Hero in the Shadows

by David Gemmell

  The mist thickened and edged into the camp. “Man, it’s cold,” said Bragi, taking up a blanket and wrapping it around his shoulders.

  “You’re always complaining about something,” said a powerfully built man with a shaved head and a forked beard.

  “A pox on you, Canja,” snapped Bragi.

  “He’s right, though,” said someone else. “It is damned cold. It’s this mist. Feels like ice.” Rising from the ground, the men sought out more wood, building up the fire. Then they sat, wrapped in their blankets.

  “It’s worse than winter,” said Kym.

  Moments later the cold was forgotten as a terrible scream echoed in the night. Kym swore and drew his sword. Canja leapt to his feet, dagger in hand, and peered out past the fire. The mist was so thick that he could see no more than a few feet.

  “I bet it’s that Rajnee,” he said. “He’s out there.”

  Canja moved a little way into the mist. Kym was watching him.

  A curious noise began. The men looked at one another, then clambered to their feet.

  “What the hell is that?” whispered one. It sounded like scratching on the rocky ground just beyond the line of their sight.

  The mist was even thicker now, flowing across the fire, causing it to hiss and splutter. Then came a sickening sound, followed by a grunt. Kym swung around to see Canja tottering back toward the fire. Blood was gouting from a huge hole in his chest. His mouth was open, but no sound came forth. Then something white closed around the dying man’s head, wrenching it from the body. Bragi spun on his heel and ran several steps in the opposite direction. A huge white form loomed from the mist, and a taloned arm swept down. Bragi’s face disappeared in a crimson spray. Talons ripped into his belly, hurling him high into the air.

  Kym screamed and backed away to the fire, dragging out a blazing brand, which he waved around in front of him. “Get away!” he shouted. “Get away!”

  Something cold curled around his ankle. He glanced down to see a white serpent slithering over his boot. He leapt back—straight into the fire. Flames licked around his leggings. The pain was terrible, but even through it he could see huge white forms approaching the blaze on every side.

  Dropping the brand, Kym drew his dagger and turned the point toward his throat. Closing his eyes, he rammed it into his jugular.

  Something struck him in the back, and he fell from the fire. Gurgling on his lifeblood, he felt sharp teeth rip into his side.

  And the mist closed over him.

  Kysumu was sitting on the ground, cross-legged, his back against the tree. He was not asleep but in a meditation trance that served to revitalize his tired muscles. It took many minutes to establish the trance, for the snoring of Yu Yu Liang beside him was a constant irritant, rather like the buzzing of an insect around one’s face on a summer day.

  His many years of training served Kysumu well at that moment, for he calmly put aside all thoughts of Yu Yu and honed his concentration. Once it was established, he released it in a blaze of emptiness, holding only to the image of a blue flower, bright and ethereal against a backdrop of endless black space unlit by stars. Slowly—so slowly—he began to mentally recite the mantra of the Rajnee. Thirteen words, set in a child’s rhyme:

  Ocean and star,

  Each am I

  Broken my wings

  And yet I fly

  With each repeated verse Kysumu grew calmer, his mind expanding, feeling the blood flowing through his veins and the tension easing from his body. One hour of this every day and Kysumu had little need of sleep.

  Yet tonight something was disturbing his trance. It was not the sleeping Yu Yu or even the growing cold. Kysumu was hardened to extremes of cold and heat. He struggled to hold the trance, but it receded from him. He became aware of the scabbarded sword in his lap. It seemed to be vibrating gently under his fingers.

  Kysumu’s dark eyes flicked open. He glanced about the camp. The night had turned very cold, and a mist was seeping through the trees. One of the horses whinnied in fear. Kysumu took a deep breath, then glanced down at his sword. The oval bronze fist guard was glowing. The Rajnee placed his slender hand over the leather-wrapped hilt and drew the sword from its black lacquered scabbard. The blade was shining with a bright blue light so powerful that it hurt the eyes to gaze upon it. Rising to his feet, the swordsman saw that Yu Yu Liang’s stolen sword also was shining.

  Suddenly a sentry screamed. Kysumu threw aside his scabbard and ran across the camp, cutting around the back of the supply wagon. No one was there, but the mist was rising now, and Kysumu heard a crunching noise from within it. Dropping into a crouch, he examined the ground. Something wet touched his fingers. By the brilliant light of the sword he saw that it was blood.

  “Awake!” he shouted. “Awake!”

  Something moved beyond the mist. Kysumu had the merest glimpse of a colossal white figure. Then it disappeared. The mist rolled over his legs. Icy cold touched his skin. Instinctively Kysumu leapt back. His sword slashed down. As it touched the mist, blue lightning rippled through the air, crackling and hissing. A deep, angry growl sounded from close by. Kysumu jumped forward, plunging his sword into the mist. Once more blue lightning sparked, and thunder boomed over the camp.

  Another guard yelled from somewhere to the left. Kysumu glanced back to see Yu Yu Liang hacking and slashing at the mist, lightning blazing from his sword. The guard was on the ground, close to the edge of the trees. Something white was wrapped around his foot, dragging him from the camp. Kysumu sprinted across the clearing. The guard was screaming at the top of his voice. As Kysumu reached him, he saw what appeared to be the tail of a great white worm looped around the man’s ankle. He hacked at it, cutting deeply into the albino flesh. Yu Yu Liang appeared alongside him. With a high-pitched cry he slammed his blade into the worm. It released the guard, who scrabbled back to the relative safety of the camp. The worm slid back into the mist.

  Yu Yu bellowed a battle cry and gave chase. Kysumu’s left hand snaked out, grabbing the collar of Yu Yu’s wolfskin jerkin, yanking him back. Yu Yu’s legs shot into the air, and he landed heavily.

  “Stay with me,” Kysumu said calmly.

  “You could have just asked me!” grumbled Yu Yu, rubbing furiously at his bruised backside.

  Kysumu backed away to the center of the camp. The guards and bearers had all gathered there and were gazing fearfully at the mist and listening in silent horror to the strange sounds clicking and tapping just out of vision.

  The mist swirled up. Kysumu cut his sword into it. Blue lightning flashed once more, and weird howls of pain could be heard from within the fog. Yu Yu appeared alongside him.

  “What is this?” asked Yu Yu, swinging his sword.

  Kysumu ignored him. Two of the horses screamed and went down. “Stay here! Keep the mist back,” said Kysumu, turning and running across the clearing. The mist parted before him. Something moved to his left. Kysumu dived to his right, rolling and coming to his feet in one smooth motion. A long taloned arm slashed down toward his face. Kysumu swayed back and sent the glittering sword straight through the limb. There was a howl of agony, and for a heartbeat only Kysumu saw a ghastly face with huge protruding red eyes and wickedly curved fangs. Then it was gone, back into the mist.

  The sky began to lighten, the mist flowing back toward the trees.

  Within moments the sun shone above the mountains, and the clearing was calm. Two of the horses were dead, their bellies ripped open. Of the missing sentry there was no sign.

  As sunlight bathed the scene, Kysumu’s sword ceased to shine, fading back to silver steel.

  On the ground at his feet the taloned arm continued to writhe. Then, as sunlight touched it, the skin blistered and turned black, peeling away from gray bone. Smoke rose from it, the stench filling the air.

  Kysumu walked back across the clearing. Yu Yu Liang joined him.

  “Whatever they were,” said Yu Yu happily, “they were no match for two Rajnee.”

  Ma
tze Chai opened the flap of his tent and stepped out into the open. “What is the meaning of this noise?” he asked.

  “We were attacked,” Kysumu said quietly. “One man is dead, and we lost two horses.”

  “Attacked? The robbers came back?”

  “No, not robbers,” Kysumu told him. “I think we should move from here. And swiftly.”

  “As you wish, Rajnee.” Matze Chai leaned forward and peered at Yu Yu Liang. “And who is this … this … person?”

  “I am Yu Yu Liang. And I helped fight the demons.” Yu Yu raised his sword and puffed out his chest. “When the demons came, we leapt and cut—” he began excitedly.

  “Stop!” said Matze Chai, raising a slender hand. Yu Yu fell silent. “Stand still and say nothing.” Matze Chai turned his attention to Kysumu. “You and I will continue this conversation in my palanquin once we are on our way.”

  Casting a malevolent glance at Yu Yu, the merchant disappeared back inside his tent. Kysumu walked away. Yu Yu ran after him. “I didn’t know these swords could shine like that.”

  “Neither did I.”

  “Oh. I thought you could explain it to me. We make a good team, though, hey?”

  Kysumu wondered briefly if he had committed some great sin in a former life and Yu Yu was a punishment for it. He glanced up into the taller man’s bearded face, then walked away without a word.

  “Good team,” he heard Yu Yu say.

  Walking back across the camp, Kysumu could find no trace of the severed arm, but on the edge of the woods he found many tracks of three-toed taloned feet. Liu, the young captain of the guard, approached him. The man’s eyes were frightened, and he cast nervous glances into the woods.

  “I heard your pupil say they were demons.”

  “He is not my pupil.”

  “Ah, forgive me, sir. But you think they were demons?”

  “I have never before seen a demon,” Kysumu said softly. “But we can discuss it once we are on the road and away from these woods.”

  “Yes, sir. Whatever they were, it was fortunate that your … your friend was on hand to aid us with his shining sword.”

  “He is not my friend,” said Kysumu. “But yes, it was fortunate.”

  Matze Chai sat in his palanquin, the silk curtains drawn shut. “You think they were demons?” he asked the little swordsman.

  “I can think of no other alternative. I cut the limb from one, and it burned in the sunlight as if in a furnace.”

  “I have not heard of demons in this part of the world, but then, my knowledge of Kydor is limited. My client said nothing of them when he invited me here.” Matze Chai fell silent. He had once used a sorcerer to summon a demon to kill a business rival. The rival had been found the following morning with his heart torn out. Matze Chai had never really known whether the supernatural had genuinely been involved or whether the sorcerer had merely hired a killer. The sorcerer himself had been impaled two years later after an attempted coup against the Gothir emperor. It was said that a horned demon had appeared in the palace and killed several guards. Could it be, he wondered, that one of his many enemies had hired a magicker to send the creatures in the mist to kill him? He dismissed the thought almost immediately. The murdered sentry had been at the far end of the camp, farthest from his tent, as had the butchered horses. Surely a spell aimed at Matze Chai himself would have focused on the tent where he lay. A random incident, then, but a disquieting one. “Liu tells me that your sword shone like the brightest moonlight. I have not heard of this before. Are the swords of the Rajnee magical?”

  “I had not thought them to be,” said Kysumu.

  “Can you think of an explanation?”

  “The rituals of the Rajnee are ancient. Each sword is blessed with one hundred forty-four incantations. The iron ore is blessed before smelting, the steel is blessed, and the armorer priest tempers it with his own blood after three days of fasting and prayer. Finally it is laid upon the temple altar at Ri-ashon, and all the monks join together in that most holy of places to give the sword its name and its final blessing. The swords of the Rajnee are unique. No one knows the origins of many of the incantations, and some are spoken in a language no longer understood even by the priests who utter them.”

  Matze Chai sat silently as Kysumu spoke. It was the longest speech he had heard from the normally laconic swordsman.

  “I am not an expert in military matters,” said Matze Chai, “but it seems to me that the swords of the Rajnee must have been created originally for a purpose other than merely battling enemy swordsmen. Why else would they display such mystical properties when demons are close?”

  “I agree,” said Kysumu. “It is a matter I must ponder upon.”

  “While you do so, might you explain the appearance of the loud oaf in the foul-smelling wolfskin?” asked Matze Chai.

  “He is a ditchdigger,” answered the Rajnee, his face expressionless.

  “We were aided by a ditchdigger?”

  Kysumu nodded. “With a stolen Rajnee sword.”

  Matze Chai looked into the swordsman’s face. “How was it that you happened upon him?”

  “He was one of the robbers who attacked us. I went to their camp. The rest ran away, but he stood his ground.”

  “Why was it that you did not slay him?”

  “Because of the sword.”

  “You feared it?” asked Matze Chai, his surprise making him momentarily forget his manners.

  Kysumu seemed untroubled by the remark. “No, I did not fear it. When a Rajnee dies, his sword dies with him. It shivers and cracks, the blade shattering. The sword is linked to the soul of the bearer and travels with him to the world beyond.”

  “Then perhaps he stole it from a living Rajnee who still hunts for it.”

  “No. Yu Yu did not lie when he said he took it from the body of a dead Rajnee. I would have known. I believe the sword chose him. It also led him to this land and, ultimately, to our campsite.”

  “You believe the swords are sentient?”

  “I cannot explain it to you, Matze Chai. I underwent five years of intensive study before I began to grasp the concept. So let me say this by way of explanation: You have wondered since we met why I accepted this assignment. You came to me because you were told I was the best. But you did not expect me to agree to journey from the lands of the Chiatze. Not so?”

  “Indeed,” agreed Matze Chai.

  “I had many requests to consider. As I was taught, I went to the holy place and sat with my sword in my lap to meditate, to request the guidance of the Great One. And then, when my mind was purged of all selfish desire, I considered the many offers. When I came to yours, I felt the sword grow warm in my hands. I knew then that I had to journey to Kydor.”

  “Does the sword then yearn for peril?” asked Matze Chai.

  “Perhaps. But I believe it merely shows the Rajnee a path toward the will of the Great One.”

  “And these paths inevitably carry you toward evil?”

  “Yes,” said Kysumu.

  “Hardly a comforting thought,” said Matze Chai, deciding he had no wish to elicit further explanation. He disliked excitement of any kind, and this journey had already contained too many incidents. Now it seemed that the mere presence of Kysumu guaranteed further adventure.

  Pushing thoughts of demons and swords from his mind, he closed his eyes, picturing his garden and the scented flowering trees. The image calmed him.

  From outside the palanquin came a raucous noise. The ditchdigger was singing in a loud, horrible, discordant voice. Matze Chai’s eyes snapped open. The song was in a broad northern Chiatze dialect and concerned the physical endowments and unnatural body hair of a young pleasure woman.

  A small pain began behind Matze Chai’s left eye.

  Kysumu rang the bell, and the palanquin came to a smooth halt. The Rajnee opened the door and leapt lightly to the ground. The singing stopped.

  Matze Chai heard the loud oaf say: “But the next verse is really funny.”
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  Lalitia was a woman not easily surprised. She had learned all there was to know about men by the time she was fourteen, and her capacity for surprise had been exhausted long before that. Orphaned and living on the streets of the capital at the age of eight, she had learned to steal, to beg, to run, and to hide. Sleeping on the sand beneath the wharf timbers, she had sometimes huddled in the dark and watched the cutthroats drag victims to the water’s edge before knifing them viciously and hurling the bodies into the surf. She had listened as the cheap tavern whores plied their trade, rutting with their customers in the moon shadows. On many occasions she was close by when the officers of the watch came around to collect their bribes from the tavern women before taking turns enjoying free sport with them.

  The redheaded child learned swiftly. By the age of twelve she was leading a gang of juvenile cutpurses, operating throughout the market squares, paying out a tenth of their earnings to the watch to insure that they were never caught.

  For two years Lalitia—Sly Red as she was known then—hoarded her own takings, hiding the coin where no one would find it. She spent her spare time crouched in alleyways watching the rich enjoying their meals in the finer taverns, noting the way the great ladies moved and spoke, the languid grace they displayed, the faint air of boredom they assumed when in the company of men. Their backs were always straight, their movements slow, smooth, and assured. Their skin was creamy white, untanned—indeed, untouched—by the sun. In summer they wore wide-brimmed hats with gossamer veils. Sly Red watched and absorbed their movements, carefully storing them in the vaults of memory.

  At fourteen her luck had run out. While running from a merchant whose money pouch strings she had neatly sliced, she had slipped on a piece of rotten fruit and fallen heavily to the cobbles. The merchant had held her until the watch soldiers had arrived, and they had dragged her away.

  “Can’t help you this time, Red,” one of them had said. “You just robbed Vanis, and he’s an important man.”

  The magistrate had sentenced her to twelve years. She served three in a rat-infested dungeon before being summoned one day to the office of the jail captain, a young officer named Aric. He was slim and cold-eyed, even handsome in a vaguely dissolute manner.