Shadow of the Ghost Bear (The Tale of Azaran Book 2)

by Arbela, Zackery

  This part of the plan had caused the most argument. One man, alone against however many hundreds remained within the stronghold, would likely find his days ending in a flurry of sword strokes, ax blows, spear thrusts, to the point that his remains could be put in a small box burnt on cook fire. But Azaran insisted, and despite the protests he had his way. Two things stood in favor - the men had seen him fight. They saw he was not like other men (speculation about what he actually was started with divine parentage and worked their way upwards. Azaran didn't waste his breath countering them, since he hardly knew the truth himself...) Azaran wasn't so sanguine about it, and under different circumstances would have brought along at least twenty proven fighters to watch his back.

  But the Rhennari proclaimed otherwise. Azaran must approach the Great Hall alone. This was the will of Saerec. If he did, victory would be theirs. If not, Ganascorec would remain King come the dawn.

  Later that night, Segovac pulled him aside, making sure no one else was within earshot before speaking. "We told you the truth," he'd said, "but not the whole truth."

  "Explain."

  "It makes no difference whether you attack the Great Hall alone or with an army at your back. All that matters is that you, friend Azaran, be there. Preferably after the fires begin, though that is also not strictly necessary. Though it would help."

  "Then why insist I go in alone?"

  "Because," and here Segovac eyes gleamed with unearthly power, "if you go alone, you will face the one who can provide answers to your questions."

  Azaran had paused at that. "Go on."

  "The vision was clear. Go there with men at your back, and you will win...but will remain as ignorant of your past as you are this moment. But go in alone and the opportunity to get answers to your questions will come."

  Azaran didn't answer for a long moment. "Why are you telling me this?"

  "I beg your pardon?"

  “If I go in alone, the odds of success will drop. It would be in the interests of you and yours that it be otherwise, that I go in with other warriors to hunt down Ganascorec..."

  "I swore an oath," Segovac decalred, cutting him off, his voice stern. "Remember, friend Azaran? On Tereg, that I would help you find your memories and the truth of your origins. A Rhennari does not much such promises lightly, for they pass from my lips to the ears of Saerec and he stands as witness. When we called upon the One for aid, he reminded me of this oath. It is by the will of Saerec that I tell you this and offer your choice. Decide quickly, the men are already gathering for the attack."

  And now Azaran faced the consequences of the choice. He could have come in with help, there were dozens who would have volunteered, hardened veterans eager for the honor of striking at the heart of the King's power and reckoning their lives a small price for eternal glory. Certainly it would have raised the odds of success by a significant measure.

  But in the end there was only one choice to be made. His memories, his past, his identity...all blank spaces in his mind whose presence was close to physical pain. Azaran didn't have the will to say no, to turn away this opportunity, no matter the cost to him...or the Eburrean rebels. He'd brought them this far. But from now it he fought for himself. For his memories. He would not turn away from the answers. Not this. Never this. He would know the truth, no matter what.

  In he went, meeting the onrush of Ganascorec's mercenaries with the two-handed sword. Some were in full kit of armor, helmet and shield. Others only carried their weapons and had no protection, suggesting they were at feast when the alarm went up. Some were even undressed, having come direct from slumber. It made no difference to Azaran - his body filled with the power of the runes. His mind cleared and he viewed what came next with that strange detachment, floating above anger and fear, above pain, feeling them yet not affected by them. Time both sped up and slowed down, the shouts and battle cries of his enemies turning to slurred sounds, the words stretched out. When they swung their weapons, it was with a slowness that seemed almost comical. He stepped around them, knocked aside their strikes with ease, sending his sword through their bodies, severing their limbs, knocking them down with well placed kicks and jabs.

  To the men on the receiving end, it seemed so very different. They did not face a man but a demon, a creature that seemed more blur than flesh, that stepped around them, met their hacks and slashes with empty air, wielding a massive sword like a scorpion its stinger. They'd come out to cries that fire burned in the lower town, expecting perhaps a raiding party that somehow got over the walls, bent on mischief. They were met by a force of nature that tore through them and left death its its wake.

  They broke. Men threw down their weapons and ran back to the Great Hall. Azaran pulled his sword out of a dying mercenary and found that no one was left to face him. He looked ahead and saw only the backs of fleeing men, dozens of them, running for their lives, crying that a demon of the underworld was let loose in Bellovac this night. He looked back and saw a long line of dead bodies. He looked down at himself and saw he was bloody from head to toe. A few shallow cuts scored his limbs, the only injury he'd sustained, adding trickles of his blood to that of the men he'd killed. He barely felt the pain.

  So many dead... The silent passenger spoke up.

  We are weapons. So proclaimed Tarazal's voice. And for a moment he found himself standing in another place...a cold stone floor beneath his feet, naked save for a loin cloth....a long sword held in both hands...men rushing on all sides...savage men in furs and leathers and rags, prisoners from a dozen lands, promised their freedom if they could kill him and death if they failed...standing above were other men watching as he went about his work, cutting down the howling wretches, fighting until the last one fell, cut down from behind....he looked up at the faces of those who would judge him and finding him worthy...and standing among them was Tarazal, a teacher looking on the work of his best student...

  Azaran blinked. He was back on Bellovac's hill. The memory faded but did not disappear. It stayed in his head, in his mind. A piece of the past falling into place.

  "Tarazal," he whispered.

  A handful of musicians were among the few non-warriors permitted to remain behind in Bellovac. They were at work on this night, standing in a corner, well away from the tables, one fellow sawing away on a viol, another playing a double-stemmed flute, the third tapping away on a drum. Before them was a bard, chanting some old epic of the past, a tale of battles fought, heroes and villains, glorious victory and ignoble defeat. The kind of song that would end with the entire hall chanting along with the singer at the end. And so it would have been this night, if the tables were filled with Eburreans. A few of them were still here, but they were outnumbered ten to one by the foreign mercenaries brought in by the King. Hadaraji with their sickle swords and pointed helmets, Teregi corsairs still smelling of the sea, Gusannagari from the far south with ribbons in their thick beards and eyes lined with kohl, along with men from lands beyond the ken of most Eburreans, of every coloration, style of dress and tongue. They only held a few things in common - that they took the Kings coin, they were to a man hardened killers and they had no appreciation for the music.

  The bard paused a moment, taking a deep breath as he changed from one verse to another. He opened his mouth to sing, then ducked as chicken bones flew at his bead.

  "Someone strangle that cat!" a burly Hadaraji bellowed.

  "Is that a song or the scream of a dying sow?" called out another.

  The bard straightened, took a breath and began the second verse. He barely got two words before a full wine cup struck his face, bloodying his nose and staining his face and clothes a purplish red.

  "Good shot!" someone shouted as the assailant bowed mockingly.

  "Eburreans can't sing!" said the waster of wine. "They can't fight, their women can't cook! But they make good targets!"

  "Hit him again!" someone suggested.

  The mercenary picked up a full beaker. "A gold piece says I knock him on the head!" Vario
us voices took the bet. He drew back his hand, then froze.

  A hush filled the hall. Brannegaia stood by the fallen singer. She glanced down at him, then at the mercenary. Energy crackled along her gauntlet for a moment.

  "No more music this night," she finally said, walking to the high table at the far end. The singer was helped to his feet by the musicians and they fled the scene.

  "You do not like the wine?" she asked, sitting down the center. To her right were a handful of Ghelenai, the only women left in the stronghold at the moment. The section to her left was empty, for it belonged to the King and the clan elders. The former was currently indisposed, while the latter were driven out with the rest of the useless mouths, old men unable to fight.

  No answer came. She glanced at the mercenary, who still held his beaker. He raised it to his lips uncertainly, then set it down on the table.

  "Is the taste not to your liking?" she asked again.

  "The wine is good enough," the mercenary finally answered.

  "Then why do you waste it?" she snapped. "We may be in here a long time and you throw it about like a child!"

  The mercenary reddened. "Just some harmless fun," he muttered. "Nothing meant by it..."

  "You've had enough, I say. Only water for you from now on. Anyone who gives this man so much a drop of strong drink between now and the end of the siege will lose a hand." She held out a hand and a serving man appeared with a cup filled to the brim with drink. She raised it to her lips and drink deep and with obvious satisfaction.

  The mercenary looked ready to to spit fire. "I don't take orders from you!" he shouted. "Or any woman! It's your King who hired me and mine, not you cursed witches!"

  "The King is not here," Brannegaia said calmly. "When he is away, you take orders from me."

  "Get on your knees and open your pretty mouth!" the man bawled, drunkenness and rage pushing him past good sense, even as the men around the mercenary suddenly moved away from him, as if clearing a path. "Then maybe I'll say something nice, you..."

  He was cut off in mid-rant. A pair of hands grabbed his head from behind and twisted it sharply, snapping his neck. The mercenary dropped to the ground with a sigh, dead before he hit the floor.

  Tarazal stood behind him, looking around, his face calm, daring any to meet his gaze. The other mercenaries, looked down and away, saying nothing, suddenly interested in their food and drink. He looked up at the great table, nodded once and walked away, a path clearing before him.

  Brannegaia took another sip from the cup. "I've changed my mind," she said. "I would hear music this night."

  Servant ran off to find the musicians. They returned without the singer, who'd gone to nurse his injury and his pride. As they started to play, Brannegaia held out her now-empty cup. The serving man reappeared, pouring dark wine from a beaker.

  "The king should be here," she muttered, to low for anyone but her and the servant to hear. "These are his men, they are sworn to him, not me."

  "He is not well," came the reply. Nerazag still kept the form of the rude menial, this time acting as a humble serving man and performing the role admirably. "He is grown weak. Would you have him come out and start drooling in front of all these men?"

  "Better than your friend breaking their necks. That's one less sword we can use to man the walls." She took the cup. Her skin flushed as the wine went down her gullet, leaving a slightly vinegary taste in its wake. "Vile drink," she muttered, setting it aside.

  "Stores are running low. You may wish to pace yourself..."

  "Don't tell me what I must not do!" she snapped, causing some heads to turn. She glared back, and the others at the high table looked away. "You have the form of a serving man," she whispered. "Shall I have you whipped as one?"

  "If that is your pleasure. Everything has its price though...do not forget this." Nerazag stepped back. hovering at her shoulder, ready to refill the cup again at her command, while close enough to converse as needed. "Do not fear, great Queen. The Cavaragi draw closer with each step. When they arrive, we will crush the rebels between them and the garrison. Assuming the fools don't flee the field beforehand."

  "A lot can happen between now and then," was her only reply, holding out her cup for a third drink.

  Time passed. Some measure of mirth returned to the hall. A few of the mercenaries even began to show some appreciation for the Eburrean musicians.

  The a man came running into the hall. "Fire!" he cried out. "Great Queen, fire in the lower town!"

  "What!" she stood up, eyes blazing "What burns?"

  "The western barracks, Great Queen! They've been set ablaze. The men inside are fleeing as we speak, others are burning alive! It must have been a spark, blown downwind..."

  "You fool!" Brannegaia cut him off. "It's the rebels. They are inside our walls! We are being raided! To arms! Move, you swine, earn your pay!"

  The mercenaries sprang to their feet. Nearby every man in the hall carried some weapon and as they ran out the air resounded with blades of various shapes and sizes being pulled from their sheaths. Alarm horns sounded outside, pulling more men from their beds, awakening them to the sound of flames crackling and the near likelihood of bloodshed.

  Brannegaia turned to Nerazag. "Your friend should go with them, he is worth twenty men in battle..."

  "No." Tarazal appeared before her, his face set. "The fire is a diversion. They are coming for the King. Send men to douse the fires, send the rest to hunt through the streets. Send a group to secure the second wall against the rebels, by now they will be opening the main gates for Gwindec. I will stay with the King and wait for Azaran."

  "How do you know all this?" Brannegaia demanded.

  "It's what I would have done," came the reply. “Azaran is already here. Soon he will be inside this hall. I will face him and kill him."

  Outside they heard the clash f weapons, followed by the screams of dying men. "Is that..." Brannegaia asked. "

  "Yes," answered Tarazal. "Those men are already dead. He will be here soon."

  Nerazag stepped forward. "You are not without defenses," he said. "The last gift I gave you...now would be the perfect time to use it."

  Her hand drifted to an onyx rod hanging from her belt. There was a faint, barely audible hum as her fingers brushed it. "Yes..." she said. "Now is a time to use it." And with that she left, hurrying to the back of the hall, seeking a door that led to a recently build paddock, created to hold something far larger in size than mere horses...

  Tarazal watched her go. "If we are lucky," he said, "your gifts will eat her along with our enemies."

  "That would be a setback," came the reply. "She is needed. Eburrea still has its part to play in our the Master's plan. Once that is done, she is disposable." Nerazag turned away, headed towards the western end of the great hall. "I will be with the King. You find Azaran. And this time, do not fail to kill him."

  "As you command." Tarazal bowed his head. He strode towards the doors of the great hall, which were flung open to the warm summer night. Men had streamed outside minutes ago, now they were running back in, many covered in blood or bleeding from wounds, all with expressions of shock on their faces, shouting in a dozen languages about some demon with a sword, slicing men down like wheat at harvest.

  Tarazal lifted the baldric holding his sword over his head. He drew the blade and hurled the scabbard away. Outside he saw his enemy approach, a man walking towards the hall, red from head to toe. Tarazal raised his sword to the guard position, standing still as a stone, body filled with energy and anticipation...

  Someone had placed a cup of wine by the King. It lay there untouched, as did a plate of now-cold food. He sat in his chair, staring a wall, a morose, confused look on his face, seeing nothing, hearing nothing and yet everything.

  The crown sat heavy on his head. Some part of Ganascorec's mind yearned to remove it, to take that cursed circlet of metal and smash it to pieces. But it was a voice shouting in a fog, one that had filled his life for as long as he c
ould bring himself to remember.

  "I am King," he muttered. "I am King. I am..." He frowned, unable to remember the last word.

  Shouts came from somewhere out in the hall. He heard them and for a moment wondered if he should stand and see what was going on. He was Ganscorec. He ruled here....right? Yes? No? He couldn't remember...what was he thinking about? He looked at a patch of wall, his eyes drifting down to the shadows on the floor. A mouse skittered through the darkness, it's little feet scratching as as it crawled through the rushes.

  Ganascorec reached to his belt, his hand wrapping around a knife. With a single smooth motion he hurled it across the room, the blade spinning once, catching the light of the lamps in a striking fashion. It hit the mouse, pinning the little beast to the floor with a squeak.

  He cocked his head to the side, lowering his arm. There was a knife stuck in the floor and a mouse spitted on the blade. How did that happen? Did he do it? His hand brushed the empty sheath on his belt. "Where's my knife?" he mumbled.

  You threw it. The voice that answered was a quiet one, dry and seemingly amused. He did not hear it in his ears, rather it spoke directly into his mind.

  "I did?"

  Don't you remember?

  "I...I..." He frowned, the fragments flickering in his head. "Yes, I did..."

  What else do you remember?

  He shook his head. "I can't..."

  Try.

  The voice encouraged him. So much like the voice of his father...his father. Been years since he thought of the man. He remembered Father's voice, his laugh, the thick brown beard shot through with silver. The words of encouragement as he taught his son how to ride, how to drink, how to fight. So vivid...

  Ganasorec reached out to the man, but it vanished. Then he remembered his father was dead, had been for years, his mother soon after...mother. He tried to remember her, but it seemed to far out of reach. So far away. He head bowed, as if a great weight pressed down on his brow.