by John Marco
“You’re going to Isowon because of Lukien?” I asked.
“Yes, because of the stories,” said the man. “We will join the siege at Isowon. We will join the man of bronze and fight with him.” Suddenly he dropped down from his horse. “I am fool,” he pronounced, bowing deeply with his hand across his heart. “My name is Chuluun. Of the Bogati. All of us. We ride with you, bring you luck and victory.”
I dismounted to face Chuluun, not wanting to tell him the truth but not wanting to lie to him either. “Chuluun, you and your men ride to find Lukien?”
“We do.” Chuluun straightened, waiting for me to give my name.
“To fight with him? He has need of many men, but the fighting is fierce in Isowon.”
“We will leave blood and teeth across the sand,” Chuluun promised. “We know of Diriel’s sorcery. We are not afraid. When we see the bronze man we will prove that.”
They were all looking at me now. Chuluun kept his dark eyes on mine, even when I reached for my sword. Very slowly I pulled it from its sheath, laying it out before me in my upturned palms.
“Have you ever heard of the Sword of Angels?” I asked.
Chuluun shook his head as he stared at my blade. “Is that what you call it?”
“It’s the sword that keeps Lukien alive,” I said. “Inside the sword is an ancient spirit. Do you believe in spirits?”
“All is spirits,” said Chuluun. “The trees, the sky, the flowers. And swords?”
“This is the Sword of Angels, Chuluun. This is the sword Lukien carries. He’s not made of bronze. He’s a man, or at least he was a man.” I held out the sword for him. “Touch it if you want.”
Chuluun looked at me blankly. “You?”
I nodded. “The sword looks plain. So do I. But I’m Lukien, and I need all the men I can find to help me battle Diriel. If your men are up for it, I’ll gladly ride with you to Isowon.”
Chuluun lightly touched the sword, drawing back his fingers quickly. There was no disappointment on his face, only awe.
“I am Lukien,” I told him. “Whether I’m kissed by heaven or cursed, I’m him. I’ll set you straight on whatever else you’ve heard about me, but I’m in a hurry and can’t waste time.” I sheathed the sword and looked over their horses. “Can those beasts keep up?”
The Zuran snorted at my challenge. “Bogati means people of the wind,” he said. “Ride with us and let us show you.”
* * *
West we rode on the road from Zura, west toward the shore of distant Isowon, like a storm cloud rolling across the horizon. The black horses of the Bogati packed the road and stirred the dust with thunder, crushing the stones beneath their hooves and daring Venger to keep up. Singing to the odd music of their bouncing ring-mail skirts, Chuluun and his men made a show of riding, the ribbons on their tack and clothing spiraling out behind them. On occasion we slowed to rest the horses or to let them drink from one of the rivers we found on our way. At a farmhouse, a woman took one look at us and ran inside to bolt the door. We slaked ourselves with water from her well, and Chuluun put a silver coin on it to repay the “generosity.” As we rode away from the farm, he explained that no act of kindness could go unacknowledged, not for a Bogati. It was the first of many Zuran rules I would learn from him.
Being with Chuluun and his men eased my memories of Cricket. It was good to be with men again, good to be riding toward a certain, bloody battle. But no matter how hard or fast we traveled, there was just no way to reach Isowon by nightfall; as the sun began to set our exhausted horses called an end to our ride. Famished and parched, we set to making camp in a stand of birch trees not far from the road. Chuluun and I tended to the horses while the others built a strange looking tent, a circular shelter of canvas and felt held up by wooden rods and ropes driven into the ground. Each of the Bogati horses carried a different part of the tent-some the stakes, some the rolled up lengths of fabric-and each man did his part with ease. As we fed the horses, Chuluun explained another in his long list of Bogati customs.
“It is called a kurelt,” he said. He lifted the hoof of one of the horses, digging out the packed dirt with a knife. “A Bogati never sleeps under the sky. He must be covered, always.”
I worked carefully on one of the black horses, gently removing the bit from its mouth. The men building the kurelt sang while they erected the tent. “Why? I like to watch the stars while I sleep.”
Chuluun shook his head. “Tonight you sleep with us in the kurelt. The stars are for the gods.”
“What about a fire?” I asked. “How can we cook?”
“We cook in the kurelt,” said Chuluun. He looked at me oddly. “I see I have a lot to show you. Never mind. You tell me about how you cannot die, and I will teach you about being a Bogati.”
By the time the sun was down the kurelt was up and all our horses were resting. Two of Chuluun’s men waited outside the tent, guarding the horses and the rest of us while we took our ease inside the spacious kurelt. I leaned against the felt wall, going around the circle of men and practicing their exotic names. Nalinbaatar, Chuluun’s brother, cooked our meal over a fire in the center of the kurelt, the smoke spiraling up and out of a circular cutout in the roof. He laughed, stirring his pots and correcting me, while I worked my tongue around the names.
“Bahlochchur,” he said.
Bahlochchur, one of the youngest of the warriors, grinned as I tried to pronounce his name, forcing the sound out of my throat to get the guttural sound just right.
“Bahlochchur,” I said.
“Bahlochchur,” Nalinbaatar corrected.
I tried again. “Bahlochchur.”
Chuluun, who was sitting next to me, shook his head. “No. Bah. .”
“Bah. .”
“Lou-ak. .”
“Loo-ak. .”
Bahlochchur waved me off, feigning disgust. “Oyuun ukhaan nandin.”
Chuluun laughed. “He says you make baby talk.”
I nodded and gave up. “Chuluun, your name is easy. You’ll speak for me then.”
Chuluun shook his head. “Not now. Now we eat.”
It was another of their Bogati rules, I learned later: no talk of war or business over meals. Meals were sacred, Chuluun explained. I liked that. Eating their spicy food and laughing at jokes I didn’t understand made me forget, and forgetting was the one thing I wanted more than anything. They fed me generously, like the desert folk of Ganjor, never letting my cup get dry or my plate too light. I ate as they did, using my knife to push my food from my plate to my mouth, the way men always eat when women aren’t around.
And Chuluun was protective of me, almost jealous of my attention. When questions came my way he let only the most benign ones through, translating for his comrades their inquiries about my horse and the places I’d been and about my family and the children I didn’t have. Never once did they ask me about my sword or how my eye had grown back or about my Akari, and I knew that was because Chuluun wouldn’t let them. They were intensely curious about Isowon and what they would find there, but they didn’t seem at all afraid, and I wasn’t sure how much of what I answered actually got back to them, or how much Chuluun kept to himself.
Finally, when it was long past sundown and all of us had eaten and gotten drunk enough to sleep, Chuluun pulled gently at my sleeve. I had already fallen half asleep against him, my head lolling onto his shoulder. His voice whispered in my ear.
“Lukien, walk with me.”
He got up, tiptoeing past his comrades toward the tent flap. I shook off my grogginess and followed. Bahlochchur opened one eye to watch me but didn’t say a thing as he tracked my leaving, following Chuluun outside. The night air struck my face. It was fabulously dark, with only a few stars poking through the murky skies. The tribesmen who were still on guard looked at Chuluun from their places in the darkness. Chuluun nodded at them and whispered, and the two men gratefully retreated into the kurelt.
Was it our turn to stand guard? All I wanted was to sleep bu
t didn’t moan about it. Plainly Chuluun wanted to talk. He moved away from the kurelt, just out of earshot of his comrades inside. The darkness made his expression even more serious. He scratched at the scraggy hair that bearded his neck, kicked at the dirt, then dug into the pocket of his jacket. I expected a pipe to appear, or just some tobacco for chewing, so when I saw the silk scarf I was surprised.
“This is for you,” he said. He turned to face me. “Put out your hands, please. Both please.”
I did as he asked. “Why?”
“I know you are ignorant so I will teach you. This is a hahlag. .” He placed the scarf into my palms. “For Zurans, it is a gift of respect and friendship. I brought this with me for you, Lukien, to ask your permission to fight with you.”
I took the gift, not really understanding. It was soft and expensive looking, and blue from what I could tell. But it wasn’t womanly, at least it didn’t seem so coming from Chuluun. It obviously meant something, too, so I bowed to him, holding the scarf carefully, and smiled.
“A hahlag,” I repeated. “What does that mean?”
“It means person,” said Chuluun. “A person. A man. .” He shrugged. “A friend. One of the tribe.”
“Ah, thank you,” I said. “So I am a Bogati now?”
Chuluun took the scarf and began tying it around my neck. “When Zurans see this, they will know you are one of us,” he said. “There will be other Zurans in Isowon. More will come to fight. I can hear them.”
“How do you know?”
“Because they are stirred,” said Chuluun. He spun me around to look at the hahlag, approving of its appearance. “By you, Lukien.”
“Chuluun, why are we speaking out here alone? Why do you keep the others from speaking with me? We rode all day, and I know so little. I have questions. Your men have questions.”
“I speak for them all,” said Chuluun. “They must see no doubt in me. They must hear no fear.”
“What were they asking me? What do they want to know? Tell me. I’ll answer all their questions. And yours, my friend.”
Chuluun smiled. He looked drunk. He gazed up at the stars. “The gods sleep, except for a few. .” He pointed to the handful of visible stars, poking at them one by one. “They watch us.”
I looked up and smiled, pretending to agree, not having the heart to tell him that there were no gods hiding behind the starlight.
“They chose you,” said Chuluun. “Why?”
I thought about that. I’d always thought about that. Bad luck was the only answer I’d ever come up with. “I don’t know,” I confessed.
Chuluun looked down at the sword, my constant companion, belted to my waist. “The god that keeps you alive-what is its name?”
“Malator,” I replied.
“Malator.” Chuluun squatted down for a closer look. “Malator,” he whispered, speaking to the blade.
“Do you want to see him?” I asked.
Chuluun’s narrow eyes turned as round as walnuts. “You can see him?”
“Yes,” I nodded. “He will show himself if I ask it. If you want me to I will.”
The temptation made Chuluun shiver. He stood up and shook his head. “No,” he said softly. “You have been kissed by heaven, Lukien. Not I. I have been chosen to follow you.”
“Tell me about that.” I took a few more paces away from the kurelt, giving Chuluun space to speak freely. He stayed beside me as we pretended to study the dark forest. “Tell me why you’ve come to fight Diriel. Many men wouldn’t. Many have already fled. Why do you have it in your heart to make this fight?”
“Because Zuran men fight,” said Chuluun with a little shrug. “We are born to it. In Zura there is too little war these days. Too many men like Anton Fallon. Rich men. You see? Bogati ways are old ways. Simple ways. Our hearts never change. I do not know if I can make you see.”
“I understand fighting,” I replied. “All my life has been fighting. But I want to stop. I want peace now.”
“No,” said Chuluun. “I do not see that in you.”
“You barely know me.”
“But I see clearly,” he insisted. “Your eyes do not hide the truth. There is no peace in your eyes, Lukien. Only vengeance.”
I laughed. “Oh, indeed there’s that! I’ve been wronged, and I will have justice. My vengeance will be a rain of knives. I mean to kill them all, Chuluun, for what they’ve done. But when it’s over. .” I had to steady myself against the rage. “When it’s over, I’m going home. I’ll have my revenge, and then I’ll have peace.”
Chuluun sighed like he didn’t believe me. “All right,” he said. “Or, you can accept what you are and find true peace. Tell me: Why did you come here? You are Liirian. Liiria is far, far from here. No one would come to this place without reason. Why would you leave the home you say you must return to?”
I didn’t like the way the conversation had turned. “Because I was restless,” I admitted. “Because I was looking for answers. You asked me why I was chosen to live forever. But I don’t know. That’s why I came here-to find out. To try and do some good.”
“With a sword,” Chuluun pointed out. “Why not a spoon?”
“What?”
“Why not carry a spoon instead of a sword?”
“Because the sword keeps me alive.”
“Huh.” Chuluun smiled. “So it’s not a spoon that keeps you alive.”
“No, and it’s not a fork or a hoe either. What’s your point?”
“My point,” said Chuluun, “is that a sword has always kept you alive.” He yawned, then stretched, then turned back to the kurelt. “Will you watch over us, Lukien? I am tired and need sleep. You do not need rest. You only think you do.”
And that’s how he left me, alone and baffled, having put just enough doubt in my mind to keep me awake all night.
30
The next morning Chuluun and his men broke camp the way soldiers do-quickly and perfectly, like they’d done it a thousand times. They packed the kurelt, sharing the parts of it amongst their magnificent horses, buried the embers of our campfire, and pointed their mounts west again. I rode with my blue hahlag around my neck, proudly pretending to be a Bogati, smelling of their spices and eager to reach Isowon. The closer we came the more the land flattened and the air filled with brine from the ocean, and by the time we were mere miles away my heart had swelled with so much bloodlust I was very nearly drunk with it. The handful of days Diriel had granted me to bring him the monster had nearly passed, and I was certain he’d already marched his army to the city’s outskirts. I doubted, though, that he’d done anything but threaten Anton. Diriel wanted Crezil, and only I could give him the monster. I had played my gambit and played it well, and was feeling better about myself than I had in months. Very soon, I told myself, I would have the revenge I needed so badly.
Isowon appeared: a shimmering mirage, perched serenely on the ocean like a daydreaming lover. Chuluun and his men cheered when we saw her, pointing and congratulating themselves and whooping over the coming war. The city was quiet, and from our great distance I could see the smoke of fires in the eastern hills, where Diriel’s army was no doubt camped. The haze above the landscape helped me estimate their numbers, a vast sum that withered my confidence. They were barely a two-hour march from the shore. But they were still camped, I reminded myself, and that meant Isowon was safe.
For now.
“Lukien,” called Chuluun, riding up alongside me. “The sky.” He pointed with his regal nose.
“I see it.”
The sight of the smoke thrilled Chuluun. “So many enemies. Heaven blesses us.”
It was something a madman would say. Or a young man. Maybe Chuluun was both. “Blood and teeth,” I reminded him. “We’ll spare none of them.”
Only madmen could win this fight, and I needed an army of them. Men like Chuluun, who thought the gods called them to slaughter. Or men like Kiryk, who’d lost so much they’d lost their fears as well. Men like me. Men too crazy to be afraid
. We didn’t slow our pace a bit when we saw the smoke. In fact we drove our horses harder, eager to reach Isowon, to swing our swords and throw our spears. It was nearly noontime, and the hot sun bore down on our lathered horses. I remembered the way the city looked in that perfect light. I had thought she was asleep, but as we finally reached her outskirts I saw the fighting men along her sandy streets and perched in her white towers, armed and silent like a pincushion of blades. A patrol of mercenaries stood guard just inside the city’s main road, the very road that had led me and Cricket into Isowon that fateful first time.
Chuluun had never seen the likes of Isowon and, in awe of the sight, he slowed his horse. Finally, with the gleaming city growing in our vision, and at last bereft of words, his face slackened, startled by its splendor. He’d come from a world of steppes and campfires, where children played with bones and wealth was measured in wives and horses. And now. . Isowon. So hard to describe, so achingly beautiful, that Chuluun and his men gasped. Up ahead, the mercenaries on the main road spotted us, turning their attention toward us with a shout. I raised my hand high and called out a greeting, then heard my name from the crowd. There were at least thirty men. But one in particular stood out from the rest, waving both hands over his head when he saw me.
“That’s Marilius,” I said with a smile. “The one I told you about, Chuluun.”
Chuluun gestured to his men to ride abreast of us, forming an arrowhead with himself and me at the tip. He brushed the mane of his black horse with his fingertips, straightening up tall in his saddle as if about to meet a king. We watched as Marilius hurried to a horse, riding out quickly to greet us. Just the sight of him buoyed me. He had made it back safely, and that meant Kiryk’s Drinmen were here as well, probably preparing for the coming battle. From what I could tell already, Isowon was working hard to prepare.
Marilius thundered up on a dapple gray, grinning wildly at my companions. We greeted each other like the friends we had never been, clasping arms and saying how pleased we were to see each other. Marilius looked surprisingly well rested, but also relieved to see me.