Sword of Jashan (Book 2)

by Anne Marie Lutz

  “S’pose there’s no doubt the old man will be asleep in his tent?” asked Rhin.

  “He has many years, but he is not an old man,” Callo said. “He is vigorous and shrewd. And if you do not think of him as such, you have defeated us already. I really have no desire to go back to that little locked room in Sugetre Castle, or even worse to lose my head tonight.”

  “Gods hear him,” Kel said.

  Hira Noh’s expression reflected a fierce enjoyment. “Kel, your group will circle around to the west. Go far around; I do not want you alerting them until we are all in position. Rhin, you are with me.”

  “Lookin’ forward to it,” Rhin said. He pulled his black beard free of his leather armor where it kept becoming trapped.

  “Do you remember the mark when to attack?” Hira Noh said.

  Kel stretched his neck to stare at the heavens. Massive clouds almost obliterated any sense of where the moon might be. Lightning struck in the western sky, and Callo grinned. It was a night for great doings. Jashan waited for him to do what he had sworn. And he was ready to use any power at his command to do that.

  Kel looked around at them. “Might be hard to tell where the moon is,” he said. “I’ll do my best.”

  “Let us go, then,” Callo said. He put his knees to Miri’s side and she moved off into the night.

  Darkness enfolded him so fast that Callo wondered if Hira Noh’s men could get to their positions without incident. Callo reached inside himself for the magery that was now part of him, inextricable from the rest of what made him who he was, and lit a small red glow of energy around his hands. It lit the area a few feet around him, and not much more; but at least he would not run into any trees or end up tangled in the bushes. That would indeed be an ignominious end to his plans.

  He rode toward the north and then the west, in the direction Hira Noh had indicated. The fitful wind pulled at his cloak. He felt on edge. He almost thought he sensed Arias riding near him, a memory that was almost palpable. He remembered his half-brother’s laugh, and for a moment his eyes burned as if the loss was new. Tonight he would avenge Arias’ unjust death.

  When Miri’s ears flicked forward and she tossed her head, Callo stopped. With every sense alert, he could detect the dim glow of a shielded lamp and the muted sound of boots shifting among dead leaves. The sentries were farther out from the camp than they had predicted. Miri’s hooves set down in near silence as he backed her away.

  Far enough away to avoid detection, he dismounted. Callo looped Miri’s reins around a tree branch and then wound protective cloth around his still-tender hands, so he could use his sword without tearing the new skin. If all went well, he would not have to fight, but he knew better than to go in unprepared.

  He walked through the underbrush. When close enough to see the lamp again, he squatted down in the detritus of the autumn woods and waited. The sounds of the gusty wind in the branches would cover any small sounds he made; the sentry would not notice him. With nothing to distract him, Callo was reminded of the dark room at Deephold where he had battled to overcome the mage energy. He closed his eyes and remembered the feel of the cot tilting under him, the blazing wash of energy in the room. He wondered if he would still be alive in another candlemark.

  A cry went up from the other end of the camp.

  Callo crept toward the sentry. The man was straight and alert, hand on his sword hilt, looking outward. Callo knew from experience that the man would be having trouble concentrating on what was before him; he would be listening for whatever was going on at the other end of the camp.

  Metal clashed in the distance. There were shouts. Someone slammed sword hilt against shield, loud enough to warn the camp. A central fire leaped upward, fed to light the place better for defense.

  Thunder crashed. Spits of rain lashed the woods, a brief downpour that vanished almost immediately.

  Another King’s man ran up to the sentry. He drew his sword and stood peering out into the wet darkness. His hair stuck to his face, and his coat was dark with rain. “Some kind of incursion on the west side. I’m here with you until it is settled.”

  “I’ve seen nothing,” the first man reported.

  A horse neighed from the southern side of camp. Hira Noh and her group rode in, weapons raised. Callo thought she looked like an angry goddess with the red-gold firelight reflecting from her sword. The first King’s man to attempt to stay them fell back with blood spurting from his arm. The man dropped his sword and Hira Noh rode over him.

  Callo heard hoofbeats from the western side of the camp. That would be Kel and his men riding in.

  “Ware more in the west!” yelled the sentry. He shoved his relief away. “Go! They need help. I’m fine here, as you can see.”

  His relief dashed off. Callo, still crouched in the woods, grinned. The psychic magery could overcome two as easily as one, but it was nice to see that even the highly trained King’s guard made mistakes. Callo closed his eyes for a moment, identifying the emotion he wished to inflict on the guard, and settled on the emotional torpidity he had used before. Sluggish, numb sleep. He pushed that out at the man and a few moments later the man dropped to his knees, apparently too sleepy to stand upright.

  Callo stood up and walked by the man, who seemed to be struggling just to keep his eyelids open. The sentry gave no alarm at his presence.

  He dropped to a crouch again as he passed the outlying shelters the men had been using. In the center of the camp was a large tent, the King’s banner hanging limp and sodden in front of it. The big tent was guarded on all sides. The guardsmen were grim and alert, arms ready to hand. Callo peered around the side of another tent.

  The flap of the big tent swung open and King Martan appeared. He wore a valus-trimmed robe over his nightwear. His hair was in disarray from sleep.

  “What in Jashan’s name is going on?” he demanded. “Who raids us?”

  “I do not know, Sire,” a guard said. “They are coming in from the south and west, mounted and a few on foot. They seem well armed.”

  “Go and help!” ordered Sharpeyes.

  “Your Majesty, we are sworn to stay here and guard your person,” one man said.

  “I am a color mage. I can protect myself better than you can,” Sharpeyes said. “Go!”

  “Sire!”

  The King’s eyes narrowed. “It is refugees from Ha’las, I think, or maybe rebel scum. Certainly no righ would dare this stupidity. It should take no more than a half-candlemark to find and dispatch all of them. Go, I say. I am safe here from all but another mage.”

  “We have seen no indication of magery,” said the guard. He bowed, and jerked his head towards the fight that was still going on at the edge of the camp. “Come! Mar and Hannu, you stay and guard the King. A single shout and we will be back with you, Sire. You others—to me!”

  Callo waited only until they had vanished into the melee towards the west until he let the ku’an magery spin over the King’s tent. The remaining guards slumped. Hannu dropped his sword and left it lying on the ground. The other man listed to one side as if he would drop any moment. Callo stood up and walked into the King’s tent as if he had been invited in.

  Sharpeyes sat on his bed, swaying. The valus-trimmed robe had been cast to one side, so the King wore only his linen tunic over his breeches. Gray chest hair bristled in the dip of his tunic. He did indeed look a little like an old man like this, under the influence of the ku’an magery, in his nightwear. Callo thrust that thought away and did not let himself be fooled for a second.

  Callo exulted. He felt the color magery swirl its way through him and reach his fingertips. It was ready to be released, to accomplish what he’d sworn to do, to blast this autocratic and evil man where he sat. To avenge Arias, at last.

  The King swayed, stupid from sleep. All his power was useless now, as the ku’an magery left him helpless as a babe. It would be easy to slay him.

  Still, Callo stood staring at the bespelled man on the bed and did not move.
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  Shouts came from the edge of camp. A horse neighed. Callo started, remembering what the Sword of Jashan risked so he could enter this tent on this night, while the King was out of his fortress and making his way to the Collaring ceremony.

  Still, this sat ill with Callo. When they had planned this, he had not stopped to think what it would be like here tonight. It felt shameful to slay a man under the influence of the psychic magery, so that he swayed half-asleep while his death approached him.

  This was what a Ha’lasi ku’an would do. What had Callo become, that he could do this thing in this way?

  But outside, the Sword of Jashan fought so he could get this chance.

  It was silent in the tent, as if the very air awaited his decision.

  “Hurry!” someone shouted from the west. Was this warning intended for Callo? Were the rebels retreating now, under pressure from the well-armed and trained King’s guard? A scream rang out; someone had been wounded, badly from the sound of things. Thunder rolled in the distance, underscoring the sounds of battle.

  Callo steeled himself. This was the man who had sold his own sister’s body for his plan to create an heir—who had manipulated Callo since before his birth—and who had Collared and slain Arias. Callo would complete this task and make the Sword of Jashan’s effort worthwhile. He would kill the King as he had sworn.

  He thrust back thirty years of suppressing the ku’an magery, and all his scruples. It took all the strength he had, but he pulled the energy up from some deep reserve and prepared to blast the King where he sat.

  A crack of thunder split the air seemingly right above the camp. Sharpeyes frowned and stirred, as Callo felt his fledgling control of his magery falter. Outside, he heard movement from the guards he was trying to keep somnolent. He had held it too long.

  There was a clamor of noise from outside the tent as fighters clashed. A woman screamed, and for a moment Callo thought it was Kirian, followed into battle without his knowledge. His heart skipped a beat, and Callo lost his control. The ku’an influence stuttered. Callo leaped back as King Martan Alghasi Monteni woke from his stupor, rolled off the bed and seized his sword.

  Callo cursed his own failure as he summoned the color magery once again.

  “Hai! Guard!” the King shouted.

  “Your guard will not come,” Callo bit off. “You are on your own. I am here as your fate, to pay you what you earned for the death of my half-brother, Arias Alkiran.” He summoned the color magery again, felt it build.

  “Hah, revenge!” The King’s grin was fierce. He spun his sword. Callo did not let his eyes be drawn to it; he knew that was what Sharpeyes intended. “So this is your vaunted revenge, drawing off my people to leave me alone against your threat?”

  “You are far from helpless,” Callo said.

  As if to confirm that, Sharpeyes struck.

  The sword came down like a weight. Callo spun out of the way and drew his own sword. He stood holding it like a talisman while he summoned the color magery and hoped it would be enough. He attacked. Blades of light arced from his hands at the King. They cast a jagged array of color across the inside walls of the King’s tent. If they struck, Callo was sure the King would die.

  Sharpeyes backed off. He stood surrounded by a protective globe of translucent color such as Yhallin had created when they fled Deephold. Callo’s attack struck the sphere and scattered along its smooth surface. The sphere grew brighter, as if it had absorbed Callo’s mage energy.

  Sharpeyes laughed.

  “Do you think you can come here and defeat me with the color magery you have barely learned to use? I am a master, nephew. You will be a master, too. Oron will teach you what you need to know, so you can be strong when you are King after me.”

  “I have no desire to be a master. Or to be King.” Callo struck out again. The mage energy dissipated uselessly into the King’s mage wall. Outside, he heard the clash of weapons.

  “Callo!” someone shouted from outside. It sounded like Rhin, out of breath from running. “Hurry! They are awakening.”

  “I think I can convince you,” Sharpeyes said. “You are all I wanted you to be, all those years ago when I commanded your mother to be with Si’lan. You knew it was Si’lan, did you not? Did you notice the resemblance? You even seem to have his inconvenient sense of fairness.”

  Since his color magery appeared to be ineffective, Callo lifted his sword and struck at the mage barrier. The red mage energy screamed as the steel split its surface. For a moment, Callo thought he would succeed; he drove harder, fighting the heat and the resistance.

  Then the sword hilt heated in his hands. He dropped it, hands burning through the wrappings, in the same places they had been burned just sennights ago. The sword glowed as if it had just come from the bladesmith’s forge.

  “A King pays no attention to fairness,” Sharpeyes said, standing there in his nightgear surrounded by the fire of magery. “It only weakens him.”

  Outside, weapons rang together. Rhin’s voice rose, swearing. Callo had not been able to maintain the psychic magery, and he knew the guards had awakened from their stupor. Even now, Rhin fought the remaining guards outside the King’s tent.

  “To me!” one of the King’s guards yelled.

  Others shouted back from the camp’s perimeter. Callo stepped backwards. If reinforcements were coming, it was time to go. He dared not risk Rhin’s death while he fought a battle doomed to failure; he must recoup, and come back stronger to fulfill his vow. He grabbed his sword with cloth-padded hands and ducked backwards out of the King’s tent, cursing his own delay. A King had no room for fairness; well, neither did he. He should have slain the King where he sat, as soon as he entered the tent. His own hesitation had defeated him. He would never make that mistake again.

  Rhin was in trouble. The King’s guard had knocked his sword away. Two more armed men ran towards the King’s tent. Callo threw a wall of color magery at all of them, flinging the men backwards. He grabbed Rhin’s arm and shoved him back towards his horse.

  “Go, now!” he said.

  “I’m ta stay with ya!” Rhin argued.

  One of the guardsmen rolled on the ground, coming up to slam into Rhin’s knees. Callo hauled him away and flung up a mage barrier, trying to mimic the one that had just defeated him. The barrier wavered, but held. The guardsmen cursed, struggling against the shield. They ran for the woods, Rhin pulling his horse by its lead rein. Callo struck the perimeter guard away as he challenged them. He knew the mage barrier would not last; he could feel the strength leaving him even as they went. It was too much magery in too short a time, and he shook with reaction.

  They made it back to Miri, and Callo scrambled astride. Fast and careless of noise at this point, they rode back along their path with a glow of magery to light the way a few feet ahead. They heard sounds of pursuit behind them. With stress clamoring at his nerves, Callo led the way on a tangent away from their actual destination, to lead any followers astray.

  The thunder was closer now. Light danced along the top of a nearby tree, phosphorescent as Jashan touched it, and lightning flew down. A crash split the air. Miri shrieked, and Rhin’s horse put its head down and refused to go on.

  “Go on now, good one,” Callo said to Miri. “Rhin! Hand me your rein! I will lead you.”

  He clutched the lead Rhin threw him, and urged the trembling Miri through the storm. There was almost no rain now; just a spit now and then so sharp and cold it almost hurt. Mostly the storm was wind and Jashan’s lightning, like color magery tracing the sky. Perhaps Jashan was angry that Callo had wasted the chance he had been given.

  Miri snorted and blew as she ran. Callo’s hands shook from reaction, from his extravagant use of magery this night. He gritted his teeth and hung on, leading them where they should go. He began to see the outlines of tree trunks, barely distinct from the sky, and knew dawn was not far off. They must get to their meeting place in the foothills, and hope the others of Sword of Jashan made it safely out o
f the melee.

  After a while, the sounds of the alarmed camp died behind them. Callo knew that did not mean there was no pursuit. They deviated from their path and began to use more stealth. They walked the horses across a farmer’s half-harvested field, led them across a stream, and angled up into the foothills on a different line than they had been following. Callo hoped they had led any pursuit away from their meeting place.

  All the way, Callo forced his mind away from the mistake he had made in the King’s tent. Guilt lay heavy on him. The ku’an magery belonged to Som’ur, brutal god of the Ha’lasi; it was Callo’s brief hesitation to use it that had defeated his purpose. When the King was dead, that was the time to put the ku’an magery away where he would not touch it again. Until then he must remember it was a tool, like any other.

  The sky began to take on a rose glow as the sun topped the hills and the tree line. People would be stirring in the few farmsteads in this lonely territory, waking to all their autumn tasks. If they were fortunate, the King’s men had followed their original path and were far away by now; or perhaps they had sent for aid from Lord Huy, and in that case would have lost their trail for good.

  Rhin stopped his horse and pointed. Three stones topped a fallen branch in a manner that could have been, but was not, coincidental. Callo nodded. It was the sign they had agreed on. The meeting place was not far off.

  In fact they would have ridden right through the meeting place if Lotna had not stood up practically under their horses’ noses as they passed a screen of red-leafed bushes.

  Miri shied and then settled.

  Lotna said, “Come this way.” She did not smile. She led them along a trail covered with fallen leaves, slippery from rain. Callo and Rhin were forced to dismount as they began climbing a narrow trail up a steeper hill. Lotna walked before them but did not speak.