In Legend Born (27 page)

The day after the attack, as his surviving men patched up their wounded, buried the Outlookers killed during the prisoners' surprise attack, and salvaged what they could from the burned wreckage, Myrell had sent patrols out after the troops which had failed to return from or report on their pursuit of Josarian. Led by a Silerian criminal who stayed out of the mines in exchange for serving the Valdani as a guide and interpreter, they had tracked the troops and eventually discovered... Oh, Three Into One, he couldn't even bear to think of what his men had found! Over fifty men and horses were found dead out there, most lying twisted, broken, and bloody at the bottom of some vast, ancient quarry.

The first dozen Outlookers to fall over the precipice in the dark probably hadn't realized, not until the very last moment, what was happening. The rest of the men, however... They must have heard the screams of terrified horses and dying men even above the thunder of their own mounts' hoofbeats. There must have been a moment when they'd tried to rein in, to halt beasts born to a herd mentality and ruthlessly trained not to hesitate in the face of violence. There must have been men among them who knew they were racing straight for their deaths and could do nothing about it.

A few bodies had remained on the cliff's edge. Some were hideously trampled, maimed beyond recognition: panicked riders who had thrown themselves from their mounts, only to be killed by the horses behind them. There were several corpses, though, that hadn't been trampled. These riders had undoubtedly been at the very end of the column. Each of them had been killed by a sword. One of them, discovered later in the day, had fled the cliff's edge and been hunted down in the dark; his body was found at some distance from the carnage, his sword-arm severed and his throat cut.

The savagery of it had turned Myrell sick with hatred and made him lust for vengeance. His entire command, his men, his career, his life... everything destroyed by these bloodthirsty Silerian savages, a race of illiterate slaves, a people little advanced beyond the sheep they tended.

While Myrell choked on the bile of his hatred, Koroll ordered two Outlookers to escort him to a guarded chamber, then dismissed Myrell, his voice rich with loathing.

After the former Outlooker captain had left his command chamber, Koroll picked up the bloody Moorlander tunic and examined it more closely. No, there was no doubt about it; this was the same tunic the
shatai
had worn.

Great merciful bloodstained gods! Had Josarian managed to kill even the
shatai
? Had that murdering, thieving
shallah
tangled with one of the most highly-skilled warriors in the entire world and won? How was such a thing possible? Perhaps there was some other explanation.

Koroll looked at the tunic again. What other explanation could there be? How else could Josarian have gotten hold of the tunic, and where had all the blood come from? He must have carried it as a trophy until one day he'd found a use for it. The outlaw had baited Myrell with it, using the fiction of Porsall's abduction to keep Myrell from capturing him immediately, thereby giving himself an opportunity to lead the Outlookers into the deadly trap he'd set for them in the mountains.

According to Myrell, the riders who hadn't plunged into the quarry had been killed in combat. Could Josarian have done that alone, or had someone helped him? Koroll suspected it was the latter. After all, Myrell had imprisoned twenty men from Emeldar. It didn't take much imagination to picture Josarian convincing others from the village to help him free those prisoners.

So now he had help; the outlaw was no longer alone. Indeed, all the survivors of the prison break had probably joined him now, too. He'd been troublesome enough by himself, but now he'd have a small band of men under his command.

Fear settled in Koroll's belly like a lump of ice. This
shallah
must be stopped! He had killed armed Outlookers in ambushes and in combat, eluded capture far longer than anyone had anticipated, somehow managed to murder a
shatai
, successfully attacked a fortress and freed its prisoners, and led over fifty trained men straight to their deaths. He
must
be stopped before he could do more damage.

The question was: What would it take to kill him?

This problem plagued Koroll as he fingered the tunic. For all that Myrell was a bungling fool who'd let twenty prisoners escape to kill most of his men and burn all of his supplies, he did have one good idea: convincing other
shallaheen
to turn on Josarian. If Koroll could make them suffer enough in Josarian's name, the outlaw's own people would kill him. For two centuries the Valdani had controlled Silerians by manipulating them into exercising their violent tendencies upon each other rather than upon their conquerors. It was time to bring this philosophy to a new level of efficiency.

Koroll contemplated how he could employ Myrell to further his own ends. He was one of the few living Valdani who had actually
seen
Josarian and could identify him, alive or dead. Moreover, Myrell had nothing left to lose, and Koroll had seen the hatred and fury burning inside of him. Left alone, Myrell would turn to drink, violence, and reckless pursuits in some forgotten corner of the Empire. But properly used... Properly used, he could become as brutal, focused, and fearless as the outlaw they sought.

"Where will you go?" Tashinar demanded, fear making her voice rough as she watched Mirabar bundle up her few belongings. "You can't simply walk down the mountain and assume no one will notice you!"

"I know," Mirabar said, her voice unnaturally calm under the circumstances.

"Then how do you expect to survive more than a few days?" Tashinar cried, resisting the urge to shake her initiate.

"I must..." Mirabar frowned absently. "I must rely upon the Beckoner to protect me."

"Protect you? All he's done is torment you ever since he first—"

"He wants me to live long enough to... to do whatever it is he wants me to do. So he will have to protect me from superstition and violence."

Tashinar tried another angle. "And Kiloran? How do you expect to find him? Do you think you can just go around the countryside
asking
for him?"

"I will be led to him. Somehow, I know I will be led." She sounded neither smug nor happy. But she did sound certain.

"And what about us? How will we know what happens to you? You can't expect me to simply wait and wonder—" She stopped abruptly when Mirabar burst into a peal of laughter.

"Tashinar, you of all people should be able to find out what happens to me!" Mirabar said, genuinely amused.

Tashinar blinked in astonishment. She had actually forgotten for a moment. Nearly forty years as a Guardian, and she had forgotten that she was a gateway to the Otherworld. But she was not soothed by the reminder. Her throat tightened as she said, "The next time we talk, I do not want to see you as a shade in the Otherworld."

"I don't either." Mirabar trembled briefly, and for the first time, Tashinar realized how terrified she was behind her determined demeanor.

"I'm coming with you," Tashinar said suddenly.

"You can't." Mirabar avoided her gaze and kept her voice toneless. "You're too old to make the journey. You would slow me down."

"How dare you talk to me that way!"

"It won't work, Tashinar," Mirabar said. "You may not come."

Tashinar saw with sudden sorrow that the Beckoner was replacing her as Mirabar's mentor and guide. Tashinar still had so much to teach Mirabar about being a Guardian of the Otherworld, but the girl was right: In this matter, she was just an old woman who would interfere with Mirabar's duty.

She suppressed the impulse to take Mirabar in her arms and shelter her as she had during the girl's childhood, when she'd been a bewildered girl in need of comfort and reassurance. "You may need money down below. I have some that I've kept aside for an emergency."

"Yes, I..." Mirabar looked around her in confusion. "I hadn't thought about that." She had never used money—had only even seen it a few times in her life.

"Always bargain for a lower price than is asked," Tashinar instructed after returning to her side with the copper and silver coins she kept in a little doeskin bag. "Down below, people are less likely to feed you just because you're a Guardian. So you'll need to use this wisely." The girl could trap, hunt, and gather all manner of food, but Tashinar doubted she'd ever even been in a marketplace. Even assuming traders would deal with her, there were just so many things about ordinary life she simply didn't know. "How will you— I mean, this is very—"

"There
is
a reason." Mirabar put her hand on Tashinar's shoulder and squeezed gently. "You must believe that."

A man's voice interrupted them. "Excuse me..."

Mirabar whirled to face the intruder. It was only Derlen, looking unusually hesitant. "What do you want?"

"Mirabar..." He shifted his weight. "I know you have resented me for—"

"That's in the past now, Derlen," she said gruffly. "I'm leaving."

"Yes, I know." He took a breath and continued, "It was never personal. Anything I have done or said has been for the good of the circle."

"I know."

"I don't understand what's happening to you, where your visions come from, or where they are taking you. But I sense that your task is enormous and that the risks will be great." He handed her a portion of knotted twine; the shiny black beads of a Guardian were woven into it beside the red ones of a merchant. "My family in Shaljir are wealthy and somewhat influential. If you need help of any kind, no matter how great or small, this
jashar
will open their doors to you."

Tashinar took the message from him and studied it, then handed it to Mirabar. Derlen had included a little personal news about himself and his son, but otherwise the
jashar
merely introduced Mirabar as a powerful Guardian on a sacred mission who must be aided in whatever way she required.

"Thank you, Derlen," Mirabar said, looking genuinely moved.

Unfortunately, Derlen got rather pedantic and fussy then, annoying Mirabar, who snapped at him and rudely turned away. After he left, Mirabar grumbled, "We will never get along."

"And I had
such
hopes," Tashinar said dryly.

Mirabar was startled into a shaky smile. "Well, perhaps when I return, we will both have mellowed."

"
Will
you return?"

"I promise."

A little while later, as she watched Mirabar, still so young, set her foot upon the path leading her away from the only safety she had ever known, Tashinar held that promise to her heart.

It didn't take a gift of prophecy to predict that the Outlookers' first move would be to punish Josarian and the escaped prisoners by hurting their families in Emeldar. So the band of outlaws traveled back toward their native village at top speed to save their loved ones from Valdani revenge. They knew they'd need supplies for their people, so along the way, they attacked and looted an Outlooker outpost by night.

At first, the people in Malthenar, the nearest village, were furious as they worried about the punishment they might receive as a result of this. Josarian spoke to them by firelight in the village square.

"You've broken no laws here tonight!" he reminded them. "The Valdani know who I am and what I've already done, and soon they will know just how much harm I mean them.
Tell
them who did this! Tell them who killed Outlookers and stole their supplies here tonight!" He paused, looking around at the faces in the crowd. "Tell them I have sworn a bloodfeud against them."

Standing behind Josarian's right shoulder, ready to defend him against anyone who might actually attempt what Falian had merely threatened to do in the caves of Dalishar, Tansen was heartened by the rallying effect that Josarian's announcement had on the villagers. He had well over a dozen loyal men with him now, and word was already spreading about what had happened at Britar. Josarian's legend, born on the bloody night he had killed for the first time, was growing fast.