Hero in the Shadows (47 page)

Then came a thud and a crash from the opposite side of the trail. Someone cried out. The sound was followed by a choking gurgle, then silence. Panagyn risked a glance. One of his men came running from the bushes. Panagyn saw him swing and raise his crossbow. A small black bolt suddenly flowered from the man’s brow. He staggered back, loosing his own shaft into the air. Then he fell, the body twitching for a few moments.

A man to Panagyn’s right screamed and reared up, fingers scrabbling at a bolt jutting from his neck. The warrior beside Panagyn twisted, bringing his crossbow to bear. Panagyn saw something streak through the air. The crossbowman pitched to his right. Panagyn did not see where the bolt had struck him. Panicked by the unseen killer, others of Panagyn’s men rose from their hiding places, shooting at shadows. Another man went down, this time with a bolt through the eye. The remaining men threw aside their bows and fled.

Lurching to his feet, Panagyn ran into the trees, his arms flailing at the undergrowth as he blundered through bushes. He scrambled up the hillside, half slid down a steep incline, and kept moving until his lungs could take no more.

Now, as he sat by the tree, he started to regain a little
composure. If he could just get back to the cliffs and climb down to the horses …

Pushing himself to his feet, he started to turn. His foot caught in a tree root, and he stumbled. It saved his life. A black bolt slammed into the oak. Panagyn hurled himself to the right and darted away into the trees. He scrambled over the lip of a rise, then half slid down the slope, emerging onto the trail. Several riders were sitting motionless on their mounts, and Panagyn saw the shaven-headed priestess close by. No one moved.

Panagyn backed away, drawing his sword.

A black-garbed figure stepped into sight, long black and silver hair held back from his head by a leather headband. In his hand was a small double-winged crossbow. From the other side of the trail came four of his men. Their hands were raised. A dark-haired woman walked behind them. She, too, was carrying a small crossbow.

Panagyn switched his gaze back to Waylander. The man’s face was set and grim, and Panagyn could read his own imminent death in Waylander’s eyes. “Face me like a man!” Panagyn challenged him in desperation.

“No,” said Waylander. The crossbow came up.

“Do not shoot!” ordered Niallad.

Panagyn flicked a glance at the young man, who had heeled his horse forward.

“This is not some game, Niall,” said Waylander. “This man is a traitor who took part in the killing of your parents. He deserves to die.”

“I know that,” replied Niall, “but he is a lord of Kydor and should not be shot down like some common bandit. Have you no understanding of the chivalric code? He has challenged you.”

“The chivalric code?” said Waylander. “Did he use the chivalric code when the demons came? You think he and his killers were hiding here to offer us a challenge?”

“No,” said Niallad, “they were not. And I accept that Panagyn is a disgrace to all that nobles should hold dear. But I will not be a disgrace or party to a disgrace. If you will not accept his challenge, then let me fight him.”

Waylander gave a rueful smile and shook his head. “Very well … my lord, it will be as you say. I’ll kill him in the time-honored fashion.” Handing his crossbow to Niall, the black-garbed assassin moved into open space and drew one of his short swords.

Panagyn grinned. “Well, Waylander,” he said, “you’re good at shooting men from ambush. Let’s see how you fare against an Angostin swordsman.”

15

A
S HE MOVED
, Waylander loosened the muscles of his shoulders. Panagyn was a large man, and his cavalry saber was custom-made, heavier than the standard issue and some six inches longer. He guessed that the man would attack with a sudden charge, relying on brute strength to force his opponent back. The fact that Waylander had agreed to this duel surprised him. Codes of chivalry were largely for the storytellers and bards to sing of. Enemies should be slain with a minimum of effort. He had learned this during close to forty years of combat and danger. The knowledge had been hard won.

So why are you doing it? he wondered as Panagyn also began to work on the muscles of his shoulders, swinging the saber to the left and right.

Then it came to him. There
ought
to be such codes, and the world would be a lesser place if young people like Niallad failed to believe in them. Perhaps, given time, he could make such codes a reality within Kydor. Waylander doubted it.

You are getting old and soft, he told himself.

Panagyn charged. Instead of stepping back Waylander leapt to meet him, blocking a savage cut and ramming his head into Panagyn’s face, crushing his nose. The burly nobleman staggered back. Waylander lunged. Panagyn blocked desperately, then backed away. Waylander circled him. Panagyn dragged out a dagger and flung it at Waylander. As Waylander ducked, the
nobleman rushed in. Waylander dropped to the ground, then kicked out, catching Panagyn below the right knee just as the man’s weight was coming down on it. Panagyn fell heavily. Waylander rolled to his feet and sent a slashing blow that cannoned from the top of Panagyn’s head, opening his scalp. With a cry of rage and pain Panagyn charged again. This time Waylander stepped swiftly to his left, slamming the short sword into Panagyn’s belly. The blade sank deep. Waylander grabbed the hilt with both hands, tipping the sword and driving it up into Panagyn’s heart. The nobleman sagged against him. “This is for Matze Chai,” said Waylander. “Now rot in hell!”

Panagyn toppled to the ground. Putting his foot on the dead man’s chest, Waylander tore his sword loose and cleaned the blade on Panagyn’s embroidered tunic.

Stepping back, he turned toward the horses—and stopped.

Niallad was sitting very still, the crossbow pointed at Waylander.

“He called you Waylander, Gray Man,” said the boy, his face pale. “It is an old word meaning ‘stranger’ or ‘foreigner.’ Tell me that is all he meant. Tell me that you are not the traitor who killed my uncle.”

“Put up that weapon, boy,” said Emrin. “He is the man who saved your life.”

“Tell me,” shouted Niallad.

“What is it you want to hear?” asked Waylander.

“I want the truth.”

“The truth? All right, I’ll tell you the truth. Yes, I am Waylander the Slayer, and yes, I did kill the king. I killed him for money. It is a deed that has haunted me all my life. There is no way to make amends when you kill the wrong man. So if you want to use that weapon on me, do so. It is your right!”

Waylander stood very still, and stared at the crossbow in the youth’s hand. This was the weapon he had used to kill the king, the crossbow which had sent so many to their deaths. In
that frozen moment of time Waylander thought how fitting it would be to be killed by this weapon, loosed by the only blood relative of the innocent king, whose murder had plunged the world into chaos. He relaxed and waited.

At that moment the wind changed. Ustarte had moved closer, and her scent drifted across the nostrils of Niallad’s horse. It reared suddenly. Niallad was thrown back in the saddle. His hand involuntarily squeezed the bronze trigger of the crossbow. The bolt slammed into Waylander’s chest. He half turned, took three faltering steps, then fell to the grass close to the body of Panagyn.

Ustarte reached his side first, turning him and pulling the bolt clear.

“I didn’t mean to shoot!” said Niallad.

Keeve and Emrin dismounted and ran toward the fallen man. Ustarte waved them back. “Leave him to me,” said Ustarte. Putting her arms beneath the unconscious Waylander, she lifted him with ease and carried him into the forest.

When he opened his eyes, he was lying on a bed of leaves. Ustarte was squatting beside him. Waylander’s hand went to his chest. “I thought he had killed me,” he said.

“He did,” Ustarte told him, her voice heavy with sadness.

Kysumu stared out over the ruins of Kuan Hador. The sun was setting, and the plain below seemed immensely peaceful. Moving away from the warriors of the Riaj-nor, he squatted and drew his sword. A great sadness was upon him. It lay like a boulder on his heart.

He remembered his teacher Mu Cheng, the Eye of the Storm, and the long years of training. Mu Cheng had with great patience tried to show Kysumu the secrets of the Way of the Blade, how to release control and become a living weapon. The sword, Mu Cheng had said, was not an extension of the man. The man must become the extension of the sword. No emotion, no fear, no excitement. Calm and in harmony, the
Rajnee
did his duty no
matter what the cost. Kysumu had tried. He had struggled with every fiber of his being to master the way. His swordsmanship had been beyond excellence, but it could not reach the sublime skill shown by Mu Cheng.

“It will come one day,” Mu Cheng had told him. “And on that day you will be the perfect
Rajnee.
”

Two years later Kysumu had accepted the role of bodyguard to the merchant Lu Fang. He very soon discovered why Lu Fang needed a
Rajnee
bodyguard. The man was amoral to the point of evil. His ventures included forced prostitution, slavery, and the distribution of deadly narcotics. Upon learning this Kysumu had climbed the stairs to Lu Fang’s apartments and informed him that he could no longer be his bodyguard.

Lu Fang railed at him. “You gave me your promise,
Rajnee
,” he said. “And now you will leave me unprotected?”

“I will stay until noon tomorrow,” Kysumu told him. “You will send your servants out in the morning to find other protectors. Then I leave.”

Lu Fang cursed him, but the curses were just empty sounds to the young
Rajnee
. There was no honor to be gained defending a man like Lu Fang. He walked from the apartments to the balcony beyond. Two hooded and masked figures were stealthily climbing the stairs. Kysumu moved to block them, his sword raised. Both men hesitated.

“Leave now,” said Kysumu, “and you live.”

The men glanced at one another. Both carried thin-bladed daggers, but neither had a sword. They backed down the stairs, Kysumu following them. As they reached the last step, they turned and ran.

Another figure moved into sight.

It was Mu Cheng.

As Kysumu stood now, overlooking the Plain of Eiden and the ghostly ruins of the ancient city, he remembered his shock at the condition of his former master. Mu Cheng’s eyes had
been red-rimmed, and there was stubble on his cheeks. His robes were dirty, but the sword he held was clean. It shone brightly in the lantern light.

“Step aside, pupil,” said Mu Cheng. “The villain will die tonight.”

“I have told him I can no longer serve him,” said Kysumu. “I leave his service at noon tomorrow.”

“I have promised he will die tonight. Step aside.”

“I cannot, master. You know this. Until noon I am his
Rajnee.
”

“Then I cannot save you,” said Mu Cheng.

The attack was incredibly swift. Kysumu barely blocked it. The two swordsmen then engaged in a blisteringly fast series of encounters. Kysumu could never recall quite when it happened, but somewhere within that fight he had discovered the Way of the Sword. He had relinquished control. His blade moved faster and faster, casting bewildering patterns of light in the air. Mu Cheng was forced back until, at the last, Kysumu’s sword cut through his chest. The Eye of the Storm died without a word. His sword fell to the carpeted floor, the blade shattering into a hundred shards.

Kysumu stared down at the dead face of a man he had loved.

The voice of Lu Fang came from the balcony above. “Are they dead? Are they gone?”

“They are gone,” said Kysumu, striding from the house.

Two days later Lu Fang had been stabbed to death in a market square.

Now Kysumu looked back and wondered just why he had longed to be
Rajnee
. Around him he could hear the coarse gutter language of the
Riaj-nor
. What a fool I have been, he thought. Everything I was taught was based on lies. I have wasted my life trying to be as great as the original heroes of legend. And now I find they are part beast, part man, and have no honor in them.