Thalen gave him a sidelong glance.
"Whenever the outcome is questionable, I find it is my life at stake," Nydeon said. "Don't worry yourself, Captain. No harm will befall you."
"None that will not also befall us," Xanthippus added.
The landscape before them was a riot of activity. Shadow Riders moved to and fro. Some were mounted with prisoners in tow. Some were on foot carrying bundles of booty. An outbuilding had been set ablaze and it burned fiercely, the flames reaching to the darkening sky. Most of the prisoners looked like servants, slaves, workers and farmhands. All had been left to the tender mercies of the invaders, knowing that Menleco would get little from them. The dead--soldiers and any others who had resisted--lay in a growing heap in the center of a field. Dismounted Riders dragged them by their heels and threw them onto the pile.
"Do you hate the Shadow Riders as much as I do?" Xanthippus asked, watching them.
"I wouldn't say I hated anything as much as you do," Nydeon replied. "But, yes, I hate them passionately. What Guardsman does not?"
"But are you not all Prathians?" Thalen asked.
"There are Prathians, and then there are Prathians," Xanthippus said. "The Riders believe they are a race apart. You heard the dead man in the house. 'Cupbearers', he called us. 'Serving boys'. That is the Shadow Riders' way. They are Menleco's nobility."
"Though they be no more than scum, like us," Nydeon said.
"Like that lad in the burned-out village, I remember when I thought they were demons. As a boy, I robbed one of them by mistake, not knowing he was a Rider. They pursued me through the streets of Serusi. Torch-wielding spirits, galloping bone-men on great black chargers chasing me through the night-dark streets. By the gods, I had never known such fear -- and have never since."
"Did they catch you?" Thalen asked.
"Oh, yes…The Shadow Riders are true bastards, Thalen. Worse than demons. They took me to their camp and it was there later that I found out they were but men. My fear turned to such anger--as I was prone to in those days."
"Anger?"
Xanthippus chuckled. "Yes…Anger." He felt far away, lifetimes in the past. "They had frightened me so, and then to find out that they were but men. They had fooled me."
"They are fearsome to behold," Thalen said. "To a child, even more so, I suppose."
"My childhood was long past by then. Truth be told, they disappointed me. I dearly wanted to believe in something beyond men -- even something far worse than men, although at the time I could conceive of nothing lower. I have despised them ever since."
"So what did you do?"
"I killed one of them. What I will perhaps endure from a demon, I will not tolerate from a man."
"And you survived?"
"Menleco called for me and I was taken to him. It was the stake or cross for me, I feared. Instead, Menleco took me into the Prathian School. He cared nothing for his dead man, not when he had a new killer to groom."
"And now you will kill him," Thalen said.
"Now, I must," Xanthippus replied.
Menleco's camp was an hour's ride away. Xanthippus and Nydeon took two of the dead Shadow Riders' horses while Thalen rode the third, bound between them. They fell in with a column of Riders escorting prisoners to Menleco, each reckoned at a silver per head. The prisoners rode two to a horse and their captors rode alongside them, jubilant. It was what the Riders lived for--plunder, ransom and blood--though Xanthippus doubted Menleco would greet this modest haul with much enthusiasm.
"You are the most valuable captive the Riders have taken today," Xanthippus remarked to Thalen as they rode. "An Irrylian traitor conspiring with Clautias should fetch…What do you think, Nydeon?"
"When Menleco sees the worthlessness of these others, perhaps even a gold!" Nydeon said.
"Do you hear that, Captain? A gold piece for us!"
"I'd give you a gold piece myself if I thought you had a plan for getting us out of this alive," Thalen sneered.
Xanthippus waved a hand dismissively. "If anything should go awry, you simply claim fealty to this Irrylian god-king of yours--"
"Demetrius," Thalen supplied.
"Yes, whatever you call him. Just say that you've been wrongly detained. Menleco would not dare harm you. You are an Irrylian captain of some guard-or-other, are you not?"
"Of course…"
"So, you see, you bear little risk. No one's word but ours calls you traitor."
"And once we're found out, our word won't be worth much," Nydeon added.
"Well," Thalen sighed, "as long as you have a plan beyond delivering me bound into the hands of the enemy…"
"Now, I didn't exactly say that," Xanthippus said.
It was almost dark by the time they arrived at the camp. Columns of smoke rose from innumerable cook fires and Xanthippus saw dark figures of the Prathian foot huddled around them. Other men walked among the tents or stood sentinel along the rampart of dirt piled up inside the shallow perimeter trench. Masked and further concealed by the gloaming, it was impossible to distinguish one Shadow Rider from another. The three rode at the tail of the column as the first of the returning Riders trotted two-abreast across the causeway that led into the camp. No cheers greeted them. The guards merely stood aside and let them pass. As the tail of the column approached, Xanthippus could hear the tone but not the content of the Riders' cutting remarks. The guards cursed them under their breaths.
Xanthippus held up a hand and the three horses shuffled to a halt.
"Move along, Riders," the guard called up to them, waving them on. "You are clear to enter."
Xanthippus looked down on a man pushing forty or more dressed in the black of the Prathian Guard. Even inside the elongated cheek- and nose-pieces of his black-lacquered helmet, Xanthippus could see familiar crow's feet in the corners of the man's blue eyes. The helm bore a snow white officer's crest which accounted for his authoritative bearing, even though his expression was of one who was about to die of boredom.
Xanthippus extended his leg, showing the officer his dirty boot. "Footman, my boot has become soiled. Lick it clean for me, would you?"
The officer slapped the boot away. "Piss off!" he barked. "Shadow Rider you may be, but I'll not endure that. Move along out of here, you bloody bonehead."
"It is only horseshit," Xanthippus went on. "Surely, you have grown accustomed to the taste of it by now…Myrtilus."
The guard narrowed his eyes, squinting up at the anonymous Rider. A smile played tentatively at the corners of his mouth. "I recognize that voice," he said.
"Perhaps this will help," Xanthippus lifted his helmet.
"Xanthippus!" Myrtilus cried, when he saw his old friend's face. "Can it be?"
"And Nydeon," Nydeon called out, exposing his own face.
Grinning broadly, Myrtilus held out his hands and Xanthippus grasped them in both of his. "Xanthippus and Nydeon! I scarce believe my eyes! Returned to us from the dead!"
"The dead? No. I merely rode to hell's gates and had a look inside," Xanthippus said. "I must tell you, I prefer the land of the living. But if I am here to stay, I am going to need your help, my old friend."
"The help of Myrtilus you shall have!" the officer said. "Even if you have become Shadow Riders…"
Both men replaced their helmets. "We cannot let ourselves be known," Xanthippus said. He explained how they came to be dressed as Riders. "We suspect Menleco thinks us dead."
Myrtilus' face grew grave. "The rumor here was that he sent you to your deaths."
"It is just as we thought, then!"
"He jealously guards his lady," Myrtilus explained. "She is his obsession, and the talk is that he feared she loved you."
Xanthippus felt a sinking of his spirit. "He would have me killed for that?"
"The Guard has made plans to overthrow him. Between his lady and his love for his Shadow Riders, we fear him mad."
"His lady?" Xanthippus asked.
"The lady Lyssa," Myrtilus replied.
&nb
sp; "She is here with him?" Xanthippus felt his pulse begin to race.
"Isn't she always?"
"The day of Menleco's downfall is at hand, my friend," Xanthippus said. "For we come here to kill him. The lady shall be set free at last."
"Kill him?" Myrtilus cried in unguarded astonishment. He gazed around warily and went on in a lower tone. "It is suicide," he declared in a hissing whisper. "You don't just walk into the camp of the Shadow Riders, kill Menleco and walk out again. Now, it is you I fear mad!"
"What would you have me do?" Xanthippus asked. "What would Myrtilus do? I ask you."
"You live, man! Is that not enough? Go away from here and count yourself lucky to have survived."
"And never show my face to my countrymen again? Is that how you would have it? The man would have us dead, Myrtilus. Now, we will have him dead. You say the Guard plans to overthrow him. If not today, when, I ask?"
Myrtilus nervously chewed his lower lip, lost in anxious thought. Finally, he sighed deeply. "Just minutes ago," he said in resignation, "I was day-dreaming of my supper. Now, I find myself preparing for battle and endless strife."
"Such is life, Myrtilus," Xanthippus said. "We sup in peace as happy slaves, or we fight to live as Prathians once more. I have met many brave fighters in these last days. There is coming a time of struggle. It will be foist upon us whether we wish it or not. I say we get started now."
Myrtilus sighed again. "Damn you, Xanthippus," he said after a pause. "What would you have me do?"
Chapter 25
Even as the Eagle Man's horse swept around what had been the enemy flank, Hurrus could hear the great crack of the Silver Shields slamming into the Snake Man's line. They had attacked an island of order amid churning chaos. But for the center, the enemy line had all but disintegrated. As the eagles rushed them, the snakes turned and fled in panic, entangling themselves in one another's legs and tumbling over the wreckage of their discarded arms and armor. The eagle men hacked them apart and pinioned them to the ground where they had fallen. Only the men of the snake's center had leveled their pikes and braced their shields. With a savage rush and a cry, the Silver Shields shattered them utterly. A red mist of blood filled the air where the two lines met. All organized resistance crumbled. The Shields tramped over the bodies of the dead.
Xandros had cut down the first of Kerraunus' companion body, some nameless brigand who had put up a brave show only to turn tail and flee at the last moment. Xandros had nearly sliced the top of his head off. The rest of Hurrus' horsemen cleaved into the mounted snakes, toppling some and scattering the rest to the four winds. Hurrus did not ride at the point of the wedge this time, but he rode - by gods, he rode! - exhorting his men and letting them see him. The exhausted horsemen, knowing of his wounds, drew strength from his presence and they hacked their way into the heart of the snake without ceasing.
Across the tangle of panicked horses and men, Hurrus spied the blue-clad Mejadym cavalrymen shrieking and waving their curved swords like a legion of desert harpies.
Hurrus' men would meet them in the center. They would meet at Kerraunus.
If they could catch him.
He rumbled westward in his chariot surrounded by what was left of his companion body, the Mejadym converging from the left, Hurrus' horsemen from the right. Whip in hand, Kerraunus lashed his horses savagely as he bounced over the rocky terrain, casting desperate glances over his shoulder. Occasionally, his companions would peel off to slow the pursuit, flashing steel across the faces of the galloping horses. One of the snake-men slashed at Xandros, but he turned it aside with a slashing blade of his own. The snake-man flew past him without slowing. He charged deep into the mass of riders, throwing the pursuit into disarray, aiming at Hurrus himself.
Hurrus saw him coming. The man had locked his gaze on him. Hurrus recognized him, for he was one of Kerraunus' trained killers, a man named Ramma. He lifted his sword high. "For Ramsut!" he cried. He swung his blade and Hurrus ducked under the blow. Without the use of his left arm, he felt himself lurch over the side of his horse. Only by grasping its mane did he manage stay in the saddle. His helmet flew from his head and went skittering across the rocky ground.
Ramma had flown past him, and when Hurrus looked back, he saw one of his companions driving a spear into Ramma's heart as he lay writhing in the dust. His charge into the Eagle Man's pursuit had been a suicide ride.
Hurrus heard a roar from ahead. The remainder of Kerraunus' bodyguards had wheeled back to engage the pursuit, while a Mejadym raced in from the side and slashed at the chariot's horses before being driven off by snake-men. The horses bucked and darted. The chariot bucked with them, rocking on one wheel at a time, out of control. Striking a stone, the chariot hurtled through the air, throwing Kerraunus over the side. The cab crashed to the ground. Kerraunus clung to the frame, his feet skidding through the dirt. Finally, the chariot toppled over and Kerraunus tumbled from it, rolling in the dust.
He sprang to his feet. His blue war crown and wig were gone and he stood in a fighting crouch, unarmed and bareheaded. His bodyguard charged into the maelstrom of advancing horsemen, holding them at bay at least for a moment.
One of the Mejadym had dismounted and he came rushing towards Kerraunus, twirling a yellowwood staff. Both man and staff moved as a blur. He swung at Kerraunus, but Kerraunus whirled clear of the whooshing yellowwood. Hurrus saw then that it was the bearded man who had claimed fealty to him, the leader of the Mejadym: Jorem. Kerraunus recognized him too at that moment and scrambled to the wreck of his chariot. Jorem grinned after him, twirling his deadly staff.
"You are mine, Snake Man," he called with such menace in his voice that a shiver passed down Hurrus' spine. He was transfixed: the Mejadym squaring off against the Snake Man. It was like something out of a Tygetian dream. Jorem was obviously a formidable fighter. He knew he would not awaken until he saw his brother killed.
Kerraunus leaned into the wreckage and grabbed desperately at something inside. Jorem approached him confidently, step by step, twirling his staff in nimble fingers. Kerraunus swung his arm free of the chariot and Hurrus could see that his hand held a coiled whip. It was not until Kerraunus swung around that Hurrus realized his mistake. It was not a Tygetian dream, but a Tygetian nightmare.
The face that whirled out of the cab of the chariot was that of a snake.
Jorem stopped dead in his tracks, nearly dropping his yellowwood staff. Kerraunus' head had become that of a pure white snake. The thing hissed from its gaping mouth, its huge fangs dripping poison. As they watched, the glistening head began to grow from his shoulders, flaring its hood as it got bigger. Soon Kerraunus' chest had become white with glistening scales and his back became the body of a snake, the tail flicking the dust behind him. By the time it had reached its full height, the thing stood ten feet tall. It uncoiled the whip and snapped it with a great crack in the dust at Jorem's feet. He jumped back in terror. The two-legged, two-armed snake lumbered after him.
Jorem held his staff in front of him, pointing it at the snake as if it were a spear. Snake-Kerraunus snapped his whip. It tongued around the yellowwood shaft and the creature whisked it from Jorem's hands. He fell and crawled backwards on his elbows. One of his Mejadym companions bolted toward the snake with a thrusting spear. In a blur, the snake snapped at him and impaled the man on fangs so thick he was nearly torn in half. The snake released him just as quickly and the thing wore the man's blood dripping from its jaws. It cracked the whip again at Jorem's feet as his heels dug at the earth.
"How would you like the feel of this whip on your back, Jorem?" the thing asked in a hissing sham of Kerraunus' voice. "Is this what the Sarians did to you?" The whip snapped across Jorem's chest, leaving a red stripe behind.
The horsemen of each side were stunned into paralysis. Men who held weapons at one another's throats just moments before stood with mouths agape, none believing his eyes. Hurrus had rolled onto his knees, but his head spun. The vision of a giant white snake cracking a
whip shimmered before him. It could not be real.
Jorem cried out in pain and torment. He rolled in the dust as the whip cracked down on the ground beside him. He sprang to his feet and drew his sword.
"You are a master of illusion!" he cried.
"That red stripe on your chest is an illusion? Tell me: How many stripes can a man endure before the world goes black, Jorem?" The whip lashed completely around his torso, spinning him to the ground. Jorem screamed. "Does this remind you of anything?" The snake cracked the whip in the air. "Did the Sarians laugh while they whipped you?" Another crack, this time across his back. Jorem began whimpering, curled into a ball.
A Mejadym crept towards the snake from the side. The snake snapped at him. The man ducked under the fangs, slamming into the ground. He scurried away before the snake could strike again. Other men rushed forward, one throwing a javelin that bounced harmlessly off the thing's hide. Men brandished swords at it, shouting now, trying to distract it.
"How many lashes, Jorem?" Sssnap across Jorem's back. "Did you count them?" Sssnap!
Jorem covered his face. "Be gone!" he shrieked. "Leave me! I can't! I can't!"
One of the eagle-men rushed up behind the creature and plunged a spear into its tail. The tail whipped around and knocked him from his feet. Hissing, the thing snapped and a fang pierced the man's gut. The snake lifted its head and the man's body hung limply from its jaws. Two of the Mejadym rushed to Jorem's side and began dragging him away. Other men awoke from the horror and heeled their horses, circling around behind the beast, sizing the thing up. How to kill it? But no one dared to ride into range of its snapping jaws.
None but one.
The men watched in shock as this man rode straight at the snake, galloping hard. He was riding into certain death. No one seemed to notice that he trailed a spare horse. Then Hurrus saw that it was the mean little snake-man, Nefer. He reined up under the snake, tiny beneath the towering serpent.
"Stop him!" Hurrus cried. Heads turned and regarded him dumbly. The horror of the snake had the men disbelieving their eyes and ears. "He means to escape!"
The Blood Gate Page 34