Hero in the Shadows (39 page)

Hurling himself back against the chair, Emrin tipped it and crashed to the floor, struggling furiously with his bonds.

“Pick him up,” ordered Shad. The two remaining guards moved to the chair.

From his position on the floor Emrin saw the door open. The Gray Man stepped inside, a small double-winged crossbow in his hand.

“Cut him loose,” said the Gray Man, “and I shall let you live.” His voice was calm and conversational.

The three soldiers in the room backed away, drawing their weapons. It was Shad who spoke first. “Big of you,” he said. “But that weapon only has two bolts. There are three of us.”

The Gray Man’s arm extended. A bolt sliced through the air, punching into Shad’s throat. He stumbled back, then fell to his knees, choking on his own blood.

“Now there are two of you,” said the Gray Man. “Cut him loose.”

The guards cast nervous glances at the dying Shad. One of them drew a knife and slashed through the ropes binding Emrin to the chair. Then he dropped the weapon and backed away to the wall. The other man followed his lead. The Gray Man walked past Emrin to the mortally wounded Shad. The man was weakly trying to pull the bolt from his throat. The Gray Man wrenched it clear. Blood spurted from the wound. Gagging and choking, Shad rolled to the floor. His legs kicked out, and he died.

Emrin forced himself to his knees and tried to stand. He staggered. The Gray Man caught him. “Steady yourself. Take a few deep breaths. I need you to be able to ride.”

“Yes, sir,” mumbled Emrin.

A young man appeared at Emrin’s side. He saw that it was the duke’s son, Niallad. “Let me help you,” he said. Emrin leaned in to him.

“Go to the stable,” said the Gray Man. “Saddle two mounts and the steeldust. I will see you there presently.”

Supported by the youth, Emrin moved through the doorway. The body of the guard who had left the room was lying on the rug. His throat had been cut. Supported by Niallad, Emrin made it to the main doors and out into the sunlight. The fresh air helped revive him, and by the time they reached the stables he was walking unsupported.

Norda was waiting there with several small sacks of supplies. She ran to Emrin. “Oh, my poor dear,” she said, reaching up and stroking his bruised and swollen face.

“Not so pretty, eh?”

“You look good to me,” she said. “Now you’d best be seeing to your horses. The Gentleman wants his steeldust saddled. He told me that.” She took his hand. “Now you listen to me, Emrin. The Gentleman is a fine man, but he has many enemies. You look after him, now.”

Suddenly, despite all his pain, Emrin laughed. “Me? Look after
him
? Ah, Norda, what a thought!”

The Gray Man strode from the palace and along the gravel-covered path. Norda curtseyed as she saw him. Emrin saw that his face was grim. “Can you ride?” asked the Gray Man.

“I can, sir.”

Niall came from the stables, leading three saddled horses—two roans, and the steeldust gelding. The Gray Man stepped into the saddle and called out to Norda. “My thanks to you, girl.” Norda curtseyed. “And tell Matze Chai to return home.”

“I will, sir.”

Emrin walked to the first of the roans and painfully hauled himself into the saddle, then followed the Gray Man and the youth as they rode toward the trees.

They had been riding in silence for almost an hour when Emrin heard the youth say: “The guards will raise the alarm. How soon before we are followed?”

“We have a little time,” answered the Gray Man.

The youth was silent for a moment. “You killed them, didn’t you?” he said at last.

“Yes, I killed them.”

“You told them you would let them live if they cut him loose. What kind of a man are you?” Emrin winced as he heard the question.

The Gray Man did not answer. Swinging his horse, he rode back to Emrin. “Head west toward the forest, keeping the ruins to the south. If you see mist, keep clear of it. I will catch up with you before dusk.”

“Yes, sir.” As the Gray Man rode back along the trail, Emrin called out: “And thank you!” Heeling his horse, he moved up alongside the young man.

Niallad was flushed and angry. “He has no concern for human life,” he said.

“He had concern for yours and mine,” said Emrin. “That’ll do for me.”

“You condone what he did?”

Emrin hauled on the reins and swung in the saddle to face the young noble. “Look at me!” he said fiercely, struggling to control his anger. “Those men were about to beat me to death. You think I care that they are dead? When I was a lad, a group of us thought it would be great sport to go on a deer hunt. We had our new spears, and a couple of us had hunting bows. Seven of us there were. We went into the mountains and soon came upon tracks. As we were closing in on our quarry, we moved into some dense undergrowth. Suddenly, out of nowhere, a huge grizzly reared up. One of my friends, an idiot named Steff, loosed a shaft into it. Only two of us made it down from the mountain.”

“What has this to do with the Gray Man?” asked Niallad.

“If you anger a bear, don’t be surprised if it rips your guts out!” snapped Emrin.

Three-swords was hot, the sun beating down on his lacquered black hair while not a breath of breeze stirred against his
ankle-length tunic of black silk. He stood quietly for a moment, his hands resting on the hilts of two curved swords scabbarded at his sides. A third sword hung between his shoulder blades, his ornate helm tied to the hilt. The
Kriaz-nor
scanned the clearing, then moved swiftly across it and into the shadows of the trees, closely followed by his three black-garbed companions.

Once in the shade, Three-swords paused, enjoying the respite from the harsh sun. His golden eyes scanned the trail. Irritation touched him. They should have been given a hunt hound, for despite his tracking skills, they had lost the trail three times so far. It was most galling. Deresh Karany had given them three days to kill the sword bearers, and two were almost gone. If they failed to complete the task in the time allotted, it was likely that one of the four would be executed. Three-swords knew he was unlikely to be the one chosen, but with Deresh Karany nothing was certain.

He glanced back at his squad. Most likely it would be Stone-four, he thought. Fresh from the stone training pen, he had yet to earn a fighting name. He had talent, though, as his apprentice name showed. He had finished fourth of fifty in the pen rankings for that year. Three-swords ordered his companions to remain where they were, then carefully scouted farther along the deer trail that led south through the trees. The ground was hard. Three-swords moved on. He heard the sound of water trickling over rocks and moved through the undergrowth toward it. Here the ground was softer, and between two bushes he saw hoofprints and alongside the water the deep impression left by a boot.

Calling out to his soldiers, Three-swords waited for them to join him. “Maybe half a day, maybe less,” he said, his golden gaze focusing on the boot print. “Edges are drying out and crumbling.” The hulking, round-shouldered Iron-arm ambled forward. Pulling his scabbard from the black sash
around his thick waist, Iron-arm dropped to his knees and then bent over, sniffing at the print. Closing his eyes, he screened out the scents of his three companions. A male fox had urinated in the bushes close by, the musky smell all but masking the delicate aroma left by the humans. Opening his eyes, he looked into the grim features of his captain, Three-swords. “One of them is very tired,” he said. “The one with drying blood on him. The other one—the
Riaj-nor
—is strong.”

“He is not
Riaj-nor
,” said Three-swords. “Their order has died out. I am told they now have pale imitations calling themselves
Rajnee
. They have gone soft in this world. It happens.”

“Not to us,” said Stone-four.

Three-swords looked at the powerfully built young warrior and shook his head. “Until idiots start thinking that,” he said.

Stone-four gave a low growl. His shoulders hunched. Three-swords stepped in close to the angry
Kriaz-nor
. “You think you are ready to face me? You think you have the skill? Make the challenge, sheep turd! Make it and I will take your head and eat your heart.”

For a moment it seemed that Stone-four would draw his sword. His hand hovered over the black hilt. Then he relaxed.

“Wise,” said Three-swords. “Now you might live long enough to earn a name.”

“We should have them by nightfall,” said Iron-arm. “If we push hard.”

“Better to reach them at midnight,” said Long-stride, the tallest of the quartet. His face was long and heavily bearded, his eyes deep-set, the pupils slitted. “They’ll be deep asleep.”

“I’d sooner kill them in combat,” said Stone-four.

“That’s because you’re young,” Long-stride said amiably. “They taste better if they die relaxed. Is that not so, Three-swords?”

“Aye, it is true. Rage or fear stiffens the muscles. Don’t know why. Midnight it is. We shall rest here for an hour.”

Three-swords moved away and sat by the stream. The powerful Iron-arm joined him. “No sign of Striped-claw’s squad. They must be nearly as close as us.”

“Maybe closer,” said Three-swords, dipping his hand into the stream and scooping water to his thin mouth.

Iron-arm dropped his voice. “Then why agree to wait until midnight? You want Striped-claw to be first?”

Three-swords smiled. “I do not like Striped-claw. Too much cat in him. One of these days I’ll have to eat his heart. I’ll wager it will taste bad.”

“So why allow him the glory of the kill?”

“All the stories talk of the great skill of the
Riaj-nor
and the deadly spell poisons of their blades. If Striped-claw overcomes such a blade and takes the heart of the warrior who carries it, I will be disappointed. But I shall shrug and live with it.”

“You don’t think that he will?”

Three-swords thought about the question. “Striped-claw, though a ferociously good swordsman, is foolhardy and reckless. It would neither surprise me nor break my heart to hear of him being cut down by a
Riaj-nor.
”

“You said these warriors were but pale imitations,” put in Iron-arm.

“I said that is what I have been told. I prefer to withhold judgment until I have seen for myself.”

Three-swords pulled the two scabbards from his waist sash and laid them on the ground. Then he stretched out on his side and closed his eyes.

Yes, Striped-claw would arrive first. He would rush in and engage the humans without any thought of their talents, relying on his own blistering speed and skill. With luck he would suffer hugely for it. Then his men would finish the humans, and Three-swords and his squad could join them for the ritual feast. It was a good thought.

He lay quietly, allowing his body to relax.

It was good to be wandering this land. For nine years Three-swords had traveled with the army, surrounded by hundreds of fellow
Kriaz-nor
, sleeping with nine others in a crowded tent, marching in formation, or attacking cities. In this land the sky seemed larger, and Three-swords found that he enjoyed the freedom his mission offered.

He dozed for a while and then became aware that he was dreaming. He could see himself standing by a cabin, a stream running nearby, his children playing near the trees. He sat up, cursing inwardly. From where does such stupidity spring? he asked himself.

“Bad dream?” asked Iron-arm.

“No.” Three-swords pushed up the sleeve of his black silk tunic and gazed down on the fine wolf fur that covered his forearm. “It will be good when the army comes through,” he said. “I miss the life. Do you?”

Iron-arm shrugged. “I don’t miss Sky-dagger’s snoring or the smell of Tree-nine’s feet.”

Three-swords rose and slid the two scabbards back into his sash. “I am tired of this place,” he said. “We will not wait until midnight.”

Kysumu tethered the horses and fed them the last of the grain. The sun was setting as he moved back into the campsite and prepared a small fire. Yu Yu was already asleep, his head resting on his cloak, his knees drawn up like a child. Kysumu gazed around at the trees, their trunks glowing in the light of the dying sun, and wished he had brought his charcoal and parchment. Instead he closed his eyes and tried for meditation. Yu Yu rolled to his back and began to snore softly.

Kysumu sighed.

For the first time in many years he felt somehow lost, adrift from his center. Meditation would not come. An insect buzzed around his face, and he brushed it away. He knew what was
wrong and knew the very moment when the seeds of his disquiet had been sown. Knowledge made it no easier to accept. Kysumu found himself thinking back to the years of training, but most of all his thoughts returned to the Star Lily and the Night of Bitter Sweetness.

The Night was a mystery. All the students had heard of it, but none knew what it meant. Those
Rajnee
who had passed through it were sworn to secrecy.

Kysumu had joined the temple when he was thirteen, determined to become the greatest
Rajnee
. He had worked tirelessly, studying by day and night, absorbing the teachings, enduring the hardships. Not once did he complain of the bitter cold in the cell during winter or the stifling heat of summer. At sixteen he had been sent to work on a poor farm for a season to learn the life of the lowliest workers. Kysumu had toiled all season, working fifteen hours a day on arid land, rewarded with a bowl of thin soup and a hunk of bread. His bed was a straw mat beneath a lean-to. He had suffered with boils and dysentery. His teeth had become loose. But he had endured.

His mentor had been pleased with him. A legend among the
Rajnee
, Mu Cheng was known as the Eye of the Storm. He had left the service of the emperor in order to serve ten years as a temple tutor. Every time Kysumu felt he could not go on, he would think of the disdain in the eyes of Mu Cheng and in that thought would find the courage to persevere. It was Mu Cheng who first taught Kysumu the Way of the Blade. This was the hardest of lessons, for Kysumu had spent years controlling himself, steeling his body against hardships, driving it often beyond its limits. This very control stopped him from becoming the swordsman he desired to be. In combat, Mu Cheng told him, the Way of the Blade was emptiness and surrender. Not surrender to an enemy but the surrender of control so that the trained body could react instantly without thought. No fear, no anger, no imagination. The
sword, said Mu Cheng, is not an extension of the man. The man must become an extension of the sword.