The Crimson Lord (The Dark God Rises Trilogy Book 2)

by Robert Ryan

  Worst of all was that among the many enemies were his friends. But they hated him no less than the others, and he felt the pain of that run through him like fire.

  Shorty and Taingern were there, their eyes glittering. But it was Haldring that disturbed him the most. She was accoutered as the shield maiden that she had been in life, only he saw her as she had been in death – vacant-eyed and bloody. Those lifeless eyes still managed to look at him accusingly, and the end of her sword dripped blood. She pointed it at him, and she spoke, her voice dripping with scorn.

  “Here is the great king. Hail, Brand, murderer of friends and betrayer of nations.”

  Brand was as near to panic as he had ever been. What was happening to him? This was a dream, and the people here could not be real. And yet there was something real about it. Some substance and form that was not found in the drifting and random thoughts of normal sleep.

  “What do you hold against me, Haldring? It was not my blade that killed you. I would rather have endured it myself than watch you die.”

  The moment he answered, he knew it was a mistake. His acknowledgement of their presence made them stronger, and their hatred for him intensified and rolled over him like a wave.

  He stepped back, and Haldring immediately stepped closer.

  “You did not kill me with a blade,” she said, “but with your incompetence. You should have seen what would happen, and prevented it. You’re a fool. And you’re not fit to lead an army.”

  Was there truth to those words? A part of him believed so. A part did not. But none of that answered what was happening to him now, and that was what mattered most. Guilt could be addressed later.

  Shorty pressed forward. He was a small man, but he moved with grace. He was a warrior born, and Brand would not ever like to face him in a fight. There was a deadliness to him, and a coldness in his eyes that Brand had never seen before, though he knew the man’s enemies had. Before they died.

  “I could be a lord in Cardoroth,” the smaller man said. “With a manor and grounds and servants. I could be enjoying life. But no, you don’t want that for me. Instead, you drag me to this barbarous land to face death for a people who mean nothing to me. And I’ll die here, because you’ll make a mistake. You sicken me.”

  Brand was not going to answer, but this time no answer seemed to be expected. Taingern lifted off his helm, and Brand saw a dagger jutting from his eye.

  “You betrayed me,” his friend whispered, but his voice rang loud enough inside Brand’s head that he would have heard it across the other side of the world. “I gave up everything for you. I, who could have founded a school of philosophers to study the meaning of life and bring wisdom to humanity, died by your own hand. If this is what you bring to your friends, how do you think to lead a nation? You will bring your people to ruin.”

  It seemed to Brand that the number of his enemies was growing. Wherever he looked, they milled about and cast accusing gazes at him. But he could seldom recognize their faces.

  Yet now another stepped forward to reproach him, and the face suddenly became clear, a face he would never forget though he was not yet grown to manhood last time he saw it. Unferth.

  And Unferth wore the Helm of the Duthenor. Tall he stood, and proud, though there was an air of justice about him.

  “I am the rightful ruler of the Duthgar. I have united two nations, and more will follow. What once was a petty chieftainship, I have raised to the status of kingship. The high seat is no more. Instead, it is a throne. The people prosper beneath my hand, and what do you do to disrupt things? You bring war. You are a warmaker. You are not, nor will ever be, a ruler. But I forgive your sins against me. You know not what you do. Though after this, that excuse will not suffice.”

  If his demeanor was one of justice before, now it was one of executioner. He drew his sword, and Brand saw that it was the Halathrin-wrought blade that was his own.

  As though this were a sign, all his enemies turned their faces upon him at once. And they drew their weapons also, and death was in their eyes. They leapt toward him, and he turned and fled, but they followed swifter than he ran, and he saw that they flew through the air after him as the hawk hurtles toward the dove.

  Anger shot through him. He was no dove, no prey for others. And whoever, or whatever, these others were, they were not real. Another thought ran fast on the heels of that. This was a dream, and if so, it was his. If his enemies could fly, then so could he.

  He leapt up into the air, and in the manner of dreams the earth fell down behind him and his mind swam the currents of the universe.

  With a thought, he was high in the sky, his enemies trailing behind. With another, he was in the deeps of the void with the brightness of stars about him. But still, his enemies followed.

  With a silent laugh on his lips he dived down again, hurtling through their ranks and dispersing them. He plummeted back to the blue earth, and there he found the peaks of ice-clad mountains. In life, he had a fear of heights. But in this dream world he leapt from peak to peak with gladness in his heart. But still the enemy came after him.

  At a thought, he descended into deep valleys below. It was dark and secretive. Massive pines grew all around blotting out the stars in the sky and even the mountains. But he could still feel those mountains, and their roots that delved deep into the earth, layer and layer of stone and minerals and water and caves. The world, the universe, was boundless. And his mind could take him anywhere. Yet still his enemies found him, and their rushing presence drove the joy from his heart.

  He fled again, this time slipping beneath the still waters of a great lake. It was dark and cold, but he breathed of the water as though it were air and he swam with the silver-scaled fishes that roamed the water, turning and twisting in silvery beauty, their scales flashing in the pale light when they came near the surface.

  And even here his pursuers found him. They swam also, and their eyes bored into him with icy malice colder than either mountain peak or the depths of a lake.

  He could not escape them. And even as he swam, they lifted bows that they had not had before and shot fiery arrows toward him. The fish were gone. The lake was dark no longer, but lit by orange streaks that darted around him and caused the water to bubble with heat.

  Where had bows and arrows come from? If his pursuers could do that, then why not he? It was his dream, after all, and therefore he should be able to shape its reality. Even as the dream-thought came to him, he understood the truth of it.

  He turned to face his pursuers. At a thought, the sword of his forefathers was girded at his side. He drew the Halathrin-wrought bade, and it flashed wondrously beneath the water. This gave the enemy pause.

  Next, he set the Helm of the Duthenor on his head. He was the heir to the chieftainship of the Duthgar, and he had won this long-lost artifact at risk to his life. It was his to wear, and not Unferth’s.

  A moment later chain mail followed, gleaming silver like the scales of a fish. And finally the banner of the chieftains of the Duthenor floated above his head. The dragon appeared as though it were swimming in the water, and Brand knew also that if he wished he could give it life and set it after his enemies.

  But the banner, even in his dreams, was stained by blood as it was in life. There were some realities that bound both the waking and the sleeping worlds, some events that could not be forgotten.

  His pursuers halted. At his thought, their weapons vanished. It was his dream, and he would command things as he wished. The Helm of the Duthenor that protected Unferth’s head vanished also, disappearing in a sharp burst of light.

  And then Brand moved toward them. A moment they gazed at him, surprise on their faces, and then they melted away in an eddy of water and were gone.

  Brand was pleased. But the feeling did not last long. Two new figures rose from the depths of the lake, and he cursed violently.

  16. Char-harash

  The figures drew closer. Brand knew them, and he remembered them well despite the years
that had passed since he had last seen them alive. It was his mother and father.

  Anger flared through him. This dream was his, and yet he sensed another power at work. The first attack against him had failed, and now his parents were the second. It was too much, and his anger increased even further, but he compressed it into a cold ball inside him. This allowed him to think.

  The figures were no more his parents than his previous pursuers had been friends and enemies. They were imagined. And he did not think that it was him who had done so. The dream was his, but someone else, some other force, was using magic to draw out these thoughts from his mind and give them reality within the dream.

  But it was a dream, and anything seemed possible here. And all the myriad manifestations of his fears and concerns must have an origin. That they came from him was true, but it was just as true that whoever was doing this to him must also be present, else they could not delve into his thoughts as they had and give them substance within the dream.

  Whoever that person was, they were responsible for what was happening, and if they existed, which he was certain now they did, then they must also have a location within the dream, a point of entry into his mind. If he could find that, he could find them.

  It was time for the hunted to become the hunter. That the dream was his own helped, for originating in his mind he had the power. He used it now.

  He opened his senses. His mind encompassed the dream world, and all that was about him fell away. There was nothing now but the void, and the stars wheeled and spun in the inky sky. This was good, for everything revolved around him. It was his dream after all.

  Except one thing did not. One lone star far away on the edge of the sky did not move. That was his enemy, and with a thought Brand, or the dream of him that his sleeping mind had conjured, flew through the vastness and shot toward him as an arrow from a bow.

  Even as he felt the vastness of the void speed past him, Brand lifted high his sword and a white light glittered on its edges as a cold fire. It was the embodiment of his wrath, and he sensed the other light retreat away from him.

  But Brand would not let it escape, or rather the person it represented. For he sensed the other presence now. It was a man, and one full of malice. He sensed surprise also, and he caught a flickering image of a cave.

  The light he pursued vanished, but not quickly enough. Brand sensed the trail it left, and he followed it through the void. Dark was all about him now, without star or moon or the cold glory of the universe. He was in the void no longer. His dream-self had now entered a cave somewhere in Alithoras.

  He waited in the dark. His enemy was close by, and unmoving also. But unmoving did not mean scared, or not dangerous.

  The cave was not as dark as he first thought. There was a soft light casting faint shadows, and this came off both his helm and his sword. He wondered if he still had the powers of command that he possessed in his dream to alter its reality. Would that work in this place, given that it belonged to the real world and he was only a dream within it? There was only one way to find out.

  He willed light to emanate from the sword, but nothing happened. The rules of the dream had changed, because what was happening was no longer solely within his mind. It was different now. Some part of his mind was in this place, and this place was the lair of his enemy.

  Brand felt vulnerable in the dark, for he could be easily seen by the light his sword and helm gave off. On the other hand, without light, even dim as it was, his enemy could approach unseen. That would be worse.

  Gradually, his eyes adapted to the light. He saw now that this was indeed a cave, though the walls had been smoothed and evened, what little he could discern of them. It was perhaps a man-made chamber.

  He dwelled on that thought a moment. What sort of chamber would be hewn out of rock such as this? He did not like the conclusions that he reached. And the more that he began to see of this chamber, the less he liked it.

  There was evidence of paintings on the walls, though all he could see was the occasional human shape and some brighter patches of color. It was too dark to observe more, and he was not yet ready to move closer to look. To move might be to die, if that was even possible in a dream. Best not to chance that, yet.

  To his right, some bulky objects stood out. These were large earthenware vases, he decided at length. Some were waist high to a man. Some appeared to be sealed, while others were open. And from the open ones he could now see the faint luster of gold. It was confirmation of what he had begun to believe. This was a tomb.

  He gazed a little to the left. There was a stone platform there, almost like a dais in a throne room. But it was no dais. Upon it something rested, and he began to wish for the dark once more. Some things were better not to see. But he steeled himself, for he had discovered his enemy, and having discovered him he must learn more. Knowledge was power, and ignorance death.

  He stepped closer. The sword he held high in his hands, the point of it just below the level of his gaze. And that which rested on the stone platform became clearer.

  It was a body. Ancient it seemed, for the skin, where it showed, was dried and leathery. But the hair that spilled from beneath a strange helm showed traces of color and little damage by time and elements. And the face was there also. No skull was to be seen, but rather the same dried skin as on the hands. It could have been a fresh burial, but it was not.

  In the air were the fragrances of cedar oil, myrrh, cassia and frankincense. He had smelled their like once before. He had been in a tomb before, and one built in ancient days by the Letharn. They used such things as embalming agents to preserve the flesh of the dead. And he knew it was so here, also. But he guessed this was no Letharn tomb, but one that belonged to the Kirsch, the ancient enemy of the Letharn.

  The body was armored, and a sword of strange design rested near the withered right hand of the corpse. The robes it wore were golden, and the color was evident even in the dim light. There was a suggestion of sorcery too. It lingered in the air, and he knew that some powerful spell had been worked here long, long ago. And it yet endured.

  Brand gazed at the corpse. Could this be his enemy? Was it possible? Or was there some subterfuge in action that he had not yet laid bare?

  “Speak!” he commanded. “You are discovered, and I know an enemy when I see one.”

  In truth, he did not expect what happened next. He had spoken only to hear the sound of his own voice amid the crushing weight of the dark and the suffocating sense of inevitable death.

  And yet the withered hand twitched, gripping the sword. Some movement stirred the hair beneath the helm, and the face moved, lips forming words though the flesh was dried and the tongue a husk.

  Hurlak gee, mishrak ammon hul. Far geru arhat!

  Brand stepped back. Fear stabbed into his body like a lightning bolt, and his heart thundered in his chest. That it was only his mind here and not his body did not matter. He knew that these things were happening to him where he slept far away.

  He did not understand the words, but he knew a command when he heard one. Here was a man who ruled others, and expected to be obeyed. And then the voice whispered in his mind, and he understood the meaning of the words.

  Kneel, mortal. You are in the presence of a god. I speak, and you obey!

  Brand felt a desire to obey. Like a weight over his mind it fell, and his left knee buckled. But then he remembered what the man, or god, or whatever it was, had done in his dreams. Invoking images of his dead parents was too much.

  “Eat dust and die,” Brand answered. “I’m not your subject.”

  The corpse shuddered, and after a moment Brand realized it was laughter. And then the dried-out mouth began to work again.

  “In my time, it was said that you could judge a man by his enemies. There is truth to this, and you are a fitting opponent for such as I. Almost.”

  Whoever this was, he had a high opinion of himself. But Brand was not impressed.

  “Don’t enter my dreams again,�
�� he warned.

  The corpse laughed once more, and it was as disturbing a sight and sound as anything Brand had ever encountered before.

  “You are in no position to make threats. Your enemies far outnumber you. One of your allies, nay, one of the closest of your companions, will betray you. Horta will rise against you, bringing his magic to bear as a storm of destruction. And you think yourself safe in a fortress, but doubt gnaws at your soul for you know that it has fallen before. No, it is best that you do not threaten me.”

  Brand considered the corpse. “You know a lot. For a dead man.”

  “Dead? You are ignorant of the great mysteries. Who are you to speak of death, or life, or the boundaries between? You know little of what has been, or what could yet be in the future.”

  “Then tell me this. Who are you?”

  “I am Char-harash. Once I led an empire. Once, I commanded powers of magic that would still Horta’s heart. Once … but the past is an empty thing. It is a cup of memories sipped from at whiles while the mind contemplates the future.”

  Brand grew weary of holding his sword upright. But he rested its point lightly against the ground rather than sheath it.

  “And what do you see in your future, Char-harash?”

  “I see godhood. In life, I was on the brink. In death, I am on the brink of life. In but a little while I shall live again. This husk of flesh will be renewed, this body enlivened. I shall walk the world again, and I, and my brethren to be, will bend it to our wills.”

  A faint sense of unease stirred in Brand. It was not just these words, it was something else. Why should his enemy speak so freely?

  Char-harash, or what was left of him, was not done.

  “You are strong,” his enemy continued. “But you are ill-tutored. Serve me, and I will educate you in the mysteries. Obey me, and the world will tremble at your thought. I can give you powers that you have never dreamed of. There is a place by my side for such as you.”

  Brand had heard this sort of thing before. It held little temptation for him. What more could a man want but a smile from the girl he loved and a hearty meal? Everything else was empty.