by John Marco
“Gilwyn, explain it to him. Tell Kamar that I will fight the Zarturk for the girl, but that his men must leave when I defeat him. Tell him that if he has any honor at all, he will agree to these conditions.”
Gilwyn told this all to Kamar without hesitation. In the short year he’d been in Jador, the boy had picked up the language remarkably well. Kamar listened, nodded, then frowned at Lukien, who knew he didn’t approve.
“Tell them, Kamar,” said Lukien. “I can beat this bastard easily.”
They all knew it, too. Lukien’s skill at killing had shocked them all. Kamar nodded, then trotted his kreel out from their circle. He paused a good distance from the gathered raiders, shouting across the sand. The Zarturk listened intently as Kamar delivered the terms. He had unwrapped the gaka from his face and now clearly showed his smiling features. The girl still squirmed in his arms, reaching out for her mother, but the desert leader ignored her. Questions and accusation flew back and forth. Finally the Zarturk handed the girl over to one of his men.
“What’s he doing?” asked Calith. “Why don’t they bring her back?”
Paxon put a hand on her shoulder. “If this man wins her back, she’ll be returned.” The Seeker looked up at Lukien. “Is that right? You’re going to fight for her?”
“There’s no choice in it,” said Lukien. “If you want the girl back, it’s the only way.”
“But you will win, won’t you?” asked Calith. She hurried up to Lukien and touched his arm. “You must win. I beg you.”
“I don’t intend to die, madam,” said Lukien. “Not today, at least.”
“They call you Lukien,” said Paxon. “Are you truly he?”
“Not what you expected, eh?”
“In Liiria you are well known, sir,” said Paxon. He could barely contain his joy. “Truly then, we have found Mount Believer.”
With a grunt Lukien spun his horse around. “You are a superstitious man, Paxon, and you should not have come here.”
Riding away from the Seekers, Lukien let Gilwyn follow him out. They rode slowly, not saying a word until they were away from the others. The raiders in the distance watched them, while their leader the Zarturk got down from his horse and readied himself. It would be armed, unmounted combat, but Lukien wasn’t worried. He was cursed to live forever, and was sure no filthy thief would best him. Instead, his worries were for Gilwyn.
“You’re sure you’re unhurt?” he asked.
Gilwyn nodded anxiously. “Yes, I’m fine. He’s a big one, Lukien. You need to be careful.”
Lukien smiled. “I’m glad you’re all right. Thorin would never forgive me if anything happened to you.”
“Lukien, are you listening to me? Be careful.”
The Bronze Knight got down from his horse. “Did you hear what Paxon said? They’re from Liiria.”
“I heard.” Gilwyn took the reins of Lukien’s horse. Under other circumstances it would have been good to see countrymen. “Do it as quickly as you can. Finish him fast so they don’t have time to change their minds.”
Lukien laced his fingers, then stretched his arms above his head until his back cracked. Once he killed their leader, he knew, the other raiders would leave the girl and flee. Though they were murderers and thieves, Aztar’s men didn’t lie. “You just stay back and protect yourself,” said Lukien. “And make sure the woman Calith doesn’t try anything to get her daughter back.” He paused a moment then asked, “What is this beast’s name, did Kamar say?”
Gilwyn called the question to their companions. Kamar shouted back, “Hirak Shoud.”
Lukien turned back toward the raiders. Hirak Shoud was smiling at the sound of his name. The burly man stepped forward, bid his fellows to stay put, and said loudly, “Shalafein.”
Beneath his desert robes, Lukien’s amulet throbbed. He knew that within the thing, Amaraz—the spirit of the Eye—was listening. It didn’t matter how many fools challenged him. Lukien was too skilled to lose, and Amaraz could close any mortal wound. The knight raised his sword slightly and strode out into the arena of sand.
Hirak Shoud came out to greet him. Like most Ganjeese, the Zarturk carried a large curved scimitar. His gaka was black—the color of his lord, Aztar—and the red sash around his waist bespoke his rank. His dark eyes watched Lukien carefully as they approached each other, his weapon jumping from hand to hand. Lukien paused ten paces from the man, then held up his hand. Hirak Shoud stopped as well, confused by the gesture.
“In a moment you will be dead, Hirak Shoud,” said Lukien. “You should make your peace with Vala now.”
Whether the god of the Ganjeese and Jadori existed, Lukien couldn’t say. But Hirak Shoud believed in him, and was incensed to hear an infidel utter his name. The Zarturk’s beard pulled back in a snarl and a string of curses erupted. Lukien hefted his broadsword, then waved the big man closer.
“Come and get your lesson, fat one.”
Hirak Shoud thundered forward. Raising his blade, he quickly lowered it again with ferocious speed. Lukien ducked the blow, dancing to the side. Again the scimitar whistled, this time overhead, and again Lukien gracefully dodged it. It was easy to predict the raider’s clumsy blows. Hirak Shoud grunted, feinted left, then brought his blade forward, missing Lukien’s chest. For the knight who’d spent a lifetime in heavy armor, the freedom of the gaka was a gift. He moved like a dancer on the sand, threading his blade into Hirak Shoud’s guard, twirling his way out of every attack. Since the Zarturk was many stones heavier, his predictable attack only tired him. His face quickly reddening, he broke off the clash and pedaled backward, studying his foe anew.
“Is this what you want?” taunted Lukien, pulling the amulet from under his robe and dangling it before Hirak Shoud. “You want to live forever?”
Hirak Shoud bared his teeth and charged, this time catching Lukien in the leg. The knight cursed himself, ignored the pain, and brought his sword around. Too swift to see, the arc caught Hirak Shoud in the gut. He screamed as Lukien pulled out the blade, his black gaka swelling with blood. Astonished, he merely looked at Lukien. The scimitar fell weakly from his grip. With only the smallest pause, Lukien grimaced, held his broadsword in both fists, then hacked off Hirak Shoud’s head before his body hit the ground.
There was not a sound from either group of onlookers. Lukien sheathed his sword without wiping it clean. He went to Hirak Shoud’s head and lifted it from the sand. Across the way, the raiders looked on in mute horror. Lukien heaved the head at them. It landed with a thud and rolled to their feet.
“Your Zarturk made a bargain,” said Lukien. “Now you must honor it.”
The man who had been holding the girl Melini lowered her to the sand. Instantly she dashed toward Lukien. The knight kept his wary eyes on the raiders as the child hobbled toward him. Like Gilwyn, the girl had a bad foot. Unlike Gilwyn, however, she had no special shoe to help her walk. Behind him, Lukien heard the woman Calith shout. She hurried forward and scooped up her daughter, kissing her.
“Thank you!” she cried.
Lukien ordered her back to the wagon where the other Seekers waited. He watched the raiders take up Hirak Shoud’s severed head, then ride off without a word.
“Tell your prince Lukien of Liiria is here whenever he’s man enough to face me!” he shouted after them. “Tell Aztar I will take his own head next time!”
It was a bold boast but it made the knight feel better. He had never even seen Prince Aztar. Not surprisingly, Gilwyn rushed up to offer ease.
“Lukien, your leg,” he said. “You’re bleeding.”
The knight looked down at the wound Hirak Shoud had given him. There was indeed blood on his clothes, but the pain had already gone. Like the pain from his missing eye—a pain that had plagued him for years—it had been blotted up easily by the amulet.
“I’m fine,” he said. Gilwyn had brought his horse with him, and Lukien climbed into the saddle with no effort at all. He glanced at the Seekers, who had all gathered together to stare a
t him. Calith came forward with her daughter still in her arms. The tears on her cheeks told Lukien how grateful she was.
“You saved her, and I can’t thank you enough,” she said.
“You saved us all.” It was Paxon who spoke. “We thank you, Lukien of Liiria. All of us.”
For the first time Lukien got a good look at them. A dozen men, women, and children with some mules and a wagon to hold everything they owned. They were an image of all the Seekers who had come in search of Grimhold, poor and wretched, crippled and blind, but they were luckier than most. They had faced Aztar’s raiders and lived.
“Where is it, Sir Lukien? Please tell us,” said a woman of the group. Older than the rest, she spoke more to the air than to any individual. Lukien knew instantly she was blind. “Where is Mount Believer? Will you take us there?”
Lukien and Gilwyn glanced at each other. It was the same heartbreaking question all the Seekers asked. Ghost, who was clearly visible now, answered for them.
“We’ll take you to a place where you’ll be safe,” he said. The vague reply covered Lukien’s retreat. He turned his horse toward Jador and slowly led the way.
They were not as far from the city as their progress made it seem, but the slow-moving caravan of Seekers prevented them from going any faster. Lukien, with Gilwyn at his side, took the point across the Desert of Tears, heading west toward Jador. Ghost and the Jadori warriors rode several strides behind them, surrounding and protecting the Seekers, who took their turns on the wagon and mules, needing to stop frequently. Like most of the northerners who had come across the desert, their maladies varied. Curiously, Paxon himself had no discernable maladies. Rather, he seemed only possessed of an abiding curiosity about Grimhold—which he called Mount Believer. Lukien supposed he had become their leader out of sheer obstinance. Obviously healthy, he had done a good job of protecting them. That didn’t mean they were welcome in Jador, however, which was already bursting with refugees.
By late midday the sun was at its hottest. In another hour they would reach Jador. Lukien took his waterskin from his saddle and allowed himself a long, refreshing drink. When he was done he offered the skin to Gilwyn, who took it gratefully. As the boy drank Lukien watched him, and in the harsh desert light he realized he was no longer such a boy, but very much a man. Although seventeen, Gilwyn hardly seemed his age anymore. He had huge responsibilities now, like all of them, and a young woman he hoped to marry someday. That same young woman had given him regent powers over Jador, responsibility Gilwyn had taken to heart. White-Eye’s aversion to sunlight prevented her from leaving Grimhold’s dark caverns. Though she was Kahana of Jador now, she could not look upon the city her dead father had left her. But she had found a willing friend in Gilwyn, and the young man had helped her with all his usual earnestness. Jador and its thousand problems had become his own. He had worked hard the past year to rebuild the city, which had been wasted by the war with Liiria. The Jadori had lost countless men and kreels, and defending it from Aztar was a growing problem. Lukien saw lines in Gilwyn’s face that shouldn’t have been there.
“Thanks,” said the boy, handing back the waterskin. He had been quiet since their earlier battle, obviously troubled by what had happened. Only a year ago he had been a librarian’s apprentice in Liiria. He had been bookish and introverted, and his new role as Jador’s regent sat heavy on his shoulders.
“You did a fine job back there,” said Lukien. “I swear, you work that kreel like a Jadori.”
The compliment pleased Gilwyn. “It gets easier each day. Sometimes it’s like her thoughts are my own.” He reached down and patted Emerald’s sinewy neck. Her scales turned a happy blue. She was smaller than the other kreels, a runt of the litter Gilwyn had saved from the axe. Whether the creature knew Gilwyn had saved her and appreciated it, Lukien couldn’t say. The bond between kreel and rider was a mystery to him. “I thought we were dead for sure,” Gilwyn went on, “but Emerald kept me safe. She’s growing faster, too. Not just in how she talks to me, but in the way she moves.”
Lukien shook his head. “Talks to you. I’ll never get used to that.”
“You could do it too, if you wanted,” said Gilwyn.
“Thank you, no. A horse is good enough for me. And don’t be so humble. Not all the Jadori work the kreel as well as you do, Gilwyn. Not even those warriors.”
Gilwyn shrugged, but his face colored with pride.
They rode like this a few moments more, and the silence between them was easy. Lukien relaxed, but when he heard his name being called behind him he cringed.
“Sir Lukien?”
It was Paxon. On foot, he was coming up quickly to walk beside them. His earnest face looked up at Lukien, full of questions. Lukien turned and shot an angry glare at Ghost. The Inhuman merely shrugged.
“Sir Lukien, may I talk with you?” asked Paxon. Because their pace was so slow the man had no trouble keeping up with the riders.
“If you must.”
Paxon frowned. “You’re angry with us, I know. I’m sorry. None of us knew those men from Ganjor would attack us.”
“They’re not from Ganjor, not precisely. Like I said, they were Prince Aztar’s men. They’re people from his tribe.”
“But why’d they attack us?” asked Paxon. “To rob us?”
“To kill you,” said Lukien. “Oh, they would have robbed you just the same, but they want you dead. All Seekers. That’s what you’re called here. Anyone who comes across the Desert of Tears is Prince Aztar’s enemy.”
“I don’t understand,” said Paxon. “Why?”
“Because you’re not one of them,” said Gilwyn. “You’re outsiders. Like us.’/”
“But we do no harm. We’re only looking for a better life.”
“Yes, you and hundreds of others,” Lukien sighed. “Have you any idea how many people have come looking for Grimhold this past year? Aztar thinks this desert belongs to him. He’s proclaimed himself prince so that he can protect this desert, and he thinks you’re soiling it. That’s why his men attacked you, and that’s why he gives us no peace.”
Paxon looked suitably rebuked. “I am sorry. But these people have need of Mount Believer. You’ve seen them. That little girl, Melini—if she doesn’t get help she’ll be crippled always.” He smiled up at Lukien. “Surely you can understand that. We come here because we must. Liiria is no fit place for good people these days.”
More than anything Paxon had said, that last bit was wounding. Lukien thought at once of Thorin, and how upset his old friend would be at the news. Of all of them, Thorin had left the most behind in Liiria.
“So the wars go on?” asked Gilwyn.
Paxon nodded. “It gets worse every day.”
“And Koth?” asked Lukien. “What news from there?”
“We are from Koth,” said Paxon. “The city is still under constant attack. Last I heard there were soldiers in the library, trying to hold the city. I don’t know if it’s still standing.”
The black news sent Lukien over the edge. “And just what did you think you’d find here in the desert?” he snapped. “Freedom from war? Forget it.”
“We only want to be healed,” said Paxon. “I have a cancer that eats away at me every day. In a few more months I will be dead if the magicians of Mount Believer don’t save me.”
“I’m sorry for you, then,” said Lukien. He thought about his beloved Cassandra, and how a cancer had devoured her. “I know how a cancer can be.”
“So then you see why we had to come here, Sir Lukien.” Paxon tried to smile. “This place is our last hope.”
Neither Lukien nor Gilwyn had the heart to tell the man the truth. Instead Lukien said, “When we reach Jador you will meet with Minikin. She will answer all your questions.”
“Minikin? Who’s that?”
“You’ll see,” said Lukien. “Now, go back and be with the others. It’s not much further to the city.”
Paxon didn’t like his answer, but didn’t question Lukien
further. He fell back and rejoined his fellow Liirians. The rest of the way to Jador, Lukien barely said a word.
5
ELA-DAZ
As always, the message had come on the wings of a dove.
Minikin had never seen their benefactor, but she knew the girl was young. Salina was the fifth of Baralosus’ daughters. He was a minor king who had managed to father a dozen children, and it was said that Salina was his favorite. It intrigued Minikin that she had chosen to betray him. In Princess Salina, the Seekers had found an unexpected friend, yet the girl remained mostly a mystery to Minikin and her Jadori allies. The messages her doves brought to the tower were always succinct, never hinting at motives or reward. Minikin held the note in her tiny hand as she looked out over the city, spying the distant Desert of Tears. Across the burning ocean of sand, Ganjor and its young princess waited. In the folds of the desert, Prince Aztar’s illegitimate kingdom had sprung up. And lost between them were Gilwyn and Lukien and all the others. Minikin’s tiny lips twisted in worry. Her friends—and they were her friends now—had left many hours ago, not long after Salina’s note had arrived. Their absence shouldn’t have troubled Minikin, but it did. She reminded herself that the Desert of Tears was a giant place, and that Lukien would not return until he had located the Seekers. Next to her, the white dove Princess Salina had sent rested on its perch near the open window. It had eaten its fill of seed and slaked its thirst on water, and now waited for Minikin to pen a return note, ready to wing its way back to the Ganjeese princess. But the Mistress of Grimhold had not the heart to set the bird alight again.
She was very high up in Jador’s palace. Minikin remembered how many times she had been here in the past, when the lavish room had belonged to Kahan Kadar. The ruler of Jador had been her friend for decades, decades given them by magic, extending their lives well beyond normality. Now these rooms belonged to White-Eye. She was Kahana, but her malady of the eyes made it impossible for her to stay in sun-baked Jador, and so Gilwyn ruled in her stead. The room was littered with Gilwyn’s things, books mostly, which he had acquired from grateful Seekers. Minikin’s tiny shadow fell on a pile of Gilwyn’s clothes, which lay carelessly on the floor near the window. She smiled, reminded of what a boy he still was, despite his man-sized responsibilities.