Legends: Stories in Honor of David Gemmell

by Various Authors

  The others withdrew, slowly. Lapscar knew his hold wouldn’t last much longer, and every effort drained him. But he would hold them, till the end.

  The healer remained, a rock abandoned by the withdrawing tide. She was slight, as far as he could tell. Her hood framed a narrow, pale face. She stood quietly, hands folded, water dripping from her cloak.

  “So,” Lapscar said. “They told you? If you know your job you know that no crushing of herbs, no spell, no whining chant will change my fate one whit. There’s nothing you can offer, healer, except some brief entertainment while I wait for night to take me.”

  “Perhaps there is something more I can offer, if you are willing to give what is needed.” Her voice was low, a little rough around the edges.

  “Hah, a price. I thought so.”

  “A high one.”

  “I suspected.”

  “Not gold.”

  “What then? Power? You think to rule here?” He choked on a laugh that turned to a gasping moan as the chill drowned him.

  He opened his eyes to find her beside him, and tried to get his numbing hand to his dagger. She crossed the room, while you gave in to it. A fine fate for the Wolf of Gaen, slaughtered by a wisp of a woman in the heart of his own keep.

  “I’m here to help, not harm,” she said, completely unmoved by his snarl. “And how far do you think I’d get, if I cut your throat?”

  “Depends who thought they might benefit,” Lascar said, with the remnants of a grin.

  “I know. Will you let me help you?”

  “You can’t.”

  “The Wolf of Gaen giving in to despair?”

  “No. Reality. Besides, you never named a price. I’m a cautious fellow, I might lose everything on such a gamble.”

  “One way or another, yes. What is your life worth, my Lord?”

  “Now we come to it. What do you ask?”

  “Merely that you answer the question. That is part of the price.”

  Her eyes were a cool grey, the left pulled up at the corner by a small scar.

  “Think before you answer, my Lord.”

  He held her gaze. The veils shuffled, clustering around his mind. “My name makes the earth tremble over a thousand miles of territory. I have cut my way here through rock and fire. I will hold it to the end.”

  “You have not answered the question.”

  “I…” The chills took him again, leaving him writhing helplessly, cold hissing in his veins. He arced his back, biting down so those outside would not hear him cry out.

  Only when he felt her hand on his brow, burning like the sun, did a brief moan escape. With a shudder his muscles relaxed.

  If anyone heard me whimper like a beaten pup, you are dead, healer. He shook off her hand.

  “No one heard,” she said. “And soon, you will cry out less. You will fight less. The cold will seem welcoming, even pleasant. The veils will wrap you like silk, and then they will lock like stone.”

  “You’ve seen this before.”

  “Yes. To live, you will have to fight as even you have never fought before, bleed as you have never bled.”

  Lapscar growled. “What do you know of fighting and bleeding, healer?”

  “All any healer needs to know,” the slightest of smiles quirked at the corner of her mouth, “and perhaps a little more than most. You have not answered my question.”

  “Ask me another.”

  “Very well. Who here do you trust?”

  He snorted. “These are my people, bone and blood. I own them.”

  “But who do you trust?”

  “To do what?”

  “What purpose does evasion serve? Which of these your people, whom you own, bone and blood, would come to your aid for any reason other than fear? Which of them would stand by you if all your power was gone? Which would venture death for you, without your order?” She sounded almost angry. She, angry at him. Fury and amusement fought briefly, warming his blood.

  “Sharp, aren’t you? And you’re right. Not a one,” he said. “I hold what I hold by strength, and fear. It’s always been enough.”

  “And that is why they chose you.”

  “My people didn’t choose me, I took them.”

  “That isn’t who I meant, my Lord.”

  He clenched his teeth on another chill. “The soul-stealers? What do you mean, they chose me? It was the luck of battle, and I was leading. That is what a chieftain does.”

  “I am aware of that, my Lord.” Her tone was dry. “Soul-stealers recruit the strong. The hard, the tough, the fearless. Those who have built walls around their hearts.”

  Lapscar pressed a hand to his wound. His tunic moved unpleasantly beneath his palm. “I feel no wall. Just a damn great hole.”

  “My Lord is pleased to jest.”

  “What else am I to do? If you are only here to bandy words, healer, get gone.”

  “Words can be powerful, my Lord.”

  He opened his mouth to reply and again the dreadful whispering began, and he found himself speaking unknown words, crawling syllables skittering over his tongue. Greyness enveloped him. In it, things beckoned.

  The cold will seem pleasant..

  Damned if you’ll take me that easy!

  But there was a sensuous edge to the chill. A tempting emptiness.

  “No!”

  He was not sure if it was his voice, or another’s. He felt dim warmth, grasped at it.

  Not emptiness, not yet.

  Already, returning to the world hurt, as though the shadows were weaving into his flesh, pulling away only with ripping reluctance. He opened his eyes, groaning. The torchlight seemed too bright.

  The healer gripped one of his great clawed hands in both her own. Even through his pain her strength surprised him. Her hands were hard as a soldier’s. “Stay with me, my Lord. I know it hurts, but you can fight.”

  “Done that all my life.”

  “I know. Believe me, I do.”

  Something fell on the back of his hand.

  Lapscar looked at it. A drop of water, glimmering. “You weep for me?” He felt that he should be angry, but the anger would not come. Who weeps for the Wolf of Gaen?

  He heard her draw breath, steadying her voice. “You will not weep for yourself, Lord.”

  “No.” He drew his hand away, and rubbed the drop from his skin. Had it left a trace of warmth, or did he imagine it? “Nor will any other.”

  She looked towards the empty fireplace, rubbing her hands together. Perhaps touching him had chilled her. “Not one?”

  “Well, Brug, maybe – for as long as he remembers my existence, which won’t be long.”

  “Why him?”

  “Loyal as a dog.”

  “And how did my Lord earn this loyalty?”

  “What does it matter? The rest will squabble like crows over carrion.”

  “Is this what you built your demesne for?”

  “You think I meant to get a soul-blade in my innards and see it all fall into the hands of fools?”

  “Then why?”

  “To get land, to hold it, to be strong – this is what it means to be a war-leader. And the strongest will follow me. Sooner than I’d hoped, yes. Perhaps I’ll come back, and see how they’re getting on without me.” He tried to laugh. “They fear me now. How much more, when I am a wraith?”

  “It pleases you to cause fear?”

  He shrugged. “It works. You should fear me, little healer.”

  “Now, or later?” That wry note in her voice.

  He laughed. “Both. What are you doing here? Did one of my enemies send you, to gloat?”

  “No. Tell me about Brug.”

  “Why?”

  She turned towards him, but the dim light and the hood made a mystery of her face. “That is the price.”

  He glared. “Words are worth nothing.”

  “Really? Words like; ‘Disobey me again and you’ll be hanging on the gatehouse with your guts around your ankles!’?”

  He
blinked. He’d used those words on many a raw youngster – and that voice! Low, deadly and completely convincing. If he’d been a raw youngster he’d have been damned near soiling himself with fear. Where had she found that voice?

  “Or,” she said, “words like ‘The Wolf of Gaen?’ Are they worth nothing? They were hard enough earned.”

  That was true, at least.

  Tendrils of cold, growing through his flesh.

  “And what do you gain if I tell you, healer? You can’t live on words.”

  “On them? No. But by them, perhaps. Tell me about Brug.”

  “You dicker like a merchant.”

  She did not answer, pulling her cloak tighter.

  “If you are cold, light the fire.”

  Eventually the logs caught. The healer held her hands to the heat. Lapscar thought he saw something like pain, but when she turned back her face was calm as still water.

  The firelight could not reach the corners, where the whispering chill rose, thickening. Creeping out, towards him, over him.

  “Tell me about Brug.” Her hand on his, a small warmth.

  “The others were pulling him about, spattering him with filth…” The picture in his mind was small and dull at first, gradually brightening. “I saw the size of him, thought, he can’t even… even fight. Angered me, with his strength, he couldn’t even defend himself. Knew he’d make a good bodyguard. Don’t need wits for that.”

  “Tell the truth, my Lord.”

  “I am,” he said, feeling the chill slide into his veins, muscles, bones. They would all dissolve. This heavy body would be nothing. His memories would be gone. He would know no weakness.

  “Tell the truth.”

  She was persistent as a biting fly.

  “I was angry,” he said, barely caring. It will wrap you like silk…

  “Tell me the truth, or you are a coward, my Lord.”

  Coward? “I pitied him!” The words gouged like chunks of stone. Brug’s dull brown eyes, shining with tears, the ache in his own throat.

  Suddenly Lapscar was wrapped in fire, a terrible heat scouring out from the wound. He howled, his spine bowing backwards, the arm of the throne cracking off, shattering on the floor. The chittering in his head rose to a grating skreel, unbearable, and died back.

  “Well done, my Lord.”

  He opened his eyes. The healer stood in front of him, the tears in her eyes brimming with light. He felt drained. The fire flared brighter, forcing the shadows back.

  “Damn you,” he growled. “What do you mean, well done? Are you weeping for your failure? It’s getting worse, and all you do is get me chattering about nonsense.”

  “What did you feel, my Lord?”

  “Burning, woman.”

  “Yes, my Lord. Which will you have; the heat, or the cold?”

  “What are you saying?”

  “Those like you, my Lord, those who have wrapped themselves in iron and stone, can survive, as wraiths. Or you can fight. To fight…” she cleared her throat. “To fight you must embrace what you have denied. I warned you, the price would be high.”

  Lapscar looked down at his clenched, scarred hands. He had killed with them, often. “And if I will not pay?”

  “Then you will become a wraith, my Lord. You shall become hollow will, empty strength. If you return here you will drain those who have fought beside you, caring nothing. You will steal Brug’s essence and watch him fall, and because you are without weakness or feeling, you will know only a distant satisfaction. The choice is yours, my Lord.”

  “I…” The shadows were creeping out from the corners again. Up his spine crept the words of the skittering tongue, ready to spill from his mouth, weaving shadows around him. In a skin of shadows he would be invincible. The cold, like water, smooth and perfect, rose about him.

  “Your name is Lapscar.” The healer’s voice calling, as though from the entrance to a deep cave where he sat alone. “Who named you?”

  “My mother,” he said, watching in a frozen fascination as the shapes of the shadows began to cohere. His hand moved to his wound again, feeling the dissolution of his flesh.

  “What do you remember?”

  Hands, worn with work. They had put food before him, stitched his wounds, caught him a cuff often enough, though unlike his father’s blows they had never knocked him off his feet.

  “Hands…” Oh, it hurt. A warmth that made his flesh dance with daggers. “Her hands…”

  “Who was your first friend, Lapscar?”

  Quiet, witch.

  She would not let him go. “Who did you first trust beside you in battle?”

  “Derl. Idiot. Got himself killed last year.” The tears he had not permitted himself rose now, burning him like molten metal.

  “When did you first see beauty?”

  “In the leaves of a tree…” the dance of light and shadow, the grace of branches, in him like shards. He wept aloud. Her questions carried on, relentless, arrows with heads of fire. He battled for each answer; and each answer was an explosion of terrible heat. With each one the cold drew back a little, but with each he felt weaker, as though instead of blood his veins were filling with some dim heavy liquid.

  Darkness and fire rippled against his closed eyelids, scarlet. The small hand still gripped his. “Healer.”

  “Yes, my Lord.”

  “Who named you?”

  “My father. He called me Thelaine…” there was a pause. He felt her breath against his cheek as she murmured; “I was named for the little red flowers that grow near my home. Stay with me, my Lord. You are winning.”

  His instincts had not left him. “I hear something.” Not the soul-stealers’ whispering; a clatter and muttering at the iron doors. “They have come to finish me off, or try.” He pressed against the arms of the chair, forgetting that one was gone, and nearly fell.

  “Yes. Stay here.” She moved towards the doors.

  “Healer!” But he was too weak to rise. “Brug!”

  Brug’s heavy steps, a massive shape in the flickering darkness. Lapscar, breathing hard, clawed his way to his feet, using the broken throne, his vision hung with shadows. He could see only dim moving shapes.

  “Help her, Brug. They will kill her. Don’t let them hurt her…”

  And with those words there was heat in him, dreadful, too immense a pain even to scream. Like a great iron vessel, heated too far, glowing scarlet then white-hot, something melted in Lapscar. Something, scalded in that heat, drew out of him, chittering with fury, a vile sensation like a leech pulling out of the gut. There was a feeling of collapse, of stone walls shattering, letting in the daylight. Then for a moment there was nothing.

  Lapscar came back a little to himself. He could feel stone beneath him. He could hear the hiss of the torches, the harsher crackle of the fire. Brug’s slow footfalls. He opened his eyes. The healer was at his side, calm as a priest at prayer. Brug stood next to her, grinning.

  Lapscar looked at the great iron doors, but they were shut, and barred.

  “What…”

  “A moment, my Lord.” She put her hand on his forehead. He closed his eyes again, feeling the small hard palm cool now against his skin.

  He opened his eyes to see her smiling. “Well done. I do not know what finally drove it from you, my Lord, but I think we have won.”

  He coughed a laugh. “I feel as though an army had marched over me.”

  “Strength will return.” She pressed a small bottle into his hand. “Drink this, it will help.”

  “What happened?” Lapscar took a swig of the liquid, astringent and sticky. “Did they try to come in?”

  “Yes. We dissuaded them.” She lifted her bag, slung it over her shoulder. “I assume there is a back way out?”

  “What? No, wait. What is your price?”

  “You have paid it, Lord. A little coin, if you wish, will feed me as far as the next town.”

  “Stay,” he said. “We can use a good healer.”

  She looked at
him, her face very still, her eyes on his. “To heal soldiers after battle?”

  Lapscar opened his mouth, and shut it again.

  She smiled. “I thank you for the offer, but I have work to do.”

  “More of the same.”

  “Yes.”

  “A moment, then.” He moved, still slowly, to a chest that stood at the side of the room, and placed his hand on the lid. It was dark with age, carved with leaves and serpents. He opened the lid, drew out a leather purse clinking with coin, and stood in thought. Then he took out a small wooden box, of the same design as the chest. He brought them to the healer, placed them in her hands. The coin she tucked away without counting, but the box she held up to the torchlight. “This is beautiful.”

  He grinned. “A remnant of another life. I was a carver, once.”

  “You were a good one.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Thank you,” she said. “Goodbye, Lord Lapscar.”

  Strength was returning to him with the speed of his race and his own brutally honed constitution, but at once he felt oddly weakened. “Goodbye, healer.” He hesitated, and said, “Thelaine. Thank you.”

  “My pleasure, Lord Lapscar.” Her cloak swirled, and swift as a breath, she was gone.

  Lapscar stood for a moment looking at the secret passageway through which she had disappeared. He shook his head, and closed the door. Then, Brug at his side, he went to the great iron doors and lifted the bar.

  His war-council, his servants, his sons, backed from the opening doors. He looked at their wary, snarling faces, and felt a kind of sorrow.

  “My Lord, is it you? I mean…” One of his sons, Gaflan, the eldest still living, looked his father over; hand to sword hilt, wonder warring with suspicion in his eyes.

  “Aye. Me, as solid as ever I was.” Lapscar held out his hand, and his son, lip lifting over his tusks like that of a nervous dog, reached out and prodded it with the tip of one clawed finger. “Now, perhaps you can explain to me why you attempted to burst into the room while the healer was at work?”

  A few of them looked at each other. Gaflan shifted his shoulders. “We heard cries. We thought the blade was taking you.”