The Righteous Blade d-2

by Stan Nichols

  ‘What’s happened to Kinsel is the work of men, not gods.’

  ‘I think the goddess knew what was going to happen to him. She gave me this child as compensation, a way of balancing things.’

  ‘If it helps you to think of it that way, go ahead. But don’t lose sight of the possibility that you may still have both; Kinsel and the child.’

  ‘You have more optimism than I do at the moment.’

  ‘Yes, at the moment. You’ve had a tremendous shock. Things will look different soon.’

  ‘I hope you’re right. But…don’t tell anybody. About the

  baby. Not just yet. I don’t think I could take much more sympathy right now.’

  When Caldason got back, Tanalvah was slumbering on the fireside couch.

  ‘You look tired yourself,’ he told Serrah.

  ‘It’s been a long day.’

  ‘Get some sleep. I’ll look out for Tanalvah.’

  ‘Sure?’

  ‘Go ahead. If you’re needed, I’ll call.’

  She left to rest in another room.

  He quietly hefted a chair to the hearth. Placing his swords on the floor beside it, he sat.

  All was silent for a while.

  ‘Reeth?’

  ‘I thought you were asleep.’

  Tanalvah shifted on the couch. ‘The way I feel at the moment I might never sleep again.’

  ‘I feel that way myself sometimes.’

  ‘You have demons waiting for you in sleep. I know what that’s like now.’

  He said nothing.

  ‘Tell me, Reeth: what gives you your strength?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘The capacity to go on. Your will to survive.’

  ‘I have no choice.’

  ‘Because of this…immortality thing?’

  ‘I could end my life if I chose. There have been times when I’ve tried.’

  ‘But not too hard, it seems.’

  Again he didn’t answer.

  ‘So it’s simply revenge that gives you the resolve to carry on?’ she ventured.

  ‘Don’t underestimate it. Revenge can be a worthy sentiment.’

  ‘There was a time when I would have argued with that.’

  ‘But not now.’

  ‘After what’s happened to Kinsel, I’ve thought of nothing but vengeance.’

  ‘Then you understand.’

  ‘We’re not the same. Don’t try to make out we are.’

  ‘It’s just a matter of degree. You want retribution for your personal hurt. I seek vengeance for my tribe, and our entire race.’

  ‘How very noble of you.’ It was an intentional barb.

  ‘You’re of the Qaloch. I would have thought you’d look favourably on what I’m doing.’

  ‘Just being born of Qalochians doesn’t make me one. Not really.’

  ‘You’re wrong. Blood will out.’

  ‘I’ve had no experience of being a member of the race we share, except its negative effects.’

  ‘That’s hardly the fault of the race. Unless you believe in blaming the victims.’

  ‘The Qalochians are history’s victims. Can you fight history?’

  ‘History’s made by people. I can fight

  them

  . Or at least the ones who wronged us, and go on wronging us.’

  ‘So you’re fighting the world, then. You’re ambitious in your enemies, I’ll give you that.’

  ‘You don’t know much about our past, do you? Or our culture?’

  ‘Beyond the fact that we’re a warrior race, what else is there?’

  ‘So much, Tanalvah. And it’s fading with every year that passes. Can you speak the Qaloch tongue?’

  Tanalvah shook her head.

  ‘Language was one of the first things they took away from us, because they understand the power of words. There was a time when many places in this land bore Qalochian names. But no longer. And where they can’t abolish language, they

  twist it. So invasion becomes liberation, and they call slavery freedom. These things go unnoticed when we lose touch with our customs and beliefs.’

  ‘I have beliefs,’ she came back indignantly. ‘I worship Iparrater, defender of-’

  ‘The downtrodden. I know. She’s a Rintarahian deity.’

  ‘So you’re a believer in the old Qaloch gods, are you?’

  ‘I follow no gods.’

  ‘You would do well to.’

  ‘Who would you suggest? Mapoy, patron of bathhouses, perhaps? Ven, the god of rag pickers? How about Isabelle, goddess of shoemakers?’

  ‘You’re mocking me.’

  ‘No. I just wonder why you honour petty foreign deities rather than Qaloch gods.’

  ‘What would be the point? The gods of the Qaloch have forsaken us.’

  ‘And your new goddess hasn’t?’

  ‘What do you care, Reeth? You’ve left no room for faith in your withered heart.’

  ‘The gods have done nothing for me. If there are gods. I walk my own path, as well as any man can.’

  ‘You’re asking for ruin when you scorn the powers that gave you life, Reeth.’

  ‘Life? Life’s just the difference between what we hope for and what we get.’

  She stared at him coldly. ‘If you really believe that, I’m sorry for you.’

  There wasn’t a lot more to be said. Tanalvah turned away, and eventually she slept, or pretended to.

  Caldason kept watch until first light, when Serrah relieved him.

  Then he drifted into sleep himself.

  He was on the edge of a field, the golden corn as high as his chest.

  It was hot. The sun beat down like a hammer and heat contorted the air. There was hardly a breath of wind. The drone of bees and faint birdsong were all that broke the silence.

  A flurry of movement caught his eye, far off, near the other end of the cornfield. Something moved through the crop, heading in his direction. He couldn’t see what it was, just the corn rustling as the commotion progressed. When it got to about a third of the way across, he noticed something else.

  A party of horsemen, five strong, appeared at the field’s farthest edge. They plunged in, living ships breasting an ocean of gold. He could hear shouting, and saw the riders whipping their mounts unmercifully.

  Their unseen quarry ploughed on, cutting a path that came nearer and nearer to where he was standing. The pursuing horsemen, crashing heedless through the stand, were closing the gap.

  Suddenly, a figure burst into the open, scattering stalks, leaves and corn pollen. Reeth recognised the old man he had seen so often before. Then he realised that the man carried a child, perhaps three or four years old. The youngster, too, was familiar, though he had no idea why.

  Child hugging his chest, the elderly protector, running with surprising speed and agility, dashed past him. Then he knew that he had been cast once more as a powerless observer, invisible to the actors in this particular drama.

  He turned to follow the old man’s progress. Now he had the cornfield at his back, and was looking towards grassland with rolling hills in the middle distance. The old man was sprinting to meet another, larger group of riders, obviously allies, galloping towards him. They came together. With a deftness belying his years, the old man scrambled onto a riderless steed, hoisting the child up with him. Then he set off across the plain, hell for leather. But the others remained, forming a defensive line.

  At that moment the five pursuing horsemen came out of the corn

  behind Reeth. Two thundered past on his right, two to his left. The fifth, disconcertingly, rode

  through

  him.

  He watched as the two groups, screaming murderously, met with a clash of steel.

  There was a flash, bright as lightning, and the scene dissolved into pitch black.

  Now he stood on the lip of a low cliff, overlooking a fast-flowing river. Here and there, smooth rocks poked out, turning the water to white foam.

  A boat appeare
d, bumpily riding the current downstream. It was a rudimentary craft, made of tanned hides stretched over a wooden frame. There was no sail; it relied on oars for motive power, and it had a primitive rudder.

  Six people occupied the boat. Four were oarsmen, though the speed of the river made their paddles redundant. They used them to fend off the half-submerged boulders that threatened to rip open the hull.

  At the stern, hand on the tiller, sat the old man. Huddled next to him was a boy; unmistakably the same child he had seen carried from the cornfield, now around eight or nine years of age. But whereas the boy had taken on some years, the old man looked exactly the same.

  On the opposite bank, a gang of men, perhaps a score in number, came into view. They were on foot, running to keep up with the bobbing, scarcely controlled boat. There were archers among them, who at intervals loosed arrows at the boat. Its erratic course was such that few of their shots came near. The boy, despite his tender age, occasionally fired back. His bolts flew with greater accuracy, causing the outraged mob to duck.

  A moment later the boat was washed round a bend and out of sight.

  The blast of light came again. Darkness closed in.

  He was standing in rough, boggy terrain, and it was night. But ahead of him several buildings were on fire, illuminating the landscape. Pungent wood-smoke stung his eyes and scorched his throat.

  It was a scene of chaos, with people running in all directions, and it took a second for him to make sense of things. A small battle was going on, a raid on a modest settlement by the look of it, and the defenders had just begun to rally. He saw raiders un-horsed and speared where they lay. Knots of men belaboured each other with broadswords. Savage hand-to-hand fighting went on all around.

  He looked about, expectant. The old man caught his eye first. He was unchanged; moving through the melee, barking orders.

  Then he saw the boy. Though youth would be a better description. He must have been fifteen or above, and now he sought no one’s protection. Giving as good an account as any, and better than most, he not only fought but directed others. He moved with a fluid assurance, cutting down foes, cheering on his comrades, showing no quarter.

  In the middle of the slaughter the youth turned and peered his way. It seemed that their eyes met, giving the lie to his observer’s invisibility. And in that moment of contact, real or imagined, the disembodied onlooker realised, or rather had confirmed, the youth’s identity.

  It lasted just an instant.

  The searing, unbearable light came then, swiftly followed by a darkness that was all-consuming.

  14

  He could have had a palace. He chose a tent. He could have dined on banquets, but preferred army rations. He could have dressed in finery, but favoured humbler garb. He could have taken the lives of the vanquished, but dispensed mercy. He could have had his pick of riches and women, but kept to modesty and abstinence. He could have embraced tyranny, but showed forbearance.

  For these and other qualities, his followers loved him. Almost enough to hide the fear they felt.

  The warlord Zerreiss-Shadow of the Gods, the Velvet Axe, the Man Who Fell From the Sun, and bearer of a dozen other sobriquets not assumed but conferred on him-was perfectly unexceptional in appearance. Many found this surprising in one who had achieved so much. As though Nature should honour conquerors with a special aspect. But the truth was that in almost every respect he was ordinary. His physique was average at best, and his face, once seen, might immediately be forgotten.

  Except for the singular vigour that animated it; a curious, indefinable potency that gave him an extraordinary presence.

  For all that the world called him a barbarian, Zerreiss was

  not a tyrant. But he was despotic. To many, this might seem a fine distinction. He was no tyrant in that he waged war as a last resort and strove not to waste lives unnecessarily. He was despotic in being resolute in his hunger for territorial expansion, and in his insistence that the gift he came to bestow, as he saw it, had to be accepted. It was only when thwarted in this regard that he made a rare display of a harsher side.

  In the valley below, his army prepared for another siege, dependent upon an offer of clemency. They faced a formidable redoubt: a fortress of massive proportions, shimmering with myriad glamoured lights and magical discharges. Well soldiered, amply provisioned, it had never been taken. But his horde was in good cheer. They knew their warlord held the key to victory.

  It was snowing. Winter always came much earlier in the northern wastelands, and as yet the weather was mild compared to what was due. But the onset of freezing conditions was a good reason to get the job over and done with. As no one doubted he would.

  Zerreiss came into his command tent like any other man: no grand entrance, no fanfare, no retinue. Yet his appearance galvanised the generals and adjuncts working there.

  He called over his two closest aides.

  ‘Has there been word on our proposal yet, Sephor?’

  ‘Not so far, sir,’ the much younger of the pair replied. ‘Should we send in another envoy?’

  ‘No. They have a lot to chew over. Let’s leave them to it for a while.’ He turned to the other man. ‘Wellem.’

  ‘Sir?’ The old campaigner instinctively came to attention, though Zerreiss seldom demanded shows of obeisance.

  ‘Everything’s ready in respect of our troops and their needs?’

  ‘All done, sir. They only await your order.’

  ‘Good. Let’s hope I don’t have to issue it. And how goes tracing the magic sources in these parts, Sephor?’

  ‘You were right, sir, about energy lines in the area. It seems at least three cross where the city stands. No doubt it was founded for that reason.’

  ‘The usual pattern. Wretched Founders,’ Zerreiss grumbled. ‘They have a lot to answer for.’

  ‘So we’ll probably be facing a full complement of magical munitions,’ Sephor added. ‘Or would have, depending on the outcome, of course.’

  ‘I think you can rely on the outcome.’ He looked to his other aide. ‘Tell me, Wellem, how do you think those below will respond?’ It was the sort of question the warlord was fond of asking, and his temperament was such that he encouraged candid replies.

  ‘No surrender. That’s what I’d say, sir, if I were in their position.’

  ‘That’s the answer I’d expect from an old campaigner, my friend. What are your reasons?’

  ‘Well, apart from the obvious reason that they find themselves under attack from someone they haven’t offended, I reckon they’d see no need to accept change. From their point of view you’re here to take something away, not to give them anything.’

  ‘A fear of the unknown, in other words. The standard response.’

  ‘Let’s hope we get the standard outcome, sir.’

  ‘In the end we will,’ Zerreiss assured him. ‘Though I wish it were possible to reach that goal without bloodshed.’

  ‘That’s war, sir,’ Wellem offered.

  ‘As you say.’ Their master’s tone was genuinely regretful. ‘Do you know the story of the Sythea?’

  They did, of course; the ancient fable was well known in the northern lands. But it pleased him to occasionally put things in allegorical form, so they feigned ignorance.

  ‘The men of the Sythea,’ he began, ‘who lived deep inside

  the Bariall caves, always held that they were in a state of grace. They had shelter and warmth in their underground burrows, and fungus to eat and water to drink from subterranean rivers. They even had some light from glowing minerals and phosphorescent lichens. The Sythea were dimly aware that another world existed far above them and the occasional hardy soul ventured out, never to return. But these troglodytes weren’t concerned with other worlds. Why should they be? Their domain had everything they needed, and they believed themselves and their dingy warrens to be protected by their underworld gods. Do you know what happened to change that?’

  Of course they did; they’d heard the st
ory many times. ‘A flood, sir,’ Sephor dutifully replied.

  ‘A flood, yes.’ Sometimes Zerreiss seemed for all the world like a children’s tutor or priest-scholar in the way he spoke to people. But somehow he had the knack of not making it sound patronising. ‘Their underground rivers and lakes swelled because of unusually heavy rainfall on the surface, though of course they didn’t know that. The water level kept rising and they were forced to move higher and higher, until eventually they had no choice but to leave their caves and risk the alien surface world. This was a cause of great fear to them, and many stubbornly clung on to what remained of their underground kingdom. Eventually, they perished. But others, bolder or more desperate, did venture out. Those who braved the surface, near-blinded by the light, found a world of wonder and fecundity. And of course the legends say that they became men as we know them. Some believe that the gods of this world sent the flood to force them from their caves so that the true race of men could begin.’ He paused, almost theatrically. ‘I am the flood.’

  ‘Not a god?’ Sephor ventured, half humorously. It was a measure of his master’s tolerance that he could make such a comment.

  Zerreiss smiled. ‘No, not a god. Though some would try to see me that way. An instrument of the gods, perhaps, if such things as gods exist. Don’t look so shocked, Wellem. You know my views on this matter.’

  ‘Yes, sir. It’s the way I was brought up, I suppose. Sorry, sir.’

  ‘I’ll have no one apologise for what they believe, my friend. You have never seen me suppress any faith in the lands we’ve taken, nor will I start now. I believe that in time people will come to their own conclusions about the truth or falsity of these things.’

  ‘That does you credit, sir.’

  ‘You know, commanders of old had aides whose job it was to whisper in their ears that their victories and triumphs, like life itself, were all transient. If not actually illusions.’ He smiled again. ‘Don’t worry, I won’t require that of you two. I have no need of such. That voice has always been here, in my head.’ He lifted a hand to his temple. ‘I stray from the point. But I think you see what I was getting at with the story of the Sythea. The people of the city below are troglodytes, through no fault of their own, and see no need to come out of their comfortable caves. Our mission is to bring them into the light. The true light.’ He let that soak in, then said, ‘Why do you follow me?’