"Who are you?" Tralane asked in low tones.
"I am a warrior, the Jade Warrior." His answer was condescending, hostile.
"In whose service?"
"One who watches over you."
The stranger's intimidating presence was forgotten momentarily as a host of fearful implications overshadowed Tralane.
"Who watches over me?" Tralane stuttered in a panic. "Who? Is it Agathom? Are you one of his—how could you follow when I have the amulet? The Sorcerer King? I had nothing to do with him. I didn't know Gibron, I only met him in the attic. How could you follow? Are you a god? Have the gods, has Pichen-ma-thele, sent you to bring me back? Are you a guide? Please, tell me, who is watching?"
The Jade Warrior laughed, and his laughter was like the clashing of angry swords on a warm summer's day. The sharp edges of his skin rippled back and forth across his body, like the folds and creases of ordinary flesh, as he walked towards Tralane. His sword's black scabbard, inlaid with a series of complex, interlocking golden runes, tinkled against his leg. He stopped an arm's length away from the bard.
The Warrior's eyes were blank, inhumanly deep pits, level with Tralane's. They were both similar in height and build, but though Tralane's search was desperate, there was no resemblance in the Warrior's frozen, emotionless face to Detrexan's visage. The Warrior was too unlike anything that had ever lived to be recognizable as another aspect of Tralane.
They stood facing one another for a while, and neither broke the silence which bound them together. The Jade Warrior did not betray any thoughts or feelings. Tralane did not think to mask his confusion and fear.
Once again Tralane was reduced to helplessness in the face of his own actions. The theft of Wyden's Eye, the abandonment of his world to the Sorcerer King, the deaths in the recent and distant past, both of his direct and indirect doing, spread around him like a vast and devastated plain of isolation. Without action, without plans and schemes for the future which served merely to bury the past, he was a broken, pillaged fortress, useless in his vulnerability. The Jade Warrior had appeared like a grave marker, sealing off Tralane's return to the living world. He had nowhere to go for refuge in illusion.
"I am your companion, Tralane," the Jade Warrior said at last, after their shadows had moved into and merged with the encroaching night. "But of course, you know that."
Tralane slowly picked up his pack and shuffled back to the camp. He did not look behind him, knowing the Jade Warrior was soundlessly following him. His breath escaped through slack lips to form momentary clouds of frosty moisture. He shivered as he put on his clothes and broke out Oram's furs to warm himself for the night. Despite the cold, his wounds and bruises were not numb. Indeed, they burned and ached all the more, reminding him of the fragility of his flesh. For some reason, as he curled into a ball to ward off the night, the sight of the Warrior standing in the starlight by the stream set the scar on his right shoulder flaring in agony.
Chapter 8
They rode together silently; Tralane's kruushka still not accustomed to the Jade Warrior's unearthly presence as it occasionally shook its head and snorted in protest or stumbled with nervousness. Tralane had been equally disturbed during the night, his sleep tortured with the dreams that had haunted him in Rimskiel's attic. This time, however, the nameless, devouring demons had merged into one creature, endlessly pursuing yet always allowing the prey to escape the final doom of death. The teasing game between past and present was now being played between Tralane and the Jade Warrior.
The game continued into wakefulness. The Jade Warrior had been standing where Tralane had seen him last, by the stream, when the bard awoke. The morning meal was finished uneventfully, the only unusual behaviors being their mutual silence and the Jade Warrior's refusal to eat. He merely stood, to the side and slightly behind Tralane as the bard ate, staring at a mountainside. His brooding, self-contained demeanor had ruined Tralane's appetite. Nausea turned his stomach, weakness made his limbs tremble. The bard's thoughts ran into each other, producing an incoherent jumble of words, ideas and emotions that occasionally bordered on hysteria. He felt as he had in Agathom's camp, only this time there was no escape from the source. The Jade Warrior was wrapped in potent sorcery which, along with his manner of hostility contained by an attitude of condescension, prolonged Tralane's journey through uneasy dreams into day.
The bard had continued following the course he had taken when he first entered the mountains, picking his way through a winding trail of passes and valleys. As the sun rose, Tralane's patience shortened. There were no signs of settlements, and he was anxious to find human company, hoping the familiarity of a crowded tavern would help diminish the Jade Warrior's effect. He decided finally to break the silence between them and ask his companion for directions to the nearest habitation.
"Anxious to see another mortal, Tralane?" the Jade Warrior asked with obvious amusement. "I would have thought your preference to lean more towards isolated temples and mumbled prayers to archaic gods."
Tralane's surprise at the Warrior's knowledge of his recent fantasy turned to anger. Heedless about arousing the Warrior, he answered sarcastically, "Mortals at least make better company than stone gods."
"But at least stone gods don't die as easily as mortals when they are in your blessed presence, eh?" The Jade Warrior smiled, and his dagger-teeth were as red as his eyes. "If we keep following this trail, we will meet a river. If we follow the river downstream, we will come upon a village."
"How do you know? Have you been here before?"
"You asked me because I am a creature of sorcery, having access to knowledge you do not. You were right. I do not need to have been in a place before to know it."
It was not long before they found the river.
The water tumbled from the mountains on their right, gaining momentum as it surged down the length of the valley. Deep in the mountains a cloud of mist marked a spectacular waterfall. Downstream from where Tralane and his companion stood, a flock of white- and blue-feathered birds, whose great wings were like plains of snow and ice, frolicked in calmer waters. Overhead, a faint black dot circled. Another joined it, having launched itself from a mountain peak. Then the two dove straight down, towards the flock on the river, and they quickly became recognizable as sleek, dark hunting birds.
Screams of alarm greeted their arrival, and some of the flock managed to fly off. But the hunting pair were among them before most could free themselves of the water. Two piercing shrieks signaled the kills, and when the raid was over two limp, blood-stained forms hung from the talons of the attacking birds, who were returning to their mountain lair. Behind them, the flock wheeled away in the opposite direction, a harmless cloud blown away by a gust of cold wind.
"They, at least, are honest about their killing," the Jade Warrior commented. "They do not pretend to be other than what they are."
"They are animals," Tralane said flatly, dismissing the scene and urging the kruushka on.
"And what are you?"
Tralane turned his mount around and glared at the Warrior.
"Do not say you kill to survive, Tralane, for that, at least, would make you the equal of those you call animals. There are too many corpses on the road you've traveled to justify the bestowal of that title on you. And though you may pretend to be other than what you are, you lack the finer self-deceits that would make you fully human. You are a curious anomaly, young one, a strange new form of life destined to sink back into the mud that spawned you."
Tralane's rage grew to monumental proportions, filling him with recklessness. Yet fear opened a pit beneath his towering rage and swallowed it, even as he felt compelled to answer the Warrior's insults with blows. All his pride and indignation could not fill the bottomless cavern that had been created. The rent in the fabric of his being threatened to consume him.
"My bluntness does not please you? How unfortunate, considering the position you now find yourself in." The Warrior's mount started forward, and the creature g
lided by the bard without a glance at him. "You see, I will not leave you. You have my company, whether you like it or not."
"And what if—" Tralane began to growl rebelliously. "I would not try too hard, unless you've grown weary of what few pleasures you can appreciate."
Tralane caught up, but did not reply. They rode at a pace that served to preserve the kruushka's strength while the river, speaking its own language, rushed before them. The bard refused to look directly at his companion, satisfying himself with peering ahead to scout out the terrain while privately dwelling on the Jade Warrior's nature and origin.
Direct inquiry seemed inappropriate, considering the Warrior's aloofness and cutting remarks. Indirect reasoning and intuitive powers, talents the bard had always relied on in times of stress, were both disrupted by the thick, choking atmosphere of sorcery which followed the Warrior. Tralane could not understand his sensitivity to magic, since he had been raised with it. But then, perhaps the powers that had been awakened by Mathi in his pupil and which had consequently been rejected by Tralane after the grotesque monstrosity he had called back from the Dead had attacked him were being reawakened by the constant presence of the Eye and the Warrior. Working in tandem, they recreated Agathom's indomitable sorcerous influence. And the sorcery, like strong wine, clouded his mind.
However, his reaction did not explain where the Warrior, and indeed, where Wyden's Eye came from. The resurrection of an ancient fear of sorcery only served to complicate matters by involving the unanswerable question of his parentage in the general mystery. Events had taken a sudden, inexplicable turn. Uncertainty had always been a source of inspiration for new feats and adventures. The challenge to survive, no matter what the danger or cost to himself or others around him, was the only game he had ever considered potent enough to soothe and distract him from doubts founded on an unknown past. Now he was at a loss for a course of action. His resiliency was a weakness in the face of the implacable Jade Warrior; he sought, but could not find, the firm footing he needed for his struggle against this being. All the mysteries and their solutions were bound by the common thread of origin, and it was the answer to this question that Tralane had spent his years both in seeking and avoiding.
Out of the multiple ripples of frustration, a whirlpool of anger came into existence. As the morning bloomed into midday, the anger grew into a storm raging with darkness and blind fury, even while the sun shone brightly in Tralane's eyes. He had never experienced such anger; it was as if all the forgotten, dismissed, or denied moments of irritation or disappointment had been swept up from his past and hurled against the walls of his soul. No battle, no betrayal, no real or imagined wrong had ever sparked such deep and murderous hatred as that which he harbored in the presence of the Jade Warrior.
Consumed in the emotion, Tralane did not at first hear what was being said to him. He turned to the source of the words, to see the Warrior pointing ahead of them.
"Do you plan to ride calmly into the middle of a battle?"
The Warrior's words cleared the way for the sounds of men shouting to be heard. Tralane shook himself out of his reverie and focused his eyes on the scene ahead of them. On the same bank of the river they were on, the bard could see over a hundred men engaged in a battle. They were armed with clubs and shields; some brandished spears, and a few waved swords in the air. Roughly half were dressed in red and black cloth kilts and black skin shirts, while the rest wore simple loincloths and had painted their torsos and faces with colorful runes. There were only a few casualties lying on the ground or hobbling to the edges of the battleground. The leaders of the two forces, recognizable by their elaborate head pieces and masks, seemed unwilling to commit their followers to a full melee. Instead, the two groups mingled and broke like two waves running into one another, waving their weapons more to ward each other off than to strike deliberately against an opponent's defenses. There were no archers, nor was there any cavalry waiting to charge down from the foothills. Elaborate curses and insults drifted into hearing in what was easily recognizable as the Sky Tongue.
Beyond the battle site, nestled between two hills which closed in to pinch the river's exit from the mountains out onto the plains beyond, lay a village of thatched huts, huddled on both sides of the bank. A string of figures, mostly elders and children, stood on the river bank, awaiting the outcome.
"Of course, if you like," the Jade Warrior continued, ignoring Tralane's questioning glance, "we could go in at a trot. They can't harm me, but you might sustain some additional injuries."
"Who is fighting?" Tralane asked, speaking simply instead of taking the chance that too many words might jumble his meaning into an expression of hate.
"The villagers—those red and black warriors—against some mountain tribe. They're still in the preliminary stages of battle. The true warriors, the clan magicians, haven't exposed themselves yet. They've been buried underground by both sides, and are awaiting their time. I suppose you'd like to stay here and see which side is winning before—"
With a swift motion that did not startle the Jade Warrior, but which did halt his speech, Tralane grabbed the pommel of the Warrior's sword and pulled it free of its scabbard. For a moment the two were frozen in motion, their mounts still, while men fought below. Tralane considered the sword, ran his appreciative eyes over the sharp, double edges, and sensed its sorcerous power pulsing against the palm of his hand. The pain from his wounds subsided, and the stiffness in his joints and muscles relaxed.
He met the Jade Warrior's eyes; for a moment he thought he had discovered a way to destroy him. But the Warrior's smile, arrogantly superior, dissuaded Tralane from trying the sword against its owner. No doubt the sword, whatever its qualities, would not harm its master, or the Warrior would not have allowed Tralane to take it from him so easily.
Instead, Tralane kicked his kruushka into a charge and held the sword poised over his head. He screamed out the Karthasian war cry, which he had learned in the Empire's service but had never had the opportunity to use, since he had never taken part in a charge. Now Tralane smashed his way into the heart of the battle without even a thought to his bow and arrows. Here, at last, was honest bloodletting to be done. His anger alone could turn back the hill tribe, and the villagers would no doubt have the greater resources with which to repay him for his service. Instinctively, he knew on which side he would fight.
The battle disintegrated at his approach. War chants and shouts were choked off, and a quiet descended over the field, broken only by the mild tumbling of the river waters over rocks and the exploding hoof beats of Tralane's kruushka. Through a haze of blood, he saw the incredulous expressions on the faces of warriors from both camps as he bore down on them. Even the leaders turned their attention away from each other, their terrifying masks and the ceremonial batons and spears they carried rendered absurd in the stillness. They watched him without knowing what to expect or what to do.
Only when Tralane was deep in their midst and had lopped off a hill tribesman’s head with a smooth sweeping motion of his sword did the battle regain its vitality. However, recognizing the threat Tralane posed on the outcome, the hill warriors concentrated their efforts on bringing him down, even as the villagers abandoned their leader and rallied around the bard. The battle lost the mood of cautious, almost ritualistic combat and settled into an uncompromising death struggle. Tralane killed two more tribesmen before he was surrounded, and then he resorted to urging his kruushka into short charges and retreats while he twisted around in his saddle and hacked at his attackers with steady, rhythmic strokes.
His arm did not weary, as he had feared. The sword seemed to be keeping his strength up so that it could play out the only role it knew to perform. The shouts of the hillmen soon became cries of terror; instead of being surrounded by desperate enemies, Tralane found himself riding down fleeing warriors. The villagers followed him, finishing the wounded with swift blows from their clubs. He caught many of their glances as he searched for enemies to slay, and a
distant part of him puzzled over their expressions of astonishment over what they found themselves doing.
Tralane knew now the battle rage that overcame the champions of the armies he had served in and fought against. He understood the satisfaction of wielding the terrible power of death, of crushing life with a blow, and of seeing a field muddy with blood and knowing he had caused the souls of men to flee into the House of the Dead, leaving only battered, broken corpses to appease his wrath. The path of war was revealed to him in all its glory.
He gave up the pursuit when most of the surviving tribesmen had crossed the river. They were joined by their magicians, who rose from the earth, glowering at Tralane, and together ran back towards the protecting mountains. Turning around in the saddle to survey the field, Tralane recalled the resentful jests warriors of his world made about archers. They were a cowardly lot, staying in the rear and picking off enemies from a distance, while refusing to join in the face-to-face work of combat. He laughed with them now, and shook his head disparagingly at the Tralane who played games of chance with death, yet was careful to change the rules to favor his survival. What wholesome satisfaction had he missed when, instead of partaking fully in joys of blood and death, he had hidden in the rear lines, protected by foot soldiers and horse, launching frail missiles that robbed him of seeing the instant his long blow fell. How much pleasure had he sacrificed, in both life and war, by maintaining a distant and detached attitude towards the people and events occurring around him? He would abstain no longer.
He dismounted and led the kruushka through small mounds of the dead and the wounded. He walked with new-found confidence towards the village war chief, who had remained standing after Tralane's intervention and observed the turn of fortune.
The feelings of doubt and guilt over Rimskiel's and Detrexan's deaths now seemed to Tralane petty and childish. They had been his enemies at the moment of their deaths. The others who had died were victims. Perhaps they would have lived had he felt his anger earlier, and allowed a sword to speak for him. But that was in the past. He was a man, a warrior. He would bend no more to the wills of others, nor would he use cowardly deceit or trickery to satisfy his desires. He would take what he wanted, what was his, and what he chose to be his boldly and with force, if necessary.
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