The Heir (Fall of the Swords Book 3)

by Scott Michael Decker

  “Yes, Lord Blade, she will.” Seeking Sword was so certain of his next conviction he couldn't stop the words: “But Scowling Tiger will be dead.”

  Chapter 13

  The signs were there for all to see. When he was twelve, for instance, Flaming Arrow went on a forced march through a snowstorm with Guarding Bear. The Heir returned catatonic. For two days, everyone worried about him, wondering if he would emerge on his own. Finally, I hypnotized him out of his trance. Flaming Arrow told me he remembered the beginning of the forced march, but nothing afterward. He had focused all his attention on removing himself from his body, hypnotizing himself into another state of consciousness. Only psychological Wizards achieve such precise control of awareness. It was clear from that incident alone that Flaming Arrow had an abundance of talent, but we refused to see it.—The Gathering of Power, by the Wizard Spying Eagle.

  * * *

  Disguised as a refugee, Flaming Arrow infiltrated the fortress.

  From the west, he approached the crossroads near the northern entrance. His clothes nearly rags, he had dyed his hair brown and freckled his face and shoulders. His body looked battered. His arms bruised, three gashes on his legs nearly hobbled him. Dried blood caked his cheek below what looked like a severe blow to the temple. Deliberately, he hadn't eaten, slept, drank or bathed in five days. He looked gaunt and feverish. His weapons corresponded, his quiver empty and bow with a broken thong. He had bound the hilt with twine and tape as though broken, and wore his sword secured to his left hip. The repairs concealed the diamond on the pommel of the Heir Sword.

  Other travelers, their faces full of gloom and despair, shied away as if he were leprous. Most avoided looking at him. None moved to help him. The road looked nearly empty of traveler, if reports on the usual conditions were accurate. He didn't doubt they were.

  Two towers guarded the ravine. From the base of the westward tower issued a patrol of five bandit warriors. Seeing them, Flaming Arrow prepared himself mentally. Assuming the character he had created for the next few days, he felt the shift of consciousness as if it were physically painful.

  * * *

  Travelers scattered before the bandits. Chameleon wondered if small detachments of warriors often forced them off the road. The bandits spread out as they approached the bedraggled, bloody figure.

  “Which band are you from, Lord?” asked the leader of the group. He looked as healthy and well-dressed as any noble south of the border.

  “Huh,” gasped Chameleon. “Hiss…” He cleared his throat and dislodged a fit of coughing. “Forgive…” With a weak right hand (You must use the right hand! Flaming Arrow said from deep in Chameleon's mind, left-handed warriors rare), he gestured over his shoulder. “Cougar,” he croaked, coughing again and bringing the edge of his right hand across his throat. “Wolver…” Again, coughs interrupted his speech. Again, he pulled the edge of hand across throat.

  “You were at both camps, Lord?” The leader reached to steady the other man by the elbow.

  Chameleon nodded, pain splintering through his head. He put his right hand to his temple. On the hand when he pulled it away was fresh blood. A spate of coughing racked his body. Chameleon slipped to one knee, tottering as if about to fall.

  The gentle hands of bandits helped him up.

  (Faint! Flaming Arrow ordered.) Then his mind left him.

  * * *

  Not opening his eyes before he needed to, Chameleon allowed his other senses to gather what information they could. The quiet hum of ventilators was the first sound his ears reported, then someone shuffling papers from across a wide room. Antiseptic smells, beneath those an aroma of food. Through his eyelids a dim light. Under him, the rough feel of a woolen blanket over a taut fabric, probably the webbing of a cot.

  Chameleon thought it ironic that as a result of the Eastern Armed Forces' destroying his home, he had ended up at the Tiger Fortress, the most luxurious of all bandit habitations.

  A chair creaked and footsteps approached.

  Opening his eyes, Chameleon tried to sit up. Quick hands held him to the cot easily. Feeble, he couldn't have fought them.

  “Lie flat, Lord, please,” said a comforting male voice. The face was kind, the eyes blue, the hair blond, the hands large. “I'm Easing Comfort. I'm a physician. Do you know where you are?”

  Chameleon looked past the man at the room behind him. (He could be Healing Hand's father! Flaming Arrow thought.) He didn't recognize it. “No,” Chameleon tried to say. Only a hoarse whisper issued.

  “This is the infirmary inside the Tiger Fortress. You're safe now. You've slept eighteen hours, normal for what you've been through. Food and water are on this tray when you feel up to it. Can you tell me your name?”

  Ravenous, he reached for the tray and nearly fell out of bed.

  The medacor caught him, helped him back onto the cot. “If you're too weak to eat, Lord, I can give you intravenous sustenance. Here.” The medacor put the sandwich to the patient's mouth.

  Eagerly, Chameleon chewed, his jaw aching with disuse. Then he rolled. What he had swallowed, he vomited onto the floor, coughing.

  “We'll try liquids, then, Lord. Thinking Quick, please bring me the soup,” Easing Comfort said over his shoulder.

  He couldn't see the person the medacor addressed (You will lose consciousness! Flaming Arrow commanded). Before the soup arrived, Chameleon had fainted.

  * * *

  When he woke, the face before him was young, not more than ten years old. She was brown of hair, of eye, of skin. (She could be Spying Eagle's daughter! Flaming Arrow thought.) “Infinite be with you, Lord,” the girl said. “My name's Thinking Quick. What's yours?”

  Chameleon tried to speak but only croaked.

  She ladled a spoon of water into his mouth, holding his chin steady.

  Moisture trickled into his parched throat. He cleared it, coughed once, cleared it again and tried to say his name.

  “Did you say 'Chameleon,' Lord?” she asked, looking puzzled.

  He nodded, pain pounding his head. (Reach with the right hand!) He reached with his right hand. They had repaired the wound to his temple.

  She put her hand to his head. “We've healed all your wounds, Lord,” she said. “Your physical ones, that is.”

  The pain lessened immediately, as if drawn off by her. No one's talent has worked on me before! Chameleon thought, disturbed. (No one's talent has worked on me before! Flaming Arrow thought, disturbed).

  “We had to supply you with food intravenously, Lord,” the girl said. “We teleported quite a quantity into your bloodstream before your glucose level rose to normal. Had you not eaten for six days or so?”

  Chameleon nodded, watching her, not trusting his voice.

  “Well, you'll recover now, Lord Chameleon. As for the emotional damage, we can get a Wizard here if you like?”

  He looked at her, puzzled for a moment. Then he remembered he had lived through the slaughter of twelve thousand bandits, through two Imperial attacks. Putting put his hands over his face, Chameleon began to sob so hard his gut hurt.

  She comforted him with kind words in a gentle voice.

  For a long time he wept, remembering how his fellow bandits had fallen under the relentless onslaught of the Eastern Armed Forces. After a while, Chameleon had exhausted his tears. Hands still over face, he lay back, an occasional sob shaking him.

  The girl stayed by his side until he slept.

  * * *

  When he woke, Chameleon found food beside the cot. He wolfed it down, starving. The water he drank as well. More than likely, the medacor had ordered more intravenous feeding. Chameleon guessed he was lacking not sustenance, merely the feeling of a full belly. The portions had been small enough that he wouldn't eat too much and vomit. Immediately, despite the meager amounts, he felt better.

  Chameleon saw he was still in the infirmary. Twenty cots lined both sides, his the last, behind it only veined stone wall. One other patient occupied an infirmary cot. Down the
center of the room was a walkway elevated a step above the rest of the floor. He lay in a dimly lit area, as if for relaxation. Most of the ambient light came from the opposite end of the room. There, behind a low barrier was a desk, shelves of books, a chair—and a blond-haired man, who looked up then, and smiled.

  Chameleon smiled back from the other end of the room (I would swear on the Infinite he's Healing Hand's father! Flaming Arrow thought).

  The man came toward him. “How are you feeling, Lord Chameleon?”

  He nodded. “Much better, Lord—?”

  “Comfort. Easing Comfort.”

  “Oh, yes, I remember—I think.” Chameleon laughed, the sound almost a sob.

  “Do you know where you are, Lord?” Behind the medacor, a girl approached. Brown of feature and pretty, she smiled at seeing that he was awake and aware.

  “An infirmary, Lord Medacor?” he asked.

  Easing Comfort smiled blandly. “Yes, Lord, but where?”

  The girl set a tray near the foot of the cot. On it steamed more food.

  Salivating, Chameleon licked his lips, glancing at the empty dishes beside the cot and back at the tray.

  “Not yet, Lord Chameleon. I want you to digest what you just ate.”

  He frowned but nodded, shrugging.

  “Can you tell me where we are?” Easing Comfort asked.

  “You don't know, Lord Medacor?” Chameleon asked facetiously.

  Easing Comfort smiled. “I want to know if you know.”

  He looked at the medacor blankly, then his face twisted with remembered pain. He nodded, “Tiger Fortress.” He swallowed his pain.

  The girl sat on the cot beside him. “Let it come up, Lord Chameleon. You have as much time to grieve as you need. Let the pain flow from you. I'll stay with him, Lord Comfort.” With kind words and kind tones, she encouraged him to cry.

  “Thank you, Thinking Quick,” Easing Comfort said, retreating toward the desk.

  “He's gone, Lord Heir,” she whispered, glancing over her shoulder.

  He looked at her, puzzled. Something inside him struggled to get out. (How does she know who I am?! Flaming Arrow wondered.) “What did you call me?” he asked quietly, fear (replacing his sobs.)

  “Stop the impersonation, Arrow,” she said, her voice threatening.

  Flaming Arrow's left hand shot out and grabbed her by the throat. The girl's head and body screened the motion from the medacor at the opposite end of the room. (What's happening to me?! Chameleon thought, bewildered that a presence had taken control of his body.) “Who are you?”

  “I'm Thinking Quick, Melding Mind's daughter. I'm going to help you get Scowling Tiger's head.” Her voice was a croak through the constriction of his grasp. She didn't resist or struggle.

  With an ounce more pressure, Flaming Arrow could crush her windpipe. He saw she knew it. (Kill her? Why? Chameleon thought, liking her.) “You're the Prescient Wizard. Spying Eagle said you eluded his capture. How do I know you won't betray me?”

  She relaxed in his grip. “How? You'll die without my help, bastard.” She spoke the pejorative without antipathy.

  “Perhaps,” Flaming Arrow replied, resenting but ignoring it. (That little cretin called me a bastard! Chameleon thought, angry.) “Why are you helping me?”

  “Only you or Seeking Sword can turn the back the tide of anarchy. If I don't, we humans will have to endure ten thousand years of darkness. Please release me, Lord Heir.” As he let go, she spoke rapidly, her voice low. “Thank you. If you don't succeed, bandits will overrun the Eastern Empire. The other two Empires will fall within another hundred years. The anarchy will destroy the Swords. Then every man will fight only for himself and it'll be brother against brother as it was before the Swords. Technology, law, art, discipline and reason will all disappear.”

  (This girl is completely insane, Chameleon thought, not sure he was any more sane.) His head awhirl with questions, Flaming Arrow asked, “Who's this Seeking Sword? Purring Tiger's betrothed?”

  “Actually, Lord, yes. They already have a child.”

  Flaming Arrow nodded. “How did you find me if you can't see me? I know your prescience doesn't work on me.”

  “Seeking Sword said you'd disguise yourself as a refugee. He even said you'd arrive injured.” She looked smug, as if proud of the bandit.

  “What's his talent, seeing the invisible?” Flaming Arrow asked caustically. Getting few answers, he kept thinking of more questions. (I wish you'd stop abusing her! Chameleon told the Heir.) “Don't answer. How does he know me so well?”

  Thinking Quick shrugged. “He's like you, about your age, with—”

  “With red hair and blue eyes and well-endowed and lots of charm and I know all that, Lady Quick. Why are we so similar?”

  “Please, don't ask me that.” Her face collapsed in a grimace. Sweat appeared on her brow. She took three deep breaths, as if the question tortured her. “If I told you now, you'd destroy each other.”

  “I already want to kill him. I won't be able to, will I? You've arranged for him to be elsewhere, eh?”

  “Yes, Lord.”

  “How will the bandits defend the factories and farms?” Flaming Arrow asked, brooding upon the specter of a double among bandits. (Ha! You think you have problems! Chameleon thought with contempt.)

  “What's it matter now?” she retorted. “You can't send a message from here. You've committed yourself.”

  Indeed, he had. From the moment Flaming Arrow had suggested the attacks to Aged Oak, a week ago, he had committed himself. During the discussion in his tent the next morning, Flaming Arrow had thought up the brilliant idea of penetrating the Tiger Fortress in the guise of a refugee. He hadn't had time to wait for Probing Gaze's information on the Tiger Raiders. He and the sectathon had concocted a logical sequence of events to explain why he had taken five days to reach the fortress. With little more preparation than that, Flaming Arrow had run, fought, and crawled his way here. (You fought? Chameleon thought: I did all the fighting!) “How long since I arrived?”

  “Two days. A week has passed since Spitting Wolverine died.”

  Flaming Arrow nodded. “I've time.” On the wall behind his bed hung all his weapons, hanging from pegs driven into stone. Tape and twine wrapped the hilt of the Heir Sword, as if it were broken.

  “Perhaps not, Lord,” Thinking Quick said. “Scowling Tiger wants to see you as soon as you're up to it. He wants to question you about the Imperial attacks.”

  Flaming Arrow moved aside (and felt Chameleon take over, the transition immediate, upsetting, and painful). “Won't he want to question other refugees, Lady Quick?” Chameleon flexed his empty left hand, feeling her neck in it still, surprised he had regained control of his body.

  She nodded, looking puzzled. “None of them in as bad a condition as you, Lord Heir. Not one—”

  “I'm heir to nothing, Lady Quick. My name is Chameleon, all right?”

  “All right, Lord … Chameleon. As I was saying, not one of the other refugees survived both attacks. The Lord Tiger himself ordered you sequestered here in the infirmary.”

  (Ask to eat, then to sleep, Flaming Arrow commanded.) Chameleon fought off a wave of weariness with a yawn. “Thank you for your help, Lady Quick. Can I eat, please? Then I'd like to sleep.”

  “Of course, Lord Chameleon,” Thinking Quick said, looking bewildered. Rising from the cot, she retrieved the tray of food, the portions again small so he didn't gorge himself. “Here you are, Lord Chameleon,” she said, the volume of her voice normal now. “If you need anything, Lord, please ask. It is yours. Infinite grace your dreams.”

  “Thank you, Lady Quick.” He began to eat, ravenous again.

  Smiling, Thinking Quick walked away.

  Chameleon finished the food quickly, then yawned. (Faint! Flaming Arrow ordered.) His hands feeling weak, he dropped the bowl on the floor, where it shattered. Chameleon slumped back against the pillow, already asleep.

  * * *

  Thinking Quick tu
rned at the crash and walked back to the sleeping form.

  How did he change so completely? she wondered, baffled at the meticulous impersonation. Flaming Arrow's whole composure had changed—voice tone, posture, expression, and even his dominant hand. Thinking Quick was almost sure implants drove the act, the mimicry too adept and thorough to be conscious. Wizards sometimes employed implants to create impersonations of similar quality.

  Flaming Arrow's impervious to manipulation! she thought. Rather, he was. Her brother, on intimate terms with the Heir, had told her that talent didn't affect Flaming Arrow. Unable to see him in her prescience, she didn't doubt Percipient Mind. Disturbed by the discrepancy, Thinking Quick sighed.

  When Flaming Arrow was choking her, she had tried to throw off his grip with a talent. Unlike her powers of healing, those of hurting seemed to have no effect on him. Now, she couldn't say which talents affected him.

  Beneficent talents appeared to work and maleficent didn't.

  How completely illogical, she thought. Thinking Quick, a Wizard of ten different talents, had never known a talent to distinguish the intent behind another's exertion.

  Blast you, Flaming Arrow! she thought, wanting to understand what the Infinite had brought forth in the Heir and his likeness, Seeking Sword.

  * * *

  The instant he woke, Chameleon knew others watched him.

  Opening his eyes, he found four people looking at him. His vision blurred, cleared, doubled, and blurred again. He shook his head roughly to disperse the fog of sleep. While he had slept, someone had bathed him, dressed him and braided his hair. (I hope none of the brown washed out, Flaming Arrow thought.) Chameleon felt his hair should be another color. He dismissed it, knowing he wasn't himself. Surviving two massacres wasn't easy.

  Reoriented now, Chameleon looked at those watching him. He dismissed Easing Comfort and Thinking Quick immediately as known. He hurried to sit up and bow to the other two. (Where's my sword?! Flaming Arrow wondered, aching to remove the bandit general's head.)

  “Please, Lord, no need for that. You have my permission to be at ease,” said the man sitting on a cot. The man watched him, his face impassive, his left fist propped on his thigh. Gray salted the black hair.