"I can't. So tired..." His eyes started to close.
Do not sleep yet. The silent voice drew back to the waking world. You have much on your mind. Take off the crown, and things will be more clear.
"I am King," he said, confused. "I wear the crown..."
Before you were king, you were a man. Remember the man, before he was king.
Ganasorec did want to remember. He reached up, placing his hand on the crown. He pulled it off, gasping as the sudden pain...clumps of hair coming out with it. He worn the thing for so long his hair had grown into its base.
The crown came free. Ganascorec let it fall to the floor with a clang. He clutched his head in both hands as a rush of memories came in, groaning at the horrible pain of awareness.
...of battles fought, of men cut down beneath his sword while he laughed....
...of houses burning, women and children screaming as his warriors slaughtered them...
...of black knives glistening as Ghelenai witches gutted men in the blood pits, laughing as the blood flowed
...of his wife rutting with any man who struck her fancy while he watched insensible and uncomprehending. Remaining the same as those men were murdered by her hand once she was done with them...
...of his nephew, the last of his blood, fleeing into exile only hour ahead of the assassins sent to kill him, by the command of the King. From Ganascorec's own lips...
Of murders, of of massacres. Of twenty years of unending horror inflicted on his own people. The dream of unity and strength, turned on itself until it became a demon that fed on the blood of Eburrea. All of it he remembered. All of it, done by his command, in his name. King of Eburrea...
Tears ran down his face as shame filled his soul. He sought to save his people. Instead he damned them to the vilest sort of tyranny...and until now he had no knowledge of it, no awareness. For twenty years Ganascorec had lived in a strange waking sleep. Moving in the world, part of it, yet unaware, seeing but not knowing, hearing but not comprehending. Speaking words that were not his own...ruled by thoughts that came from outside his own head.
A puppet, played in the hands of others.
Now murderous rage filled him, born of the shame and dishonor. Someone would pay for this. Someone would answer for this monstrous deceit...
"Get up, you old derelict! Your men need you...wait, what is this?"
He turned about, reddening at being addressed with such disrespect. A common serving man stood before him, eyes widening in shock. "Where is your crown?"
"You dare?" Ganascorec rose up, hands bunching into fists.
The serving man reached to his belt and pulled...something. A metal rod that seemed to glow, matched a moment later by the crown on the floor. Ganascorec groaned as his head throbbed, sinking back into that warm haze from which he'd risen.
"No!" he growled, pushing it aside, his will given strength by the rage that burned even hotter. He was Ganascorec of the Aranacs. He was no one's puppet.
The serving man stepped back, shock on his face. He opened his mouth to say something. Ganascorec's fist smashed into his face. The rod dropped to the ground, followed a moment later by the man.
Ganascorec picked up the crown, staring at it as the glow faded. Loathing filled him and he smashed it against the wall, the metal circlet shattering into three pieces. He dropped them with a curse as red sparks flared out from the shattered ends for a moment, then vanishing with a sudden flash. When the metal fragments hit the floor, they were smoking, the metal blackening before his eyes.
It seemed a great weight was lifted from his shoulders, one he'd not been be aware of until now. But the rage remained. He strode out of the chamber into the great hall. On the floor the broken pieces of the crown continued to smoke. A moment flames flickered to life among the rushes around them.
Ganascorec entered the Great Hall and was greeted by a scene of chaos. Mercenaries fought against a stream of men he recognized as Aranac clansmen rushing up from a staircase that led down into the dungeons. Mingled among them were ragged fellows, pale from weeks away from the sun, holding swords and shouting in Cavaragi. The hostages...he remembered them. They'd been freed and were fighting with the desperation that only men seeking freedom could summon. Any other time this might have seemed a disaster to him. Right now it was a distraction.
He moved forward. One of the Cavaragi blocked his path, shouting some battle cry and swinging a sword at him. Ganascorec sidestepped the blow, slamming an elbow into the man's face, then grabbing the back of his head and hurling it with great force against a nearby stone pillar. The man struck with the sound of breaking bone and dropped to the ground.
Ganascorec picked up the fallen sword. "Brannegaia!" he bellowed, striding through the melee and cutting down anyone who got in his path, regardless who they were. "Where are you? Face me, wife! Face your husband, bitch whore! Face me and die!"
A great roar sounded in response, echoing through the hall. A pair of double doors shattered and fell off their hinges as a great hulking shape entered the hall, long fangs glistening as another roar sounded, matched a moment later by two more from behind.
Azaran knocked aside a mercenary who came at him screaming. The man scrambled to his feet and kept running, throwing aside the ax he was carrying as so much dead weight. Azaran watched him go then walked through the doors of the Great Hall. Battle raged inside - the Cavaragi hostages were free and were taking the fight to the mercenaries. Azaran smiled. The plan was working...
He looked around, seeking any sign of Tarazal. His gaze fixed on a Cavaragi, hunched over as a sword point exited his back, then pulled back as the body slid off the blade. Tarazal stood on the other side, breathing heavily, bleeding from a gash on the side of his head. He looked up and saw Azaran standing there. Their eyes met. He raised his sword into the guard position.
There they stood, even as the rest of the world disintegrated around them, men fighting and dying and fleeing in terror.
Azaran opened his mouth, to ask once again, Who am I? He barely had time to draw breath before Tarazal glided across the floor, sword whirring in a complicated arc. All thoughts of interrogation vanished before the need to stay alive. Azaran backed up parrying blow after blow, strikes at his head, his feet, his arms. He was over matched, only moments from having his head chopped form his body...
"I've taught you everything you need to know." Tarazal held out a sword in both hands, the hilt and sheath black and night. "But not everything I know. Some things you must discover on your own. Now take the blade, Azaran. Make us proud..."
Azaran knew he could not beat this man fighting on these terms. He had to tilt the odds on his favor. He ducked back, Tarazal barely missing his neck...and then he ran.
"Coward!" Tarazal shouted. He gave chase, following Azaran through the great hall. They burst into the banqueting chamber. Azaran hurled wooden chairs at his foe, forcing the man to dodge them, slowing his own.
"That won't work!" Tarazal shouted.
"Try this!" Azaran grabbed a bronze lamp standing off to one side, a bowl of oil set atop a metal pole stand, just higher than a man. Several cloth wicks burned inside, giving off a steady light. Azaran grasped the pole and hurled the lamp like a spear. Tarazal dove aside as it struck the ground, burning oil splashing out. Some of it struck Tarazal's left leg, setting his trousers on fire.
Tarazal yelled in pain. He tried to bat out the flames with his hand, then grabbed a bowl off a nearby table and dumped brown broth on it, hissing as the liquid stung his burned skin. The stench of burnt food mingled with that of burnt flesh.
"Still won't work," Tarazal growled, forcing himself to stand. He limped badly on his injured leg, but that wouldn't last long, the runes were already repairing the damage.
"It works for now!" Azaran charged across the floor, pressing his advantage while he still could. He wouldn't kill the bastard, just shove the blade into his guts, like Tarazal did to him with those hot irons. Let him squirm in pain, he'd talk then...
He fell to the floor, something wet and heaving laying on top. He pushed it off and stood. It was a corpse, bloody and mangled to the point that identification was nothing more than an idle game. He looked over and saw Tarazal lying on his back, a bloody streak on his face that could have only come from the severed arm lying nearby. He shook his head, clearing his wits, looked at the arm, at Azaran, then at his sword lying a few feet away. He scrambled to pick it up.
Azaran look for his own weapon. He picked up his sword and stood, just as an earsplitting howl filled the room. Claws shattered heavy tables and benches into kindling. Screams were cut off abruptly by the crunch of bone and the tearing of flesh. Towards the eastern side of the dining hall was a door that led outside, used by cooks and servants to access the firepits dug on the hillside behind the hall. It flew off its hinges, taking a goodly part of the surrounding wall with it. Several tonnes of fur, muscle and unyielding rage came though. It was a great dire bear from the far north, a legendary monster from the mountains and cold wastes, ten feet tall when hunched down, double that when standing. Claws the size of butcher knives gouged ruts in the floor, teeth long as a man's hand dripped blood-flecked foam. The eyes above the blunt snout were red with a fury that went far beyond the natural. Embedded in the center of the forehead was a round metal disc, engraved with runes and eldritch symbols that shone with a fierce red light.
The beast swung its head about, fixing on Azaran and Tarazal. It roared again, knocking aside a heavy wooden table as if it were nothing and charged across the floor.
Azaran ran. So did Tarazal, fleeing back into the main hall. Azaran grabbed one of the doors as he went and slammed it shut. The bear followed a heartbeat later, knocking the door aside and off its frame, the heavy wooden board cracking in half from the blow. It bellowed again and was greeted by more roars from the front. Two other dire bears filled the front of the hall, blocking the wide doors headed out and much of the space inside.
They laid about with claws and teeth, attacking men regardless of allegiance, even as those men fought each other. Mercenaries battled Gwindec's rebels and ragged hostages freed from the dungeons, the bears tearing through them all. Lightening bolts crackled out through the air, scorching a pair of rebels, accompanied by harsh laughter.
Brannegaia stood beside the bears. The silver gauntlet on her left hand glowed with its infernal fire. In her right hand was a rod held tightly, the runes carved into it glowing with the same light as the disc's embedded in the bears heads. Every time they moved, every time they killed, the runes on both pulsed in unison. She controlled them, slaves to her will. She laughed as they killed, drunk on power, on the taking of life and the giving of death.
Azaran raised his sword, then jumped aside as Tarzaal came at him, thrusting at his heart. "Pay attention!" the older warrior rasped. The old teacher, voicing concern for his student. Then he came in for the kill yet again. Azaran jumped back, barely avoiding having his head removed from his shoulders. Then he dodged again as a bear paw swiped at him. He dove out of the way, rolling to his feet. The dire bear came charging at him, as did Tarazal. The bear swept a paw out to its left, clipping Tarazal across the side and sending him tumbling.
Azaran skidding to a halt. Runes flared on his chest and again time seemed to slow. The bear bounded across the floor, mouth open, claws ready to swipe. The disc planted in the forehead glowed a ruddy red, as did the eyes in the beast's skull. Filled with an unthinking fury...and with something else. Behind the unnatural rage...horror. Sorrow. The beast was once master of its own fate, the greatest predator in its homeland. Now it fought at the behest of a witch, its will enslaved to her own. No greater insult could be imagined. End this, the bear seemed to say to Azaran as it closed in for the kill. Save me.
Azaran could not hate the beast. What was done to it was an outrage. A dishonor. "As you wish," he whispered, charging forward.
The bear paw came down. Azaran sidestepped it, slashing his sword upwards, catching the underside of the paw. The bear roared in pain, rising up and giving him the opening. Azaran glided in, thrusting up as the beast came back down, the blade stabbing into its chin, punching through layers of flesh and skull to penetrate its brain. The bear groaned, a shiver running through its body. Azaran stepped back, yanking the sword free and barely avoiding being crushed under its body. The glow faded from its eyes, the disc darkening as its power disappeared.
An old warrior, gone to an honorable rest. He looked up, taking a defensive position. Across the hall he saw Tarazal stagger to his feet. A pair of dreadful gashes lay across the midsection of his body. For any other man they would have been fatal. But he managed to pick up his sword and move, the blood ceasing its flow as he walked, the runes on his chest glowing as they worked. His gaze fixed on Azaran with a dreadful certainty...
"FACE ME!" The voice rose above the din of combat. Ganascorec strode across the floor, seeing not the remaining dire bears, the fire or the men fighting and dying around him. His eyes fixed on Brannegaia, his face contorted into a mask of rage. Years of shame and dishonor, given a focus. "Face your husband!"
He gripped his sword with both hands and charged across the floor, heedless of the danger, intent only on his revenge. A man stumbled into his path, one of the mercenaries by his armor. Ganascorec battered him to the ground, cursing as his sword got lodged in his skull.
"Tarazal!" Nerazag appeared in the doorway, bleeding from a cut on his scalp, wearing his original form and face. He pointed at the King. "Stop him! We need that fool!"
Tarazal looked at the King, then at Azaran. Desire warred with obedience and obedience won. He turned towards Ganascorec, took a step. But it was too late. One of the dire bears got there first.
Ganascorec yanked his sword free of the dead man. He advanced on the Queen, his wife, the source of his torment. "Die now!" he howled, raising the blood reddened sword again.
She heard his shout and turned, eyes widening in shock at the sight. The bears by her side turned as well. They did not know the king, they only knew two things - to obey their mistress and to protect her from any danger, with the latter command taking precedence. They saw the King coming in with violent intent. There was only one way they could respond.
"No, wait..." she shrieked, raising the command rod. But it was too late. One of the dire bears charged in, mouth agape. It bit down on the kings head, fangs sinking into his skull. Ganascorec cried in pain once as the bear lifted him up and violently snapped the body back and forth. There was a sickening crunch as the bear's jaw closed in, ripping the head free of the body and hurling it away with a spray of blood.
The bear roared. The head of Ganascorec, King of the Eburreans, dropped to the floor, mangled beyond recognition.
Then the bear jerked, yowling in pain. It stumbled back, then fell, blood gushing from a pair of savage cuts in its side. Tarazal stood there, a fresh gash in his thigh, breathing heavily and swaying on his feet, driven to the edge by all the damage, even as the blood flow from his wounds slowed, the wounds staunching themselves of their own accord. He looked at the dead king, then glanced back towards Nerazag.
A grimace twisted Nerazag's face. The Master's plans for Eburrea, dead with the puppet king. Time to cut their losses. He placed a thumb against his throat and drew it across.
Tarazal did not hesitate this time. He strode towards Brannegaia, who looked on her dead husband in shock. She sensed Tarazal's approach and faced him, pale with fear and confusion. "I could not stop it. It wasn't my fault. No...don't..." She raised her left hand, energy cracking around the gauntlet. "NO!"
Tarazal cut her down. She fell in the heap, crying out once as his sword sliced into the base of her neck and biting deep into her body. He kicked her off his blade and let the queen fall to the floor, mouth open
and moving wordlessly, the light fading from her eyes. He turned away, for she was already forgotten.
With her death, the disc embedded in the forehead of the last remaining dire bear lost its glow. The beasts eyes cleared and it looked around in confusion, its mind clear of the controlling fog that had ruled its life for so long. It roared in anger, then turned and ran out of the great hall. Tarazal watched it go, then whirled about, blocking a strike from Azaran.
Swords clashed, metal squealing on metal. Azaran hurled himself into the attack, battering Tarazal back with each blow. The man was weak from his wounds, weak from the energy spent healing them, the runes drawing deep on his reserves. It was all the man could do to block the attacks. His reactions were off, his reflexes slowed. He tried to strike back, stabbing at Azaran's face. Azaran avoided the blow, moving sideways and letting Tarzal overextend himself. He raised his sword and slammed the pommel down hard on the back of Tarazal's head.
The man fell to the floor, stunned for a brief moment. Enough for Azaran to boot the sword away from his arm. Tarazal tried to rise, shaking his head, only to find the sword placed firmly at his throat, the point digging into his flesh. He raised his hands, breathing heavy, flesh pale with exhaustion, eyes calm.
"Do not hesitate," he said. "If I taught you nothing else, remember that lesson."
"What lesson?" Azaran replied. "I do not remember."
Tarazal looked disgusted. "Still you persist with this lie? The student bests his Master. You owe me honesty at least."
"I do not lie. I do not remember..."
"Never hesitate. Strike, do not be struck. Obedience is the first and last duty." Tarazal looked down on him, a rare smile creasing his face. "And always remember, you are a weapon. These are the Four Great Lessons. Everything else is just details. You have learned them well. You are worthy to serve our Master."
Men approached from the sides. One held a sheathed blade with a black hilt. The other a blue sash of some cloth that had a metallic sheen to it. Azaran wrapped the sash about his naked waist. He took the blade and drew it, looked on the the gray, glittering metal, stronger and sharper than the finest steel.
Shadow of the Ghost Bear (The Tale of Azaran Book 2) Page 21