by Dave Duncan
Herat fell back a couple of paces before the fury of the Chivian’s attack—but then he continued to retreat. His smile vanished. The swords rang like the Forge at Ironhall when all eight smiths were hammering at once. He was superb, incredible. Every parry was a hairsbreadth escape from death, every riposte a mad gamble. Durendal had never met a swordsman to match him, but Durendal had a friend to avenge and very little life to lose. First blood would decide the match, for the slightest nick must throw off a man’s timing and concentration just enough to leave him open to the next lunge. Lily, Eggbeater, Rainbow…He stayed with Ironhall style, parrying often with the dagger that was his only advantage. In provoking this contest, Herat had forgotten it would not be fought by the brethren’s rules. He had overlooked the possibility of the dagger. He began by countering Ironhall with Ironhall, but soon switched to other styles, trying everything he knew to slow Durendal’s murderous onslaught. Wrist, fingers, arm, feet—his control was perfection. He never repeated a stroke, and yet nothing he tried could overcome the dagger handicap. Parry, riposte, parry…He was retreating steadily. Perhaps his watching friends believed he was playing the same game he had played with Gartok, but this time he had no choice. Every move he made was parried by the dagger, leaving him open to Harvest’s deadly tongue licking toward knees or groin or eyes.
They were almost to the gate already. Butterfly, Cockroach…Ah!
Harvest bit into Herat’s shoulder. He cried out, and then a bloody gash opened on his ribs. Durendal had the upper hand now. He persisted, trying for a kill and still managing only flesh wounds. Face, neck, chest—he was shredding Herat as Herat had shredded Gartok; but it was not play, for every stroke was attempted murder. How could a man suffer so and still keep up that superb defense?
Then Herat backed into the wall. He recoiled with a desperate thrust, which was parried by the dagger. Harvest opened his throat, his sword clanged on the flagstones, he sprawled after it in oceans of blood. But the brethren had ways of healing, and his death must be certain. Durendal chopped off his head, taking three blows to do it.
Gasping for air, he glanced around. The men at the door had at last begun to run forward. He sprinted for the gate, only a few yards away, wondering vaguely why the swordsmen leaning on the wall were cheering.
The gate was locked—more treachery.
“Here!” yelled a voice and muscular arms stretched down to him.
He grabbed a wrist with his left hand and raised his sword arm so another man could take it. They hauled him up bodily, face to the stones. Then more hands seized his shirt, his belt, and he went flopping over the wall.
He said, “Thanks!” and was on his feet, sheathing his sword as he ran.
One shout would do it: Ten gold bars for that man!
If it came, he did not hear it. He dived into an alley and kept on running.
12
As he pounded along the alleyways of Samarinda, dodging the first early-morning pedestrians, he was convinced that he would find the brethren already in possession of the city gate. They would have sent men to close the exit; that must be why they had not made more determined efforts to stop him. To his astonishment, no one challenged. Puffing hard in the already hot morning, he trotted out under the arch to the cramped shanty market and smelly paddocks beyond. Even when he rode away over the bare hills, he would still not be safe, of course. If the monks chose to follow on racing camels, they would ride him down in no time. The bare hills hid dangers of their own, but just to be outside the accursed walls was a huge relief.
The traders and farmers had not yet spread their awnings, and Durendal needed a few moments to locate the paddock where he and Kromman and Wolfbiter had boarded their five shaggy ponies. He identified it eventually by its owner, a bloated man with a villainous pock-marked face. His name was Ushan, and Kromman had vouched for his honesty—his relative honesty. He had been there near dusk yesterday, and he was there now. Dung stains on his clothes suggested that he slept there, which would be the only way to keep his charges from being removed by others who seemed less villainous. The next question was whether the five ponies wearing red cords around their necks were still the same healthy specimens they had been when they arrived, or whether they had aged ten years in the night. Their owners had scratched signs on each front right hoof, also, but Durendal had no time to waste arguing about such details.
He fumbled in his pocket and produced his receipt for three of them. Ushan peered oddly at this sweaty, blood-spattered, out-of-breath stranger, but without a word he swayed off into the herd and returned leading two ponies. They certainly looked familiar. Others came drifting along behind, as horses would.
“Two will do for now,” Durendal said. “My friends may be along later for theirs, and I do not need my third one today. I will only require one saddle. I expect to be back before evening and will pay you then for another night.” He must try not to arouse any more suspicion.
Again Ushan looked at him oddly. He did not say anything until Durendal was mounted, with the second pony tethered behind.
Then he spat in the dust. “For three obits, I will tell you which way your friend went.”
Durendal reached in his pocket and found a gold dizork. He held it up. “Tell me everything.”
The obese man shrugged. “He had been running, like you. He bought another horse, although like you he had no baggage. He went that way.” He pointed west. “Fast. But he cannot have gone far yet.”
Durendal threw him the coin, which he bit before making it vanish in the dirty folds of his gown. “You have just inherited two more horses, friend. And the saddles. In return, have I your silence?”
Ushan’s nod of agreement was worthless, of course.
Durendal mounted and rode off to the west. He felt suddenly very happy—not because he had escaped from the city with his life, which he did not value especially highly at the moment, but because he bore an obligation for vengeance and now he knew where his quarry was. He had expected to have to wait at Koburtin until Kromman arrived. Now he could hope to catch him before being himself caught by the pursuing monks.
Three men had killed Wolfbiter and he was one of them. He had pushed his luck too far, not realizing that his luck might not shelter others. Perhaps every man learned from experience the limits of his own luck. Wolfbiter had known his and had repeatedly begged his ward to leave the monastery. Durendal had refused until it was too late. He had cut it absurdly fine, surviving only because his luck had held. So he was one of the three murderers. The only recompense he could make was to punish the others; Herat had already paid. That left one more to die.
Kromman would not expect to be followed, so he would not be taking precautions. He might well be invincible when he did, for he had resources he had refused to reveal. In a crowded city, or even a forest, he would vanish without difficulty, but here on the rolling wastes of Altain his inquisitor tricks might fail him. He could not have much of a head start.
After about half an hour, Durendal saw him in the far distance, leading his spare mount. For almost another half hour, the inquisitor rode blithely on, unaware that death was creeping ever closer at his back. When he did look behind him, Durendal was close enough to detect the move; thus he was not taken unaware when Kromman’s spare horse stopped to graze and Kromman himself disappeared, mount and all.
Durendal changed horses then, so he could make a spurt in the direction he had last seen his quarry, and he abandoned his spare. Rumors of invisibility cloaks had begun to circulate about the time he’d left Ironhall, but little was known about them. He must hope that they could not mask both a man and a horse, or at least not completely. Again his luck held. Soon he detected a faint blur ahead somewhat to the right of his line of travel. He angled that way. At times he seemed to be racing alone over the dry hills. At others he could see a shadow or a riderless animal. Often he could detect dust. Another hour went by in relentless pursuit. He was parched and exhausted and his horse was in worse shape, but Kromm
an’s was flagging badly. Every time he changed course, Durendal could cut a corner.
At last, as he was descending into a small hollow, he saw the inquisitor appear ahead of him, discarding his invisibility and slowing to a walk. When he reached the bottom, he reined in and dismounted to examine his horse’s hooves, bending over each and taking his time. Durendal made sure that Harvest was loose in her sheath, not gummed there by Herat’s dried blood. When he drew close enough for the sounds of his pony’s shoes on the stones to be audible, the inquisitor looked up with sudden alarm.
“Sir Durendal! You startled me.” If fish could smile…“I had given you up for lost. Wonderful! What has happened to your Blade?”
At thirty feet away, Durendal slid down to the ground and looped his reins around a dead thorn bush, which would suffice as a tether if his horse believed in it strongly enough. He walked closer to Kromman, keeping his right side to his opponent, wondering what tricks were to come.
“Exactly what you wanted to happen to him.”
“I don’t think I quite follow.” Kromman was caked with dust. He rubbed his forehead with his arm.
Twenty feet.
“You shut the trapdoor. You locked the gate.”
“Oh no! I certainly did not! That was not our agreement. If you found the trapdoor shut, the monkeys must have closed it. I expect they went and checked the gate after that. Flames! but that sun is bad, isn’t it?”
“You killed Wolfbiter and you are a dead man.”
Either fear or anger glinted in the fishy eyes. “That is not true! I don’t know what’s come over you, Sir Durendal. I shall certainly include this episode in my report.”
“You will not be making a report. Now throw your sword over there—still in its scabbard. And your knife, too.”
“I shall do no such thing!”
Ten feet.
Again the inquisitor raised an arm to his face. How could there be sweat on him in this virulent dry heat? The dust would soak it up if there were. Durendal started to turn his head away, but only a fraction of a second before a flash brighter than the sun seared his eyes. The two horses screamed in terror; a tumult of hoofbeats shook the world.
Blind and half mad with pain, Durendal whipped out Harvest. He could see nothing, but he knew Kromman’s fighting style and his distance. He had three paces to come. One, two, three—parry! The blades clanged. If Kromman had used his customary lunge to the heart, his sword was right there, so parry! again and then riposte! He swung Harvest around like a scythe and felt her strike flesh. Kromman’s shriek was accompanied by what sounded like a sword falling on the rocky ground, but he was capable of any deception. Making Harvest dance random patterns in front of him, Durendal backed away. He heard no footsteps following, and a moment later he detected a groan of pain some way off. He paused then.
Lurid green fires swayed before him; tears streamed down his cheeks. That last-minute aversion of his head had saved his sight from worse damage, for a vague grayness to his left marked reality returning. Slowly the green mists cleared until he could make out blurred shapes of thorns and rocks, and eventually he located Kromman, curled up on the gravelly ground with his sword behind him.
Durendal approached quietly, cautiously. If that black puddle was blood—for some reason he was not seeing colors—then he had seriously injured his opponent or even killed him. He hooked Kromman’s sword away with Harvest, then picked it up and tossed it safely out of reach.
“Tell me why.”
The inquisitor whimpered.
“Why did you leave Wolfbiter and me there to die when the hue and cry started? You followed us in. You probably saw everything we saw and more, but you had an invisibility cloak. And when you left, you deliberately locked us in to die.”
Slowly Kromman turned his head. Durendal’s sight had cleared enough now for him to see that he had opened the inquisitor’s belly from side to side. He was lying there holding his guts in place with both hands, and no doubt suffering excruciatingly. Oh, what a shame!
“No.”
Durendal’s knuckles ached around the hilt of his sword as he fought to restrain his hatred. “Flames, man! You are about to die. Do you want to die with lies on your lips? You wounded the monkey—I heard it cry out, and the blood on the floor was still wet. You left footprints. You turn your toes in, you scum. Tell me why.”
The inquisitor’s face blanched under its tan and dust. “I’m sorry! Yes, I was, I mean I must have been, just ahead, or at least not far ahead of you. I panicked. That’s all. I’m not a trained fighter like you, remember. I lost my head. I’m just a glorified clerk who wasn’t cut out for—”
“You’re a glorified slug. But that isn’t the worst of it. The worst of it is that you lied about the invisibility cloak. Even if you only have one of them, there was no need for three of us to risk our lives. So what’s your explanation of that, Master Kromman?”
“I’m hurt! I—I need help!”
“Well, you’re not going to get it. For the murder of Sir Wolfbiter, I condemn you to death. Die, but take your time. Take all the time you want. And give my regards to your brothers the vultures.”
Durendal sheathed his sword and walked away.
13
Three men had murdered Wolfbiter and all three must die for it. That seemed very probable and very just as he trudged back up the endless dirt slope with the sun only a foot or two above his head—or feeling like that. His eyes ached and watered so hard that he could still barely see, and the tears were all he had to drink. Kromman must have known his fancy trick with the light would spook the horses, so either he had been desperate enough to take the gamble or he had arranged some way of calling his own back to him. Perhaps that was what he had been doing when he worked on its hooves. Durendal would have to survive on his own two feet. If he lasted long enough in the heat to make his way back to the city, assuming he could find it, then he would very likely be caught by the Brethren, and that would mean Durendal for breakfast with an apple in his mouth.
He made his way to the highest elevation he could find and paused there, rubbing his eyes. He assumed they would heal in time, if he had time, but at the moment a fog of tears hid Samarinda, although he knew it must be to the east. He could tell south from his shadow. There was no sign of his horses or Kromman’s, and if there were he would never be able to catch one. He would run himself to exhaustion in the attempt.
Someone was coming. At first he could not make out who or what, but probably more than one and so obviously heading in his direction that he must have been seen already. He set off across the vast landscape to meet them. It might be the Brethren intent on vengeance, and in that case he had no chance of escape. It might be Everman, having had a change of heart. It could never be Wolfbiter. No matter how marvelous the monks’ healing conjurements were, they could not have repaired that much damage.
Eventually he came to an outcrop of dusky rock that, while it offered no shade, would at least be a place to sit down, so he sat down. By then he knew that the others were two camels, with only one rider.
They came up the long slope under the enormous sky until the rider was close enough to identify as Everman. He had removed his cap to show his auburn hair. He made his camels crouch on the dusty grass. Dismounting stiffly, he walked over to Durendal, handed him a water bottle, and chose a suitable rock to sit on.
Durendal drank greedily, then the two men stared at each other for a long moment.
“Repentance? Coming home?”
Everman shook his head. “I would die at dawn. I really don’t want to, anyway, but I couldn’t if I did. I wasn’t lying to you.”
“You lied about your ward.” So Kromman had said—but had Kromman been telling the truth?
Apparently he had, because Everman shrugged. “Only when I said he died of sickness. He was killed in a skirmish just this side of Koburtin. I failed my ward.” He looked up defiantly.
“That’s why you challenged? To die?”
“I
suppose so. Before you judge my new brotherhood, brother, consider the ethics of the old.” Dust had collected in the fine lines on his forehead. His hair had lost its sheen and was thinning at the front; thickening neck and jaw…. He saw that Durendal had noticed. “Not quite the man I was, am I?” He smiled sadly, making grooves from nose to mouth. He had not had those yesterday.
“That fast?”
Nod. “A lifetime every day. By sunset I’ll be middle-aged. By midnight I’m old.” He smiled ruefully. “From then until dawn it gets really bad.”
“So you lied about staying of your own free will? They trapped you!”
Everman leaned his arms on his knees. He toyed with his cap, then glanced warily at Durendal. “How much did you see?”
“More than enough—animals, scavengers. Starving rats.”
“You don’t know what it’s like. Not trapped…Well, partly, I suppose. They do have wonderful healings, and they kept me alive in spite of all the blood I had lost, and Herat alive, also. The next morning, the monkeys brought me a mouthful of meat. I didn’t know what it was, but it worked like fire. I screamed for more, and they brought more. The next day I knew what it was, but I couldn’t do without it.”
“It has to be eaten right after the conjuration, I presume?”
“Within minutes. It won’t keep.” Everman went back to tormenting his headgear. “Rejuvenation! You can’t imagine what it’s like.”
“You pay for it. You just told me you’ll be old by midnight.”
“That isn’t as bad as the real thing, though. It can’t be! To have to go through that—wind going first, then speed, strength…senses waning, pains, decay…to go through all that knowing that it’s permanent, that it’s forever, that there isn’t going to be any remission…. No, that must be much, much worse. Life must be one long torture. You have that to look forward to.” He shrugged again. “No one survives it. Except us. We start afresh every morning.”