Hero in the Shadows (23 page)

Kysumu stepped up behind the naked priestess and raised her robe from the floor. Ustarte smiled her thanks and drew the garment around her. “My followers and I came through the gateway. Six were killed in the attempt. We came to save this world. Will you help us?”

“I am not a general, lady. I am an assassin. I have no armies. You want me to ride out alone against a horde of demons? For what? Honor and a swift death?”

“You would not be alone,” Kysumu said softly.

“I am always alone,” said Waylander. With that he strolled from the terrace.

He stared hard at the armor. It shone brightly in the lantern light as if crafted from moonlight. The winged helm was gleaming, and he could see his reflection in the closed visor. The chain mail attached to the nape was impossibly delicate, light glittering from it as if from a hundred diamonds. The cuirass was beautifully fashioned and engraved with runes he could not read
.

“
It would look fine upon you, sir,” said the armorer, his voice echoing in the high, domed hall
.

“
I do not want it,” said Waylander, swinging away and walking down a long, crooked corridor. He turned left, then right, pushing open a door and stepping into another hall
.

“
Try it on,” said the armorer, removing the bright helm from its place on the armor tree and offering it to him. Waylander did not reply. Angry now, he turned on his heel, moved back through the doorway, and stood in the shadowed corridor. Then he walked on. Everywhere there were turnings, and soon he lost all sense of direction. He came upon a set of stairs and climbed and climbed. At the top, exhausted, he sat down. A doorway faced him, but he was reluctant to enter. He knew instinctively what he would find, yet there was nowhere else to go. With a deep sigh he pushed open the door and gazed upon the armor tree. “Why do you not want it?” asked the armorer
.

“
Because I am not worthy to wear it,” he told the man.

“
No one is,” said the armorer
.

The scene faded, and Waylander found himself seated beside a fast-flowing stream. The sky was bright and blue, the water fresh and cool. Cupping his hands, he drank from the stream, then sat back, leaning his shoulders against the trunk of a weeping willow whose branches trailed all around him. It was peaceful there, and he wished he could stay forever.

“
Evil carries a price,” said a voice.

He glanced to his right. Just beyond the trailing branches stood a cold-eyed man. There was blood on his face and his hands. He knelt by the stream to wash. But instead of the blood being cleansed, the entire stream turned crimson and began to bubble and steam. The willow branches darkened, the leaves falling away. The tree groaned. Waylander moved away from it, and the bark split, disgorging hordes of insects, which crawled over the dead wood
.

“
Why are you doing this?” Waylander asked the man
.

“
It is my nature,” he answered
.

“
Evil carries a price,” said Waylander, stepping forward. A knife appeared in his hand, and he sliced it through the man’s throat in one smooth motion. Blood sprayed from the wound, and the man fell back. The body disappeared. Waylander stood very still. His hands were drenched in blood. He moved to the stream to wash them, and the stream turned crimson and began to bubble and hiss
.

“
Why are you doing this?” asked a voice
.

Surprised, Waylander turned and saw a man beside the dying willow. “It is my nature,” he told him—as the gleaming knife appeared in the newcomer’s hand …

He awoke with a start. Pushing himself from the chair, he walked out into the sunlight. He had slept for less than two hours, and he felt disoriented. Strolling down to the beach, he found Omri waiting there, fresh white towels folded nearby, a pitcher of cool water and a goblet ready on the small wooden table.

“You look dreadful, sir,” said the white-haired servant. “Perhaps you should forgo your swim and have some breakfast.”

Waylander shook his head and stripped off his clothing. Wading into the cool water, he flung himself forward and began to swim. His head cleared, but he could not shake himself from the mood the dreams had left. Turning, he headed back for the beach with long, easy strokes, then walked up to the waterfall and cleansed the salt and sand from his body.

Omri handed him a towel. “I brought fresh clothes while you were swimming, sir,” he said.

Waylander toweled himself dry, then pulled on a shirt of soft white silk and a pair of thin leather leggings. “Thank you, my friend,” he said.

Omri smiled, then poured a goblet of water, which Waylander drank. Norda came running down the steps, curtseying to the Gray Man.

“There is a large party of horsemen coming up the hill,
sir,” she said. “There are knights and lancers and bowmen. Lord Aric is at the head. Emrin thinks the duke is riding with them.”

“Thank you, Norda,” said Omri. “We shall be there presently.”

The girl curtseyed once more, then ran back up the steps. Omri glanced at his employer. “Are we in some trouble, sir?” he inquired.

“Let us find out,” said Waylander, tugging on his boots.

“Might I suggest a shave first, sir?” offered Omri.

Waylander rubbed a hand over the black and silver bristles on his chin. “Doesn’t pay to keep a duke waiting,” he said with a smile.

The two men strolled up the terrace steps side by side. “Mendyr Syn said to tell you that the Chiatze warrior is sleeping more easily now. His heartbeat has steadied, and the wound is healing.”

“Good. He is a brave man.”

“Might I inquire how he came by the wound?” asked Omri.

Waylander glanced at the man and saw the fear in his eyes. “He was bitten by a large hound.”

“I see. The servants are all talking about a massacre in the woods by the lake. Apparently the duke came upon the scene and is now leading a company of soldiers to investigate.”

“Is that all the servants are saying?” Waylander asked as they mounted the steps.

“No, sir. They are saying that there are demons abroad in the land. Is it true?”

“Yes,” said Waylander. “It is true.”

Omri held his hand over his chest, made the sign of the protective horn, and asked no more questions.

“Have you ever met the duke?” Waylander asked Omri.

“Yes, sir. Three times.”

“Tell me of him.”

“He is a powerful man in both mind and body. He is a good
ruler, fair and not capricious. He was originally of House Kilraith, but once he became duke, he renounced—as is the custom—all claims to leadership of Kilraith, the title passing to Aric. He is married to a Drenai princess and has several children, but only one son. The marriage is said to be happy.”

“A long time since I heard the words ‘Drenai princess,’ ” said Waylander. “There are no kings in Drenan now.”

“No, sir, not now,” agreed Omri. “The duke’s wife, Aldania, was the sister of King Niallad. He was murdered by a foul assassin just before the Vagrian War. After the war, so the story goes, the despot Karnak refused to allow her to come home. He confiscated all her estates and moneys and issued a decree of banishment. So she married Elphons and came to Kydor.”

The two men reached the entrance hall. Beyond the double doors Waylander could see horses and men waiting in the sunshine. Ordering Omri to organize refreshments for the riders, Waylander walked into the long reception room. Lord Aric was there, wearing breastplate and helm. The black-bearded magicker Eldicar Manushan was standing by the far wall, his blond page beside him. A youth dressed in dark riding clothes and wearing a chain mail shoulder guard was standing close by. His face was familiar, thought Waylander. He felt a small knot of tension form in his belly as he realized why. This was the grandson of Orien and the nephew of Niallad the Drenai king. For a moment only, Waylander saw again the tortured features of the dying monarch. Pushing the memory away, he focused on the heavyset man sprawled in the wide leather chair. The duke was powerfully built, with great breadth of shoulder and massive forearms. He glanced up at Waylander, his cold eyes locking onto the Gray Man’s dark gaze.

Waylander offered the seated man a bow. “Good morning, my lord, and welcome to my home.”

The duke nodded curtly and beckoned Waylander to the seat opposite. “The day before yesterday,” said the duke,
“some forty wagoners and their families were murdered less than two hours from here.”

“I know,” said Waylander. “I rode over the ground late yesterday.”

“Then you will also know that the killers were … shall we say … not of this world?”

Waylander nodded. “They were demons. There were some thirty of them. They move upright, and the distance between the tracks suggests that the smallest is around eight feet tall.”

“It is my intention to find their lair and destroy them,” said the duke.

“You will not find it, my lord.”

“And why is that?”

“I followed the tracks. The demons appeared in a circle some two hundred paces from the wagons. They disappeared in another circle, taking the bodies with them.”

“Ah,” said Eldicar Manushan, stepping forward, “a third level manifestation, then. A powerful spell must have been cast in that area.”

“You have come across such … spells before?” asked the duke.

“Sadly, yes, sire. They are known as portal spells.”

“Why third level?” asked Waylander.

Eldicar Manushan turned toward him. “According to the ancient texts, there are three levels of gateway magic. The third level opens onto the world of Anharat and his demons but summons only mindless blood feeders such as the beasts described by our host. The second level allows—it is said—the summoning of powerful individual demons who can be directed against specific enemies.”

“And the first level?” asked the Duke.

“A first level spell would summon one of Anharat’s companion demons—or even Anharat himself.”

“I understand little of magic and its uses,” snapped the
duke. “It has always sounded like babble to me. But a third level spell is what brought these demons, yes?”

“Yes, sire.”

“And how was this done?”

Eldicar Manushan spread his hands. “Once again, sire, we have only the words of the Ancients, as stored in sacred text. Many thousands of years ago man and demon coexisted on this world. The demons followed a great sorcerer god called Anharat. There was a war, which Anharat lost. He and all his followers were expelled from the earth, banished to another dimension. This very land, which now prospers under your rule, was instrumental in defeating Anharat. It was then called Kuan Hador, and its people were versed in great magic. With the banishing of Anharat and his legions, Kuan Hador began an age of great enlightenment. However, Anharat still had followers among the more savage tribes, and they banded together to destroy Kuan Hador, butchering its people and plunging the world into a new age of darkness and desolation.”

“Yes, yes,” said the duke. “I have always liked stories, but I would appreciate it if you would leap across the centuries and tell me about the demons who attacked the wagoners.”

“Of course, sire. My apologies,” said Eldicar Manushan. “It is my belief that one of the spells used in the original battle against Kuan Hador has been somehow reactivated, opening a third level portal. It may be that it was cast again by a sorcerer or merely recharged by a natural event—lightning, for example, striking an altar stone where the spell was first spoken.”

“Can you reverse this spell?” asked the duke.

“If we can find the source of it, my lord, I believe that I can.”

The duke returned his attention to Waylander. “I am told that a party of your friends was attacked recently by these demons but that two of the party had magical blades that held the beasts at bay. Is this true?”

“That is my understanding,” said Waylander.

“I would like to see these men.”

“One is severely wounded, my lord,” Waylander told him. “I will send for the other.”

A servant was dispatched, and some minutes later Kysumu entered the room. He bowed low to the duke and also to Waylander, then stood silently, his face impassive.

“It would be a great help, my lord,” said Eldicar Manushan, “were I able to examine the sword. I could then perhaps identify which spells were cast on the blade.”

“Give him your sword,” ordered the duke.

“No man touches a
Rajnee
blade,” Kysumu said softly, “save the one for whom it was forged.”

“Yes, yes,” said the duke. “I am also a great believer in tradition. But these are extraordinary circumstances. Hand it over.”

“I cannot,” said Kysumu.

“This is senseless,” the duke said without raising his voice. “I can call fifty men to this room. Then they will take the sword from you.”

“Many will die,” Kysumu said calmly.

“You threaten me?” said the duke, leaning forward in his chair.

Waylander rose and moved to stand before Kysumu. “I have always found,” he said, “in circumstances like these that there is a subtle difference between a threat and a promise. I have read of these
Rajnee
blades. They are linked to the warriors who hold them. When a warrior dies, his blade shatters and turns black. Perhaps the same would happen if he allowed Eldicar Manushan to take it from him. If that proves to be the case, then we will have lost one of only two weapons proved to be of use against the demons.”

The duke rose from his chair and stepped in close to the small swordsman. “Do you believe that your blade would become useless if handled by another?”

“It is more than belief,” said Kysumu. “It is knowledge. I have seen it. Three years ago a
Rajnee
surrendered to an
opponent and offered his sword. The blade splintered as soon as the opponent took hold of the hilt.”

“If this is true,” Lord Aric said suddenly, “how is it that your companion carries such a blade? He is not
Rajnee
, nor was the blade fashioned for him.”

“The blade chose him,” Kysumu said simply.

Aric laughed. “Then it must be a more fickle blade. Let us send for that and Eldicar Manushan can examine it.”