by John Marco
"God," he muttered. "I had hoped never to see this place again."
The sailors rowed without comment. Simon's eyes darted suspiciously around the rocky inlet, but all he saw were birds and a swarm of mosquitoes. Then out of the mist the watchtower grew. It was just as he'd left it, ancient and leaning, a dilapidated spire from the old days of the warlords, rising out of the craggy earth. Simon pointed at it.
"There," he whispered, directing the sailors. The little vessel turned and headed for the tower, and in a moment slid onto the gravelly shore. The two sailors pulled in the oars and waited for Simon to depart. Simon took up his sack of provisions, spared a last glance at the ocean where the unseen Intimidator was anchored, then stepped from the rowboat. At once the cold ocean soaked into his worn-out boots.
"Tell your captain not to miss his rendezvous," he said. "I'll be back here in forty days."
One of the sailors nodded. "Just use the signal lantern. We'll come for you."
You'd better, thought Simon bitterly. He pushed the little rowboat back out to sea and watched the sailors fade into the mist, then turned and waded toward the shore. Lucel-Lor, tall and forbidding, rose up before him, shriveling his bravado. This was an ancient world, strange beyond imagining, and the people here were unlike any race in the Empire. Some said they were sorcerers, but Simon wasn't superstitious. He knew only that they were a mystery, a race that Arkus of Nar had tried to understand and failed. Simon moved quickly toward the brush, hiding himself in a grove of trees, then made his way to the abandoned tower. He had found it on his first mission to Lucel-Lor and it had made the perfect hideout. Too far from any villages, the tower never got visitors, not even curious children. It had a haunted quality to it, the kind of place seen in nightmares. It had no door but its stairs were sound, and Simon could climb to its top and see for miles.
About the tower was a clearing. Simon reached it quickly, then surveyed the tower from his hiding place in the trees. He saw no one; heard nothing. He sniffed the air for campfires and smelled only the ocean. Satisfied, he moved stealthily out of the trees and crossed the twenty yards to the tower, dashing across its threshold. Once inside, Simon stopped. Blackness enveloped him. He could hear the wind outside and the throbbing of his heart. The sack in his hand quavered. Something was wrong. Simon cursed himself.
Easy, you damn fool. There's nothing here.
His eyes adjusted to the light. Whoever had abandoned the place had left only stale air behind. There had been war in this region when the tower was built. There were towers like this one all throughout Lucel-Lor--great perches where watchmen could spy on the movements of their enemies. Lucel-Lor had endured a long and violent history, not unlike the history of Nar. They were a cruel people too, sometimes. Simon gave a nervous laugh. The similarities were striking.
He laid the sack down on the brick floor and began rummaging through it. The lantern and flint were there, as promised, along with a water skin and some dried meat and bread. Hardly enough to subsist on, but then Simon wasn't supposed to look like he'd been eating from ample supplies. He removed the lantern from the sack, struck the flint repeatedly to make it spark, then set the precious oil in the lantern aflame. The wick caught quickly and the fire died down, leaving a warm glow. Simon took up the sack, held the lantern out before him, and began making his way up the narrow stairway. Once he had left behind the entry chamber, all was dark but for the steady glow of his lamp. Along the walls were iron sconces and torch holders, now rusted away, and the mortar between the bricks had dissolved to dust. As he walked, Simon dragged his hand along the wall, feeling the imperfect stone.
When at last he reached the top of the spire, he was in a round chamber full of shattered windows. A fierce wind blew in from the ocean, chilling him. He dropped his sack on the ground and shielded the gentle flame inside the lantern with his hand. Lucel-Lor, vast and impenetrable, was at his feet. He went over to one of the windows and looked outside. Morning sunlight poured over the earth and the sea to the north. To the south was rocky earth, patched with autumn forests and the ever-rising slopes of small mountains. Simon felt a rush of insignificance. Here at the top of the world, he realized again how small he was, and how fleeting time could be. Someday the ocean would reclaim the land it had forfeited to men, and this proud tower would tumble, forgotten.
Still shaky from his ordeal on the Intimidator, Simon decided to rest. Vantran would wait, and he needed to stop his head from swimming. He opened the glass of the lantern and blew out the small flame, not needing it up here in the sunlight. Simon leaned out of the broken window and let the warming rays strike his face. Beneath him, the world was solid again.
He went from the window and put his lantern back in the burlap sack. Pulling out the crusty bread, he ate some sparingly, so as not to get sick. Then he settled back against one of the filthy walls and went over his impossible plan. The citadel of Falindar was miles away, a full day's hike. That would give him time to get more grimy, to pick up some of the land's odors. This afternoon, when the sun was high and warmer, he would leave the tower. He would make his way to Falindar and Richius Vantran, and he would begin his elaborate charade.
He would take the Jackal's daughter, he resolved. He would. And if Herrith was right and there truly was a Hell, he would burn for it.
That afternoon, Simon left the tower and began his trek toward Falindar. The sun that had looked so promising earlier had failed to materialize into anything more than a hazy orange ball, and within a few hours Simon was shivering. His feet ached too--the result of shoddy boots--and he knew that blisters were boiling up on his skin. But these were small annoyances. He was free of the confines of the ship, out in the air again, and he was grateful for the feeble sun and the fresh breeze. Tatterak was different from the other Triin territories. It was colder here, starker, and the trees were enormous. Simon moved slowly but with purpose, aware of every sound. He was in a valley between two hillsides, a green place thick with yellow flowers and blown leaves. The tall grass felt good against his thighs, and as he walked he brushed the tops of it with his palms. A school-boy smile played across his lips. This was a pristine land, not at all like Nar City with its smokestacks and choked avenues. It was as if the Triin had forgotten this place, or had left it fallow.
By late afternoon Simon had made it through most of the valley. He had almost reached its end when the smell of something dangerous alerted him. Simon stood as still as a cat, and quickly determined the source of the smell.
"Fire," he whispered.
Nearby? He cocked his head to listen, heard the breeze and the chirping of birds. Up ahead was another line of trees--big pines a mile deep. Guessing the smell was coming from the forest, he approached it warily. Then he caught the first sight of smoke. White and thin. And close by. A campfire, certainly. Simon steadied himself. He would go around, he decided, and avoid whoever was here. But when he turned to go he saw a man with an arm full of firewood.
Simon froze.
The man dropped the firewood and stood gaping at him. Not Triin. Simon didn't move.
Not bloody Triin!
"Who the hell are you?" barked the man. He was shorter than Simon but broader in the shoulders, dark-haired, and as he spoke he surged forward, one arm reaching for his blade. Simon put up his hands, his mind groping for his pretext--the one he'd rehearsed so long.
"Don't you move!" the man roared. He had his broadsword drawn and held it out in both hands. Simon raised his hands higher above his hands.
"Easy," he urged. "Take it easy. . . ."
The man was dressed like a Triin, but was unmistakably Naren. Simon stopped moving backward and let the stranger approach.
"I'm unarmed," he said loudly. "Just a dagger, in my belt. A dagger, all right?"
"Don't you move," repeated the man. He had the tip of his sword at Simon's throat now. "Or I swear to God I'll cut your miserable throat!"
"I'm not moving," said Simon. "Not a hair."
The man looked hi
m up and down, then his hand flashed out and grabbed hold of Simon's collar. He dragged Simon to his knees, then flung him down. Simon's chest hit the ground with a painful thud. The man put his foot on his neck and leaned.
"Stop!" Simon gasped.
"Shut up!" snapped the stranger. He bent down and fixed his knee into Simon's back, pressing down hard and putting the edge of his sword to Simon's throat. With his other hand he grabbed a fistful of hair and jerked back Simon's head.
"Who the hell are you? Tell me quick or I'll break your neck."
Simon calmed himself, retreating into his training. "My name is Simon," he said calmly.
"Simon what?"
"Simon Darquis. From Vosk."
"Liar!" flared the man. He slammed Simon's face into the ground. At once Simon felt blood gushing from his nose. He cried out and the man jerked his head back up. "Tell me the truth, you Naren pig! What are you doing here?"
"I . . . I'm a deserter," Simon stammered. "From the Naren legions. Like you?"
This caused another outburst from the stranger. "Now you listen to me, you dirty little weasel. I'm no deserter. And you're not either, are you? Are you?"
Simon could hardly breathe. "I am," he gasped. But inside he laughed. He couldn't believe his good fortune. "I swear it. My name is Simon Darquis. I'm a lieutenant."
"With whom? What regiment?"
"They're gone. I told you. . . ."
"With the Naren legions?"
"Yes!"
"I'll snap your neck if you move," whispered the man. "Now you tell me everything. Why are you here? Who sent you?"
"No one sent me," Simon managed to croak. "God! You're killing me!"
Enraged, the man Simon supposed was Vantran violently rolled Simon onto his back and put the tip of his sword under his chin.
"I'll run you through if you don't tell me what I want to know," he growled. His eyes were wild, like a rabid dog's. Simon was breathing hard. Suddenly he wasn't sure if he could convince Vantran.
"I swear to God I'm no one," he gasped. "Please, I swear it. I'm just a deserter. I left my regiment behind. A year ago. More, maybe. I don't know . . ."
"Then what are you doing here?" barked Vantran. "Why did you desert?"
Simon shrugged as though he was too afraid to answer. "To be free. To get away. I wandered here. That's all. . . ."
There was a softening in Vantran's face. Simon relaxed a little. It was working.
"I meant no harm," he added. "I swear it. If this is your land--"
"Quiet," snapped Vantran.
"Let me go," Simon begged. "I'll leave; go back the way I came. Please . . ."
"I said be quiet!" Vantran pulled the blade away, but only slightly. "Tell me the truth," he ordered again. This time his voice was almost desperate.
"What can I tell you?" Simon cried. "I'm a deserter. I'm Simon Darquis!"
"If you're lying I'll find out about it, Simon Darquis. I will, and then you'll be sorry." Vantran didn't move his boot from Simon's chest. "Did Biagio send you?"
Inside, Simon's smile widened. "What the hell are you talking about?"
"This is a game, I know it is. All right then, don't tell me." He took the blade from Simon's neck. "You'll come back with me," he declared. "Or I'll cut you down. Do you understand?"
"Back with you? Where?"
"Stop with your questions," said Vantran. He rose to his feet, careful to keep the sword near his prisoner. "Get up."
Simon got up very slowly. Vantran reached over and pulled the dagger from his belt, sticking it in his own. He gestured toward the trees where his campfire burned.
"That way," he ordered. "Move."
"Why? Where are we going?"
"Just move." Vantran seemed nervous. Simon struggled to keep his glee in check. The bleeding of his nose made it easy to look helpless. He walked toward the trees and the smell of smoke, Vantran's sharp blade at his back. There was a distinct tremor in the young man's voice. Good. Vantran would be easy to keep unbalanced. And that wildness in his eyes--he was restless.
"Where are you taking me?" Simon asked again. "Tell me."
"Why should I?"
"Your camp is nearby. I smelled it. That's why I was coming this way. I am hungry."
"And you're going to get a lot hungrier, my friend."
They walked on until at last they reached Vantran's campsite. It was a pleasant place, well worn, as if Vantran had spent some time there. Next to the campfire was a blanket and some utensils, and there was a horse tethered to one of the pine trees--a strapping, tawny creature that turned its eyes on them as they approached. Simon moved close to the fire. The heat felt good against his skin.
"Sit," ordered Vantran.
Simon did as directed. Vantran remained standing, staring down at him. The sun was sinking quickly. Vantran's face was lit with worry, and he didn't speak for a very long time, but instead simply watched his captive. Simon returned the stare, mustering up all his contempt. He ran a sleeve over his nose and found that the wound was worse than he'd thought. Pain shot through his face and a dull throbbing hammered his ears.
"You broke my nose, you bloody bastard."
Vantran sighed. He rested the sword point on the ground and leaned on its pommel. "Do you know who I am?"
Simon nodded. "I think I do. You're Vantran, aren't you?"
"You answered that quickly."
"Who else would you be?" Simon's eyes surveyed the young man. "Look at you, all dressed up like a Triin. I guessed who you were when I saw you."
"I bet you did. After all, you were looking for me, weren't you?"
"Vantran, I'll tell you something. All this time in Lucel-Lor has made you crazy. I can see it in your eyes. Now I don't know who the hell you think I am, and I don't really give a damn. I just want to be on my way. Would that be all right with you?"
"Stray from that spot, and I'll cut your head off. Do you understand?"
"Piss on you."
Vantran scowled. "You lousy assassin. Don't you lie to me. I know who you are. Biagio sent you!"
"Biagio!" Simon railed, half laughing. "Like I said. You're insane."
"Yes, insane. And you're just some poor wandering deserter, who just can't stand the thought of going back home to Nar, right? You expect me to believe that?"
"Believe whatever you want," said Simon. "I really don't care. Frankly, I'm enjoying your fire."
"You're from Vosk?"
"That's right."
"A lieutenant?"
Simon nodded. "I was with the regiment sent to help Blackwood Gayle find you."
The mere mention of Gayle made Vantran twitch. Simon watched him, reading his expression, and for the smallest instant he pitied the man. What Blackwood Gayle had done to Vantran was legendary. Amazingly, Vantran lowered his sword, almost dropping it from his fingers. He slid down onto the ground in front of Simon, his shoulders slumped, his eyes dim and clouded.
"I don't know what to believe. Are you who you claim? Maybe. If you're not, then I'm dead already, aren't I? If you're an assassin, then Biagio knows where I am."
Simon scoffed. "Do I look like an assassin?"
"I've seen the count's handiwork. I know how clever he can be."
"Clever enough to turn starving deserters into killers, then?" Simon jabbed a finger at himself. "Look at me. I'm a rag. All the grain fields from here to Ackle-Nye were burned. I've been living in bloody caves, eating anything I can catch or pull off a tree. You think I'm one of that bastard's pampered Roshann? I should live so long!"
Vantran gazed into the sky, considering the sinking sun. "I have to take you back with me to Falindar, but it's getting dark. We'll stay here tonight and leave in the morning."
"Falindar?" croaked Simon. "Oh, no. I'm not going to that god-cursed place."
"You're going. You're my prisoner now."
"In hell," spat Simon. "What if I say no?"
Vantran shrugged. "I'll just drag you there."
Simon grimaced. "I'm hungry."
"Sorry."
"Are you just going to let me starve?"
The young man looked at Simon. The harshness in his face began to ebb. "No, I suppose not."
The sun dropped behind the mountains; night blanketed the valley. Richius Vantran sat stretched out on the ground near his fire, his face awash in dancing firelight. On the ground near him was a plateful of half-eaten game bird. Simon watched the young man pensively. They had shared a meal together in utter silence. Simon had devoured his portion instantly. Now he felt full and satisfied. More, he was surprised at how quickly he was wearing Vantran down. The fool had even untied his hands so he could eat. When the meal was over he had tied them again, but the simple act of trust told Simon he was already winning.
It was late now, and the gray day had given up to a clear night with a bright moon. The cold fingers of autumn crept up to the campsite, held at bay by the glowing fire, and the trees in the valley moved with the stirrings of night creatures. Richius Vantran ate his supper slowly, pensively, occasionally raising his eyes to look across the campfire to where Simon was sitting. It was necessary, Vantran had explained. He didn't trust his prisoner, especially in the dark, and wouldn't have been able to sleep any other way. Simon had protested but only just enough to look convincing. Too weak in appearance to fight Vantran, he had let the young man bind him again after eating. Simon tried vainly to get comfortable against a tree trunk, his booted feet outstretched toward the warming fire. His wrists ached and his head swam. His nose still throbbed but the bleeding had stopped and Vantran had taken the care to wash some of it away with a damp cloth. The gesture had made Simon wonder about the man. How old was he now? Nearly twenty-seven? Not so young anymore, yet he sometimes acted like a boy. Simon liked his muddled innocence. He watched Vantran through the flickering fire, his brown eyes full of questions. Simon was safe now; he knew it. Vantran was no killer. And the way he had wiped Simon's face had betrayed a dangerous sympathy. Already his skepticism was eroding.
"I'm still hungry," Simon said finally. "You gonna eat all that bird?"
"You've had your share," said Vantran.