t even have a sword.
He shuddered. The Picker was one of Knight-Marshal Nastria’s curiosities. So was the blood-mage, and now the old knight-marshal was gone and he was left to pick up the pieces. Both the good and the bad.
They’d all fought and fled together. The Picker was a killer and the blood-mage was an abomination, but they were his killer, his abomination, and he was in no position to be choosy, no position at all. Except . . . except, did it matter anymore? The last news from Evenspire warned that the Usurper had called a council of kings. Zafir was putting King Valgar and Queen Shezira on trial. Hyrkallan had done what he’d done and changed nothing. He’d already failed, hadn’t he?
The blood-mage set to work. Hyrkallan turned away and looked for a more comfortable face.
“Jostan!” Rider Jostan looked on the outside the way Hyrkallan felt on the inside. Disturbed. That came from spending too much time around Semian.
Jostan hurried over and gave a cursory bow. “Knight-Marshal.”
“Take three dragons and search the area. There might be more of these shit-eaters. Take Semian and Nthandra up with you and keep your eyes peeled.” There. That would make life a little more pleasant for the next few hours. A few months ago, Semian had been one of those riders who had his head stuffed so far up his arse that he could see out of his own mouth. And how Hyrkallan missed that Semian. The last thing they needed on top of everything else was a madman. On the surface Semian had been quiet in the weeks since Drotan’s Top and his flogging. Done as he was told and not spoken out of turn, but he still had the insane fire in his eyes. He had his converts now too. They gathered around when they thought Hyrkallan wasn’t watching.
The Red Riders weren’t doing any good. That was the long and the short of it. After the Night of the Knives they’d been heady with amazement at being still alive, flushed with the success of spiriting Queen Almiri out of the palace and back to the safety of her own eyrie. There was rage too, rage at the Usurper who wore the Speaker’s Ring, her and her scheming lover, Jehal. Justice needed to be done and they’d sworn, as riders of the realms, to do it. And what had they done? Nothing. Burned a few soldiers, stolen a few wagons and spent most of the time hiding. Drotan’s Top, was that really such a victory? They weren’t even worth the trouble of hunting down properly. Did Zafir the Usurper send riders? Did she dispatch the Adamantine Guard? No, she sent shit-eaters, and poor ones at that. That’s what Hyrkallan’s riders were worth. Nothing. Because that’s what we’ve done. Nothing.
Nothing. Not because they were impotent, but because he didn’t dare. Because Shezira was still alive, and he was too afraid to tip the balance of her fate.
He watched Jostan and the other two jog out of the trees toward their dragons. Semian was limping, almost hobbling. Someone had stabbed him in the leg. Quite a wound by the looks of it. He had been the only one hurt, but then, when they’d engaged the shit-eaters, he’d led the charge.
Hyrkallan sighed. The sell-swords hadn’t had a chance. If it had been otherwise, he wouldn’t have fought them on the ground. If they’d been at all dangerous then he’d have burned them from the air. They hadn’t been anything more than sport. He clenched his fists. Maybe he should have burned them anyway. It would be no more than they deserved. But he’d needed something to fight and burning them from the air would have been too distant, too cold. He’d wanted to feel his steel crunch on the bones of his enemies for once. Because you sold your swords to the murdering bitch who calls herself the Speaker of the Realms and I wanted to see your faces before you died. Because I’m mad. Table-pounding, chair-smashing, see-red mad, and Drotan’s Top was three weeks ago and now Zafir’s winning and I need to do something, anything, to feel like we have a purpose.
They’d have to move their camp again. A nuisance but hardly a chore. With dragons to ride, they could find another place to hide that might be a hundred miles away. The Maze was huge, the Worldspine endless, and after a while all the mountains looked the same. No one would ever find them. They’d still be every bit as useless, though.
When the blood-mage was finished, Hyrkallan pretended he was too busy with his other riders and sent Hahzyan back to see what the mage had to say. In truth, he didn’t know what to do with the abomination. Most likely what he ought to do was kill him out here in the woods. That would be the right thing to do with one like him, and most likely he was going to regret that he hadn’t. The magician had been with them on the Night of the Knives but did that really give them anything in common? Likely as not he’d take the Usurper’s gold if he knew what she was offering.
“What’s the blood-mage got to say for himself ?” he asked when Hahzyan returned. The rider looked pale. Was it bad then? Glad I sent someone else.
“The speaker has increased the price on our heads. Enough to draw in every sell-sword across the realms. She now offers her own weight in gold for every one of us. These are only the first. The Maze will be swarming with them before long.”
Hyrkallan nodded, frowning. He wasn’t really interested. “That’s a lot of gold. Too much to be true.” But then this was Speaker Zafir. Going back on her word to a shit-eater was hardly likely to trouble her.
“They have to find us first.”
We should give it up. Go home, go back to our eyries. However much he tried to hide it, he’d lost his heart for this the moment Almiri had told him about the trial. Or perhaps it had gone when he’d lit the pyre to burn his brother. He could only see one future now. The Usurper would have her way. His queen would die and there would be war. He didn’t belong here anymo
re. None of them did.
Hahzyan seemed to read his mind. “We’re not wasting our time, Knight-Marshal. Every day, word of the Red Riders spreads further.”
“And so what if it does?” Red Riders. How I regret wearing that name.
“Others have already come to us: Semian, Jostan, Nthandra . . .”
“Three riders, Hahzyan.” Two of them mad, the third fast heading toward it. Still, Hyrkallan had to smile, if only at the blind enthusiasm. He too had been young and bright-eyed once. A long time ago, before he’d come to see the full measure of spite in the lords and ladies that he served.
“Three is more than none, Knight-Marshal.”
“Semian and Jostan should have been with us in the first place. Semian has also quite possibly lost his mind.”
“But he is a leader. Like you.” And it was true. The more weary and cynical Hyrkallan became, the more Semian burned. When the time came, and it would be soon, he would tell the other riders what they wanted to hear. They would listen to him. That, if nothing else, was a good enough reason to end it while he still could.
They don’t need me anymore.
“There is GarHannas.”
“Aye.” That there was. GarHannas, who’d served Speaker Hyram. GarHannas was, when it came down to it, Hyrkallan’s one cause for hope. An experienced rider, well known, well respected and well liked. There was always the dream that others would follow, that GarHannas was the first, that the trickle would become a flood and riders from across the realms would flock to the Purple Spur to bring Zafir down. Not much of a hope, but it had given him something to cling to. For a while.
Who am I fooling? Kings and queens tear down speakers, not riders. I should fly home. Give up on this charade. Deremis haunted him. His own brother. Killed because of this folly. My folly.