In Legend Born (43 page)

True, an assassin was always in danger from the Outlookers. If they caught him, they would slaughter him, send him to the mines, or throw him into some prison cell to die slowly. But the Outlookers, after all, were merely Valdani—stupid, clumsy, and easily evaded. Besides, a man armed with a
shir
was no easy victim, not even when set upon by sword-wielding Outlookers. Najdan had killed three Outlookers over the years and knew that they were not invincible; there were just so
many
of them. Even Kiloran couldn't figure out how to kill them all.

The old wizard had expressed some interest in the young
shallah
who had managed to kill so many lately. Indeed, there were many things about Josarian that intrigued Kiloran, not the least of which was how, when, and why he had joined forces with Tansen, the mysterious mercenary who had appeared out of nowhere when the year was still young.

The waterlords of the Honored Society had already agreed that they didn't mind this unexpected mountain rebellion. It made their enemies, the Valdani, suffer—and even look incredibly foolish on occasion. It drew attention away from some of the Society's activities, thus increasing profits and power. Above all, Josarian offered no offense to the Society and did not challenge their supremacy.

It was unfortunate, however, that a man now reputed to be among Josarian's most trusted companions just happened to be an enemy of Kiloran's. Moreover, Tansen, the only surviving son of an extinct clan, had already somehow managed to kill two assassins sent to fulfill the bloodvow, thus adding to the insult of his continued existence in this world. This had given everyone cause to pause and seriously consider the situation; no one could remember the last time a mere
shallah
had killed an assassin.

Kiloran was furious. He had recalled Najdan from business on the western coast and ordered him to find and kill Tansen, quickly and efficiently. Najdan prided himself on being one of Kiloran's best and most trusted assassins. He had never possessed the qualities which might have enabled him to study the mysterious art of water magic, the secret sorcery upon which the might and power of the Society had been built, but he was exceptionally good at carrying out the Society's more practical business. True, he was not as clever as Searlon, the assassin whom Kiloran valued most of all; but Searlon came from a wealthy merchant family and was educated. However, although Najdan lacked Searlon's imagination and sophistication, he was very good at killing people, and this made him valuable to Kiloran. He acknowledged this without particular pride or regret; it simply meant that, as a mere boy of fourteen, he had chosen the right path in life. It was more than most men could say.

There was some talk about the
shallah
he sought. Strange talk about foreign swords, extraordinary abilities, a private bloodpact with Josarian—whose head he had once sought—and a past full of violence and mystery. Many members of the Society were curious about why Kiloran wanted the
roshah
dead, and no one seemed to know who the man was or what he had done to earn the waterlord's enmity. Kiloran himself had only told Najdan, "He destroyed something very valuable that should have been mine; something that can never be replaced."

Najdan didn't actually care what Tansen had done. He had always considered curiosity an unhealthy vice. It was enough to know that Kiloran wanted the
sriliah
dead, and that he was apparently hard to kill. At least he shouldn't be too hard to find, though; careful questioning in various villages revealed that Josarian's men were based up in the Dalishar Caves. A good choice for outlaws trying to avoid the Outlookers, Najdan supposed. Even Kiloran's lair was not as remote as those haunted, echoing, eerily-painted caves with their eternal fires. Najdan had never been there, but every Silerian had heard them described. Although the Society had long ago surpassed the might and influence of the Guardians, Dalishar was one of the rare places where Guardian magic still reigned supreme; centuries ago, the waterlords had quietly abandoned their attempts to control the site.

Najdan didn't relish going there, but he wasn't afraid. He had killed men in worse places.

As he tracked his quarry, he discovered that Tansen's reputation was spreading through the mountains as fast as Josarian's. Village taverns echoed with extravagant tales of the many men the stranger had killed here and abroad. He reputedly carried two Kintish swords which were said to be so powerfully enchanted that they leapt out of their sheathes by themselves and slaughtered his enemies before they had time to blink. People respected, feared, and even admired him. It was Josarian, however, whom they loved.

As Najdan ascended Mount Dalishar through rugged terrain, he supposed it was a lucky thing that Kiloran hadn't sent him here to kill Josarian. Passing through these western mountain villages, Najdan couldn't recall having ever seen anything unite the
shallaheen
like their love for Josarian. Some of it, of course, was gratitude; many bellies were fuller this season, thanks to Josarian's peculiar habit of giving away virtually everything he stole from the Valdani. But there was something else at work here, too, something that gave the
shallaheen
courage in the face of violence, and strength in the shadow of grief. The Outlookers had recently staged a hideous massacre at Malthenar after the villagers refused to betray Josarian, and now there were rumors of another massacre at Morven, though reports were still vague.

Najdan knew these people; he had been born among them, he had once been one of them. He knew that, by now, all but Josarian's own clan should be turning against him because of the suffering his activities were bringing down upon them. Yet the destruction the Valdani were now bringing to the
shallaheen
seemed to be having exactly the opposite effect of what Najdan—and probably the Valdani themselves—would have expected. The villagers Najdan spoke to in this district praised Josarian all the more reverently for the suffering they had endured—or knew they might soon endure—in his name. Every shepherd in these mountains seemed to redouble his loyalty to Josarian now that the bloodfeud was truly a matter of life and death. Mothers from here to Islanar were saying that Corenten's mother had done the right thing and that they, too, would defend their sons' right to die honorably in the face of Valdani barbarity. Some girl who hadn't even been officially betrothed to Corenten went into Sanctuary the day after his death, reportedly determined to become a Sister and honor his memory for the rest of her life.

"Josarian is
right
," people whispered in the markets.

"Josarian speaks the truth!" drunks proclaimed in the taverns.

"He will not stop killing Valdani until they stop coming into the mountains," Najdan was vehemently assured. "We will be rid of them at last!"

Not surprisingly, some
shallaheen
had even started saying that Josarian was the Firebringer.

Well, why not let them wallow in their fantasies? Najdan had seen enough of Valdani power and strength to know that a few rebellious
shallaheen
couldn't change the world. The Society, with all its power, wealth, and experience, had been fighting the Valdani for years without getting rid of them. No matter how many victories the waterlords enjoyed, there were always more Valdani sent to replace the ones they killed. It made Najdan wonder how vast the homeland of the Valdani must be, that they could keep sending men to Sileria while simultaneously conquering the rest of the world. Didn't they ever run out of people? How fast could their women possibly breed?

Surely it would take more than the Firebringer to kill so many men and make sure that no more crossed the Middle Sea to maintain the Emperor's power here. Not that Najdan believed in the Firebringer, anyhow. The
zanareen
were merely the lost, pathetic, half-mad remnants of what had once been men, so beaten by life that they retreated from the world to huddle around the lips of Darshon and pray for someone to solve all their problems for them. The
shallaheen
, too weak to seize their own destiny as the Society did, clung to the shallow hope and superstitious rubbish spread by the
zanareen
. Najdan believed a man solved his own problems, or died of them; there was no third way, and certainly no heroic savior coming to change Sileria's destiny.

It was, of course, primarily a mountain superstition, since legend said the Firebringer would be mountain-born. Nonetheless, you could find men and women at almost every level of Silerian society who half-believed in the Firebringer—the way they half-believed in the Otherworld or the White Dragon or the Beyah-Olvari or fire-eyed demons who were cursed by Dar.

The White Dragon... now that was one thing that Najdan
did
believe in, no matter how other men—even some assassins—scoffed at the ancient tales. Najdan was only a boy of fourteen when he first met Kiloran, and from that day, he had believed every dark legend ever whispered about the waterlords. He had never seen such power, and he didn't doubt that it extended into abilities beyond his imagination.

He wondered what legends Josarian believed—and if he would eventually start to believe what the
shallaheen
whispered about him. In order to prove himself, the Firebringer would have to throw himself into the Fires of Dar and survive. It would be too bad if Josarian took the leap, since his death would undoubtedly end the little rebellion that was making the Valdani so frantic. However, if he died in the volcano soon, at least he wouldn't have long to mourn the friend whom Najdan would kill today.

The rumors in Chandar, the village closest to Dalishar, were encouraging. Josarian, whose reputed loyalty to Tansen might foolishly motivate him to interfere in Society business, hadn't been seen in many days. His men said nothing of his whereabouts to anyone, but he was believed to be pursuing Myrell, the Outlooker ordering the massacres. A couple of quick, much talked-about reprisals against Myrell's men seemed to confirm this. Everyone seemed to think that Josarian, wherever he was at the moment, was nowhere near Dalishar.

Tansen, on the other hand, was not only there, but sick. He was said to be suffering from some kind of strange, recurring fever. This surprised no one, since he was known to have traveled widely in foreign lands, where Dar-only-knew what kind of horrible illnesses preyed upon a decent
shallah
with no woman to care for him. According to rumor, Tansen was currently lying ill in one of Dalishar's sacred caves.

Najdan thought it likely he could challenge Tansen without interference—and perhaps even come upon him by stealth and attack him without warning. Many young assassins would never consider such a course of action; traditional honor demanded that a bloodvow be fulfilled with proper formality. You'd have to go far and look hard, however, to find an assassin of Najdan's age and experience who still believed in such things. Tansen had already killed two assassins who'd approached him the "honorable" way, and Najdan hadn't survived twenty years in the Society by being a heedless fool.

Josarian's men would undoubtedly be guarding Dalishar, so he circled to the far side of the mountain, approaching the caves from above rather than below. He saw no sentries posted anywhere, not even at what was evidently the famous entrance to the six main caves up here. A faint trace of ancient paintings could still be seen on the weathered rockface. An enormous woodless fire, taller than he was, burned furiously outside the cave—Guardian fire magic.

If there was some sort of trap here, he doubted it was meant for him. Josarian's men were enemies of the Valdani, not the Society. He took a cautious step forward. To his surprise, his shir started shaking wildly against his side. Made by Kiloran himself, the blade was only supposed to do this when threatened by other sorcery. Najdan had heard that the Guardian fires up here were ancient and very powerful, and the one directly before him was blazing so wildly it almost seemed to be alive. Was it merely this ancient power that made his
shir
quiver like a live thing, or was there real danger for him here?

His thoughts went no further, as a sight unfolded before his eyes that drove away thought, skill, and courage as brutally as it turned his bowels to water and made his throat close up with fear.  

She appeared in the fire, her arms whirling like the sails of a windmill. The flames did her bidding, moving as her hands directed, swirling around her face and form, born of her body as blood was born of men. No one should be able to survive in the nest of angry flames that surrounded her like a cocoon; but Najdan saw that she was not human. Her eyes blazed the same color as the fire, and the floating curls of her hair were so red they made his eyes water.

Najdan's
shir
shuddered wildly as the demon looked straight at him and smiled—a terrible, sinister smile that burned with evil. He seized his
shir
, his hands clumsy for the first time since childhood. The demon laughed. Trying to control his shaking, he held the blade up: the enchanted blade of a waterlord's trusted servant, the deadliest weapon in the world.

The demon flung out a hand. Lava shot from her fingertips, slender threads of liquid fire that reached out to wrap around Najdan's wrist. Screaming at the pain of the burn, he dropped the
shir
. Horrified, he turned to run. A wall of fire arose in his path, halting him. He turned again. The wall of flame spread faster than he could move, surrounding him, caging him. Capturing him. Terror weakened him for the first time in twenty years. Nothing in his life had prepared him for this. He sank to his knees, trapped, disarmed, and helpless.

The roaring all around him gradually faded, dying away. When he opened his eyes, he saw that he was still imprisoned, though no longer by flames. The walls of fire had changed to streams of lava which surrounded him in a gruesome parody of a birdcage. And he could see his captors now.