by Matt Gilbert
“Stay here,” Calwen told Rithard. “You're like as not to fall down the stairs and break your neck, and I'm no fan of irony.”
Rithard nodded his compliance, though Caelwen had his doubts how long Rithard's promise would last, with no one here to mind him. Best to get this done quickly, then.
As Caelwen jogged down the stairs to meet his harriers, Davron snapped a salute, and Caelwen returned it out of reflex.
“Caelwen, be a good lad and surrender your prisoner. Let's not make this difficult.”
This was no good. Everything Caelwen knew about fighting, he had learned from the man who now stood against him. “That wasn't the agreement.”
“I made no agreement. Tasinalta can issue all the commands she wants, but without our support, they're farts in the wind.” Davron lowered his hand to his sword hilt, still not taking hold of it, but communicating his clear intent. “Surrender your prisoner.”
Caelwen answered him through clenched teeth, “You know I can't do that.”
Davron had the look of having eaten something unpleasant. “Honor, eh?”
Caelwen nodded. “You're the one who taught me that silly notion.”
“If I'd known I might have to kill you over it, I might not have.” Davron heaved a great sigh. “Don't be stupid. This will kill your father.”
“This isn't about my father. It's about my duty. And yours.”
Davron pointed an accusing finger at Caelwen, his face showing real anger. “I say this is my duty, boy, and yours is to stand aside! Who are you to say otherwise?”
Caelwen squared his shoulders and put his hand on his sword's grip. “A man with conviction and a blade.”
Davron stood silent for long seconds, taking the measure of the situation. At last, he drew his own blade with a fluid motion. “You learned well, Caelwen. You were my best student.”
As he advanced, the rest of his men drew their own weapons and advanced with him.
Caelwen grimaced. “There's no honor in this,” he muttered.
Davron turned a chilling gaze toward his men, and they hurriedly sheathed their weapons. “It seems some of my own blood could learn a lesson from you,” he said darkly. “If I die here, Caelwen is to proceed unmolested. Am I understood?”
As a group, and with considerable embarrassment, Davron's men nodded and stepped back.
Rithard cleared his throat and stepped forward. “This will not be necessary,” he said in only slightly slurred speech. “I'll go with Davron.”
Caelwen glared at him. “I told you to stay put! You're lucky you didn't kill yourself on the stairs!”
Davron nodded at this. “That would have been unfortunate all around.”
Caelwen found Davron's tone odd. It should have been mocking, but he seemed sincere enough, even angry that Rithard might be injured. He put the thought aside. This was no time for second guessing. “You're too drunk to make that decision, Rithard, and in any event, it's not your choice. My orders are to deliver you to the Empress. I mean to fulfill those orders.”
Davron pointed to the ground with his sword. “Sit, coward. Men are speaking.”
Rithard seemed to have found some courage in his drink however. He stood on wobbly legs and declared, “A man is speaking now. I've enough on my conscience. I won't have this as well.”
Davron barked laughter. “Found your balls in a bottle, eh? Well, then, I will address you on those terms. Clearly, you are ignorant, even if you have learned to be brave. A challenge has been issued and accepted. It is not your place to interfere.”
“I'm making it my place! I have conviction, too! This is senseless! I surrender to you!”
Davron sighed and shook his head. “You have no say. I am willing to settle this with personal combat, if that is Caelwen's choice, but if you interfere, I will rescind my offer. You know Caelwen well. That will likely end in his death. Now show some respect and be silent.”
Rithard looked at Caelwen, his clouded, guilty eyes asking if this was truly Caelwen's will. Caelwen gave Rithard a quick nod. “Thank you, Rithard. You are a true friend, but as he says, this is not your choice.”
Looking miserable, Rithard bowed his head and stepped back, folding his arms against his chest and staring at the ground, clearly unconvinced, but at least accepting that the game between Davron and Caelwen had to be played out now.
Davron eyed Rithard a moment longer, mistrust in his eyes, then nodded his approval. “Well done. Drunk you may be, but I charge you as our referee. Let no dishonorable move go uncalled.” He turned back to Caelwen and nodded. “So many times I've said this, but I never expected to do so in such circumstances. Let us begin.” He slipped into a fighting stance, smoothly, like a cat, and Caelwen did likewise.
Their swords arced and clashed against one another in a frenzy. Davron's blade hit like a hammer. There was strength behind his blows that Caelwen had never felt in training. Davron was almost superhuman in his speed and power. Every blow Caelwen blocked rattled his bones.
“Yes!” Davron cried, and slashed at Caelwen with such speed and fury that Caelwen could barely interpose his own blade in time. The force of the blow left his arm numb and battered his own sword aside. Davron's followup opened a gaping hole in Caelwen's chestpiece. “Do you feel it, boy? Real power!”
Caelwen staggered briefly, then pressed back, a cry of fury on his lips, raining blow after blow at Davron, but his master was blindingly fast, his stamina terrifying. Even as Davron stepped back, stoicly weathering Caelwen's fury, giving ground, Caelwen knew Davron was still fully in control of the fight.
Davron smashed Caelwen's blade aside and lunged forward with his elbow, sending Calwen sprawling. “Now you see!” Davron cried. “Now you understand why I have no fear of Maranath and his ilk, eh!” He paused, waiting for Caelwen to regain his feet. “But there is one thing you do not see yet, boy.”
Caelwen struggled to stand as quickly a possible to get his blade up, panting, finding it difficult to force his legs to obey. Davron waited, sword extended, giving him time. Caelwen brought his own weapon to bear again, as he asked, “And what is that?”
“You shouldn't either.” Davron held his blade out, but made no move to strike. “But you should fear me. Will you not yield? I beg you, for your father's sake.”
Caelwen had never been the sort who could lie to himself. He was tired, dreadfully so, and Davron seemed to have a limitless reserve of stamina. Older or not, Davron was still far and away his better. But to give in now would betray everything Caelwen had ever stood for, most of it taught to him by the very man who was about to take his life. I would rather die as I lived than throw that away. “You're going to have to kill me, Master.”
Davron's face twisted with rage. “Fool!” he roared. “Why will you make me do this? Why?”
Caelwen offered a sad smile. “I am the man you made me. How would you or my father remember me if I crumbled now?” He held his blade up in a salute, and Davron returned it.
“It was an honor to train such as you.” He slashed the air with his blade and struck a fighting stance again. “One last game, then. For all the marbles.”
Caelwen nodded and brought his own blade to bear. “Tell my father I died well.”
Davron nodded at this, then came on like a hurricane, an irresistible force of nature. Sparks flew from their blades as they slashed and parried, but each blow felt to Caelwen like a bolt from the heavens. He gave up any hope of offense, and focused on blocking, but he had nothing left. His hands and arms were numb, his breath ragged and bursting from his chest as he struggled against the inevitable.
“Fight!” Davron bellowed. “Fight, damn you, if you would have me say you died well!” The blows kept coming, perhaps not so hard or fast as before, but relative to Caelwen's ability to stop them, they were growing. Davron was simply too strong, too fast, too skilled. Caelwen cursed himself as he blocked a blow and felt his sword ripped from his hand by the force of the impact.
Something hit his head har
d, and his vision burst into a million stars, a brilliant flash of light filling his mind, driving everything else out, even pain. As he sank into darkness, the light fading to black, his last thought echoed his last words.
Tell my father I died well.
Chapter 6: Knight of Fear
Logrus pulled at the reins of his horse, directing the creature seemingly at random as he scanned the rolling hills, searching for anything that seemed familiar, that matched the vision he had been given the night before, but it was hopeless. Skeletal trees and a blanket of snow conspired to hide landmarks, to smooth over differences of terrain that might otherwise make for contrast. A less skilled man might have ended up wandering in circles, but Logrus was an accomplished tracker. It was one skill among many that he had acquired by sheer need, rather than tutoring. Surviving twenty years or more as a fugitive required a man to learn much, or perish, and Logrus was not the sort of man to lie down and die.
He pulled at his beard as he continued to search for signs of passage, or recognizable landmarks. Steam poured from his nose in wisps, and from his horse’s in great gouts. Tracker or no, this might well be an impossible task for him alone.
In the distance, crouched on the horizon, lurked Nihlos, the city of the ‘demon men’, an ancient, cunning wolf poised to strike at its prey. The walls of the city were an arrogant sneer; its towers rising toward the sky were covetous, grasping talons that would pull down the moon and stars had they the reach. The city’s ever present cloud cover huddled over its shoulders like a cloak, modulating the weather and warding against the snow, even as it shrouded the machinations of the city from the eyes of outsiders.
Logrus was aware that he was in some danger by coming so close to the city. Certainly, the Nihlosians were hostile to anyone not of their blood, regarding all others as either enemies or cattle. Still, he had little choice, and at any rate, he was not as afraid as some might have been. He had killed a few Nihlosians in the past, again, out of necessity, and had been no more impressed by them than by any other man he had fought. They were tall, and had good reach, but they were flimsy. Still, he took a moment to check the two short, curved blades he wore on each hip. He had secured them well, but repetition and double checking were habit with him, as natural as breathing.
From Nihlos, he knew, his quarry would have traveled due west, toward the setting sun. But from what gate, and how far? Logrus ground his teeth in frustration. Time was of the essence!
It was, he realized, the wrong way of thinking. He was forgetting, as he often did, his faith, and reverting to his old ways. It was indeed a time of need, and clearly one where his skills were not sufficient. Still, success was necessary, and providence would come. When opportunity presented itself, he would be prepared, and he would act, knowing that he could not fail, would not be permitted to fail.
He would have to get closer to the city, and the horse would be a hindrance. He tethered the creature in a small copse of trees, where it would have at least some shelter from the cold. As for himself, the cold was irrelevant, and had been since the change. It was as unpleasant as ever to be half frozen, but it did him no real harm. He set off on foot, pushing through the snow with grim determination, full of purpose.
Parasin hated the snow almost as much as he hated dealing with prisoners. To be saddled with both at the same time, he thought, was nigh intolerable, and worse, it was a fool’s errand. How were he and the handful of prisoners ever supposed to locate the Traitor’s corpse in the midst of this miserable, icy sea? It was worse than a needle in a haystack. At least a haystack was warm. And for that matter, who was to say the Traitor was here at all? Rumor had it that swords had shattered against his skin. Why would this horrid wet slush be the end of him, where steel had failed?
Parasin noticed one of the prisoners had stopped beating the snow and was crouched down, shivering. The guard smiled, pleased to have opportunity to inflict a little misery on someone else for a change. He had no idea what the prisoner’s name might be, nor did he care. Names were for humans, not animals.
“You there!” he shouted as he approached, but the prisoner gave no indication that he heard. Parasin kicked a boot into the small of the man’s back, expecting a cry of pain, but the prisoner made no sound. He simply rolled over into the snow, still shivering, and fell on his side. Parasin gasped as he saw the man’s face.
The eyes were open so wide as to be almost comical, and his features were locked into a mask of fear. It was as if, at the absolute height of his terror, just as he were about to let loose with a cry, he had been paralyzed, frozen somehow. His lips trembled around his gaping mouth, as if the unvoiced scream were struggling for freedom against some unseen power that held him motionless.
Parasin felt the hair on the back of his neck begin to rise, and he drew his sword as he surveyed the scene. The prisoner had been crouched in front of a snow covered stump, but nothing else seemed out of place. He prodded gently at the stump with his weapon, and gasped in surprise as he saw what appeared to be cloth beneath the snow. It must be the Traitor! At last! And none too soon, he thought. Whatever had frightened the prisoner, Parasin wanted no part of it, anymore than he wanted the snow or the prisoners. Now he could be done with all three!
As he bent to brush snow from his prize, a hand, its flesh putrid and rotting, its nails sharp like talons, struck at him from the depths of the heap and buried itself in his throat. He saw his own blood spraying upon the snow like a fountain as the thing emerged from the snow. It was man shaped, and even wore a cloak, but it was skinless, rotting, and skeletal, its dead eyes shining with hateful purpose as it regarded him. The other hand struck him, this one penetrating his heart. Within moments, darkness overwhelmed even the pain and fear, and then there was nothing for Parasin.
Logrus paid no attention to the prisoners as they fled, screaming in terror. He needed to move quickly, before more guards came. It was true, he could not fail, but still, it was best not to test that theory. Faith required honest effort, as well as conviction.
Logrus regarded the prisoner on the ground with an almost amused curiosity. It was a rare reaction, but one that he had seen before. What had the poor wretch seen, he wondered? Some minds, when touched by his gift, could conjure horrors so profound that their creators could not endure them. He considered a moment, unwilling to kill for no reason, but decided it would be merciful. With a single, practiced motion, Logrus ran the curved blade across the prisoner’s throat and opened it to the air. Warm blood erupted over his hands and jetted into the snow, steaming, but still the man gave no indication that he was even aware of what was going on.
Logrus cleaned his blades and his hands in the snow, replaced his weapons at his belt, then turned to the guard's corpse. He extended his hand, palm down fingers splayed, over the body, and held them there as he gathered his thoughts and his will.
It was difficult to use, this gift, and Logrus found it distasteful, but it was also the most direct means of getting the information he needed. He turned his mind toward the events in his life that engendered the appropriate emotion, the occurrences that connected him to the Source. There were many, but one stood out amongst all the rest, the sight of his mother’s cold, dead eyes staring up from her pillow, the pain and fear clouded but still visible, the dark, finger shaped bruises on her neck fairly shouting of her murder. He ground his teeth at the memory, now twenty years old if a day, yet still as fresh as morning dew in his mind. It cut him like glass, and his soul seared with hatred at the injustice.
“Rise, flesh, and remember,” he commanded, keeping the image of his dead mother in his mind’s eye. He jerked his fingers upward, as if controlling a marionette. The corpse played along with the metaphor, jerking as if it were attached to strings, then slowly rose to its feet, fresh blood running from its wounds.
“What have you done to me?” it croaked.
“Be silent, flesh!” Logrus commanded. “You must obey me. You will only speak when spoken to.”
The
zombie moaned softly, trying to cry out for help, struggling against the dark power that compelled it, but found Logrus’s words to be true. It had no choice but to obey.
“You sought the prisoner who fled this city, yes?”
The zombie nodded.
“Do you know the route he took from the city? By which gate he fled?”
Again, the zombie nodded.
“Speak now and tell me, then.”
“The third gate on the south side,” the zombie rasped.
“And due west from there, yes?”
“Yes.”
“Then I am done with you. Speak no more. Return to the city and attack your brethren until you are destroyed.”
The zombie moaned in protest, but lurched off toward the city nonetheless. Logrus watched it go with some level of sympathy. It was one thing to command dead flesh into service, but quite another to have it retain its memories. Still, it had been necessary, and there was no kinder thing to do for the creature than see it destroyed. Now, its second death could serve as a distraction to draw attention from him, as well. Logrus nodded in satisfaction at the economy of the situation as he returned to his horse.
With the correct origin and orientation, Logrus had little trouble locating landmarks that matched those from his vision. There was the copse of trees that reminded him of a group of old women doing laundry, a ditch like a bowl, and a bend in the creek where it looped back on itself, creating a small peninsula some fifty yards long. There, in the center, beneath a protective canopy of evergreens, he would find his target.
Logrus pushed through the low hanging branches, noting with satisfaction the scuff marks on the ground and the telltale breakage of needles. It was indeed warmer here, warm enough for a man to survive the weather, for a while at least. Ahead, he saw a darker shape upon the straw covered ground.
The stranger was tall and lanky, and lay splayed, face down on the ground, his limbs at odd angles, another marionette whose strings had been cut. In truth, Logrus mused, that was probably a very apt comparison. Logrus went to one knee, brushed aside the man’s long, bone-white hair, and pressed a finger to the stranger's neck. There was a pulse, but it was weak and reedy. He had arrived none too soon.