The Deadwalk (10 page)

Running now, unable to slow the motion of her own feet, the Sword's hum was
an unbearable pain that radiated from the center of her mind. In an eerie
repetition of her dream, she bolted down the crystal corridor.

To find the end blocked by a wall of jagged crystal.

Turning, she raced back over her footsteps. Her bare foot stung from cuts
sustained as she traversed the mountain face outside. Bloody footprints smeared
as she ran over them, leaving others in her path.

Sound blinded her with its intensity. She raced on, realizing only when she
bumped into a thatch of crystal how blinded her senses were to anything else.
Shoving herself away, she whirled to find another shimmering tunnel to her
right. It's length led downward. Riordan launched herself in that direction and
ran.

The slope was steeper than the others. Her feet found no purchase on its
smooth incline. Back-peddling furiously, Riordan managed to keep her feet
beneath her.

The corridor vomited her into a large chamber. She crashed to her knees as
the floor abruptly leveled out. Riordan picked herself up slowly and looked
around.

A high-vaulted roof, hewn from the pale pink crystal of the mountain
stretched far above her. Its walls had been carved smooth. Shraal writing
covered every surface, the floor, the walls of the egg-shaped chamber. Symbols
shimmered before her eyes, taking shape in her mind, resonating with deep
genetic memory.

Warnings, she realized suddenly. The history of the Sword and the Amber, of
the great wars of Bayorek, all written in the regimented verse with which the
Shraal transcribed their formal writings. But the Sword's call overruled the
warnings engraved in the walls, drawing her gaze in a blinding flash to the
center of the chamber.

Shielding her eyes, Riordan gazed at the object in the center of the blaze.
She'd never seen a picture of the Sword. There were no drawings of it in
Nhaille's history book.

The elegance of its simplicity surprised her. She expected something
ostentatious, like Rau's heavily jeweled sword. But the Sword of Zal-Azaar was
deceptively slender, built to accommodate the smaller stature of the Shraal
race.

Her feet glided over the floor, drawing her closer. The blinding light
brought tears to her eyes. Riordan reached her hand into the blaze. Despite the
fire in its light, the Sword's hilt was cold to the touch. Riordan snatched her
hand back.

Rather than being fashioned of cold steel, the Sword was crafted from the
mountain's own stone. Refined, made harder, stronger.

So that's what binds it here. That's why the Shraal returned it to the
mountains.

As her eyes adjusted to the brilliance, Riordan made out the silver outline
of Shraal runes running down the length of the transparent blade. The silver at
its center bled out to colorless edges. Ablaze with its own inner light, she
found it difficult to tell where the Sword ended and the fire began.

Delicately carved scroll work formed its transparent hilt. Slender, like the
rest of it, it had been fashioned for a smaller hand.

Mine.

Riordan sighted down the length of the blade to where it's tip disappeared
into a colorless block that seamlessly flowed into a pedestal carved from the
mountain's core. And suddenly, she could imagine how their Shraal ancestors
might have discovered the Amber on a mining expedition. After engineering their
own demise, they returned the Sword and the Amber to the mountains that had
given them birth, not knowing what else to do with them.

And here I am like a fool, preparing to loose the Sword upon the world once
again. Simply because I don't know what else to do.

Because I have no other choice.

Even as Rau tumbled toward the jagged crystal at the mountains' base, the
army of the dead was marching toward Kholer and Golar. With each step, others
were added to the ranks.

I can't change the dire fate that befell my family, I can only stand in
Hael's path. Stand I will. Kanarek will be avenged!

The rhythm of the Sword's call quickened, until she could hear nothing beyond
its insistent summons. Sound pulsed through her mind, until she could see its
pink urgency, taste its acrid desire. Commanded, she drew toward it, despite her
fear.

I've come this far. Gods, Nhaille, I wish you were with me, now!

Closing her eyes, Riordan plunged her hand back into the blaze and reached
for the Sword.

Her fingers met cool, smooth crystal. She forced herself to endure the
unpleasant coldness. Her hand closed around the hilt.

Cold spread up her fingers through her arm, dissipating only where it met the
muscle of her shoulder. She gasped, would have yanked back her hand again, but
her fingers refused to open. The Sword melded to the shape of her hand as if it
had been fashioned for her alone.

Icy tingles raced up her veins, as if she'd been jolted by a bolt of
lightning. And then, in the core of her being, she felt its presence, pressing
against her will, her thoughts.

Breath caught like a cold steam in her throat. Sensation billowed up inside,
suffocating all other thought. Her body rebelled. From far away, she heard her
own screams echo off the high-vaulted ceiling of the chamber.

Alien thoughts formed in her mind. Vivid images tumbled upon each other. As
though looking down the long tunnel of history, she could see the proud crystal
towers the Shraal had erected. Throngs of silver-haired people poured down the
broad avenues. In their pastel robes, they shimmered in a moving rainbow.
Monuments decorated every square. Runes like the ones running along the Sword's
blade covered the sides of every tower.

The Shraal were truly great, Riordan thought.

Yes, we were, the Sword whispered in her brain. Softly, seductively it spoke
to her, until she was unsure whether the thoughts were the Sword's or her own.
Great we will be again.

Free me.

Riordan tightened her grip on the Sword's hilt.

#

The sun's light fractured, showering the peaks in a rainbow of color. Myriad
prisms played out over the mountain range in pastel gradations.

Sunrise. He'd hoped to reach the foothills long before. Nhaille squinted into
the sudden light as the sun rose above the mountains. Light spilled down the
slopes, coming to rest on something equally brilliant wedged among the shards at
the foot of the hills. He tethered the horses to a nearby outcrop. Riderless
Strayhorn had been ill-tempered since Riordan's kidnapping. Even now he stamped
his feet in irritation. Stormback snorted nervously.

Wind whistled through the rocks above, a high and tinny whine. Unpleasant.
The entire place rose the hairs on the back of his neck. He scanned the jagged
boulders, any of which could be hiding an ambush.

Sunlight flashed upon a glittering thing among the rocks. Nhaille drew his
sword.

Jewels, any of which would be fine enough for a king, were set into the gold
and silver hilt. The captain seized the sword and jumped back, awaiting his
unseen attacker.

But nothing broke the stillness, save for the high-pitched whine of the
wind.

He hefted the blade in his hand. Rau's sword. No doubt of that. He recognized
its ostentatious, over-jeweled hilt. Rau's weapon had all the subtlety of its
owner. And then some, he thought gazing down at the abundant rubies and
sapphires.

And if Rau's sword lay abandoned in the mountain's rubble, what then? He
couldn't imagine the Prince parted from his weapon, not if he was still alive.
He examined the rocks closely. No flecks of blood dotted their blinding crystal
planes. No footsteps marked the dust between boulders.

His eyes rose to scan the magenta mountains.

Where are you, Riordan?

Dare he hope she'd somehow got the better of the Haelian snake. In gruesome
detail, he pictured their fight on the peaks of the mountains. Unable to stem
the flow of images, he saw Riordan clinging for her life to the side of the
mountain. Above her Rau raised his sword. Nhaille reined in his imagination and
grimaced. Surely The Queen had more sense...

Yet it was Rau's weapon lying among the rocks, not Riordan's body. Somehow,
she'd emerged victorious. At least for a time. And if no bodies lay among the
rubble at the mountains' feet, then that could only mean she'd found the gateway
to the Sword's chamber.

If no bodies lay broken on the rocks, that could only mean Rau had gone after
her. Or that Rau was with her. Cursing the age that stiffened muscle despite the
meticulous shape he kept himself in, Nhaille began to climb.

#

Stone scraped against stone. With a hiss, the Sword sprang free of its
prison. Its blinding fire slowly dimmed, until Riordan stood alone in the
crystal chamber, the only illumination coming from the bowels of the mountain
itself.

The fog in her mind dissipated. She became aware gradually that her thoughts
were once again her own. Riordan sagged against the stone wall and beheld the
weapon in her hand.

Cautiously, she tested its weight, its balance. Much lighter than she had
anticipated, it didn't look like Hael's nemesis. Instinctively, she knew it was
crafted from the strongest, most primeval material of the mountain's core.

The Sword responded like an extension of her own hand. Its graceful arcs much
improved the technique Nhaille had taught her. She suspected it would cut
through flesh and bone as easily as it clove the air.

Time enough to practice on the long journey back. Becoming suddenly aware of
her surroundings, she was gripped by the pressing desire to be gone from the
Sword's tomb. But she couldn't just carry it back across the desert in her bare
hands.

Riordan looked down at her empty scabbard. With a sigh, she slid the Sword of
Zal-Azaar into the carved metal. And still she couldn't loosen her fingers from
its hilt.

Metal rippled. She watched in awed horror as it reformed to the Sword's own
contours then released her fingers from its hilt.

Taking a deep breath, she squared her shoulders and prepared to face the long
walk back across the desert. Freeing the Sword exhausted her. Yet even hidden
safely in her scabbard, she could feel its eagerness.

A shadow fell across her path. The scrape of metal against stone sent her
whirling to face the figure that darkened the threshold.

“I think that's far enough, Your Majesty.”

Riordan looked up to find Rau filling the doorway.

Alive. She stared down this new impossibility.

Blood streaked his face, running in drying ruddy patches down his neck and
the right side of his body. In the chamber's subdued light, his eyes gleamed
like coals.

In his hand he held her own sword.

“And now, Your Majesty, you will give me the Sword of Zal-Azaar.”

“Give it to you?” Riordan's hand closed protectively about the Sword's hilt.
“Not likely.”

She backed away from the entrance, baiting Rau to move toward her. As if of
its own volition, the Sword slid an inch from her scabbard. Bloodlust flooded
her veins. In a distant cavity of her mind, she could hear her own better
judgment clamoring for attention. But it was as if the Sword wrapped the fist of
its will around her mind and squeezed. She wanted Rau's blood. She wanted Rau's
soul.

“You think you're a match for the Sword of Zal-Azaar?” Her voice sounded
strange, even to her own ears. Confident, more mature. “Come then, Doan-Rau.
Throw your life upon the Sword, like so many before you.”

Rau's brow creased. He took a hesitant step toward her. “The Sword is meant
for me. To complete the final step in my great plan.”

“You expect me to make a gift of it?” Her voice fell to an incredulous
whisper. The Sword slid another inch from her scabbard.

“Join me, Riordan. Can't you see that mine is a superior vision?” Words,
sincerely spoken, devoid of malice. “Think of it. The entire coast united under
one flag. Prosperous ports, proud cities, wealth beyond your wildest
dreams.”

Those softly spoken words terrified her more than anything else. Rau left
nothing proud nor prosperous in his wake. Only death and destruction. “There is
nothing in your...vision beyond pain and suffering!” Fear fed her anger, putting
into words something she'd suspected for some time. “And for what? What did my
family die for, Rau? For your shallow glory? So you can win your father's
throne?”

Her comment hit its mark as surely as a stroke of her sword. He absorbed the
blow with a wince. The grimace deepened, spread. His face folded in on itself,
contorting in the anger that swiftly followed. Rage darkened his skin to
crimson. Sapphire eyes were the only feature recognizable in that twisted
expression. His fist snatched at thin air, tightening as if around her throat.
With difficulty, the Prince brought his temper back under control.

“Have you not the slightest vestige of imagination? We would be greater than
the Shraal themselves. All this,” he waved his arm in a grand arc, “is but a
temporary step, minor discomforts to be borne for the better good.”

“The better good!” Riordan shrieked back at him. Her hand tighten on the
Sword's hilt, freeing it further still. “No good can come from any of this. You
razed my entire kingdom. In death, my family, my subjects prowl the countryside,
deprived of even the dignity of their graves.”

Kill him, the Sword's essence whispered in her brain. Kill him and be done
with it. Vividly, she pictured herself doing just that. She flexed her hand to
draw the Sword.

Rau noted the tiny movement in her hand, read the denial in her stance. He
inched toward her, and with each footstep his wrath grew. “What a fool I've
been! I offered you a place at my side, a place of honor in my great kingdom.
But you would rather throw my goodwill to the wind. You'll live to regret your
decision, Your Majesty.”

Craggy quartz pressed into her back. No route of escape, except past the
madman before her. A roar of utter fury erupted from Rau's mouth. He lunged.

Footwork being her strength, Riordan neatly sidestepped the arc of his swing.
Razor-sharp metal clove rough crystal instead of her throat.

“Your great kingdom. I liked my kingdom as it was! It's you who lack vision,
Rau. Peace and prosperity are not concepts in your philosophy.”

Again she regretted her losing her sword to him on the night of Nhaille's
ill-gotten ambush. Rau's possession of her sword reduced her options to slitting
his throat with the Sword of Zal-Azaar, or dying by her own blade in a madman's
hands. She should have climbed down after him when he'd fallen. But never had
she expected a dead man to scale a mountain. Or to raid his pack for her lost
sword. She evaded another swing meant to decapitate her.

Rau tensed, preparing to swipe at her again. A crystal tone rang through the
chamber. The Sword, pleading for its freedom. Its will battered her defenses,
until the lust for his blood churned in her veins.

Don't make me do this, Rau. But her silent prayer went unanswered. In a
silver streak his sword descended upon her.

With a single undulating note, the Sword of Zal-Azaar sailed free of its
scabbard. In the subdued light the thin blade of crystal seemed to hover between
them.

A challenge.

Smooth crystal vibrated beneath her hand, sending tiny tremors up her arm and
down her spine. Coldness pressed against her flesh as the icy fingers of its
will caressed mind and soul.

Rau's lifeforce glowed like a beacon in the center of the room. The Sword
hungered for it, demanded its hunger be appeased. Beneath the Sword's iron will,
her own was flattened.

With grace far beyond her own, Riordan swung the Sword into position. Rau's
blade crashed against it, hard enough, it seemed, to shatter the delicate blade.
But the Sword of Zal-Azaar effortlessly absorbed his offensive. Like other
Shraal wonders, the Sword was deceptive in its strength.

Lost now to all but the Sword's insistent demand for Rau's blood, Riordan
launched herself off the wall, lunging for Rau's heart.

He parried and returned with a killing blow of his own. The Sword deflected
it easily, intent on skewering the Prince to the glass wall. Desire shot through
her veins. Pure, hot rage. Disoriented, Riordan drowned in it.

She flung herself at Rau. One look at her face and his eyes widened. He took
an involuntary step backward. Riordan sent the Sword crashing down upon him.

Metal collided with crystal. Rau brought his sword between them in a
last-ditch parry. The blow reverberated up her arm.

She lunged, striking low, desperate to get past his guard and grant the Sword
the blood it craved. Superior swordsmanship saved him. The Prince retaliated.
The Sword deflected the tip inches from her heart. Forgoing all pretense at
dueling etiquette, Riordan swiped at him again. Lust, terrifying in its
intensity rippled through her, commanding her to tear past the insubstantial
barrier of Rau's flesh and devour his soul.

And then what? Would it be like the dream? Would a tiny piece of Rau live
forever lodged in her soul? Gods, Nhaille, where are you when I desperately need
answers?

Riordan bore down on him. His back collided with the wall. Gripping the Sword
with both hands, she swung. Crystal shattered as the Sword crashed into the
space Rau's head had occupied. Strengthened and refined by lost Shraal
technology, the Sword was far stronger than the stone that birthed it.

Rau whirled out of the Sword's reach, glory forgotten, intent only on saving
his soul.

Rage, as thick and black as tar, poured into her mind, blanketing all other
thoughts. Riordan fled after him. Rau bolted for the door. Riordan blocked his
escape.

“Don't do it, Riordan.”

The unexpected voice broke Rau's concentration. Riordan closed in for the
kill.

To find her path blocked by Nhaille's Sword.

The Sword's fury seared through her mind.

“Stand aside, Captain.” Her voice sounded flat, hollow. The Sword's words,
not her own. Inside her, the Sword raged against the denial of Rau's soul. She
turned toward Nhaille to remove this new obstacle against the Sword's will.

From the corner of her eye, a black shadow moved. Before she could cry out,
Nhaille's sword lodged against Rau's throat. “Not so fast, Haelian swine.”

Denied its chosen prey, the Sword's utter fury intensified, until she was
conscious of nothing else. Not her joy at Nhaille's return. Not her fear,
nothing but the lust for Rau's soul. “Get out of the way, Nhaille,” she repeated
in that same inflectionless voice. “He's mine.”

“No.”

“I'm flattered, but surely you could share the honor,” Rau said dryly.

“The blood price is mine,” Riordan snarled. “More is at stake here than
honor.”

“Exactly, which is why you mustn't kill him.”

“I am the Queen. I'll decide who will die.” Rage soared within her. Her sword
hand quivered. Its tip wavered toward Nhaille, intent on taking any life it
could if Rau's was denied.

What am I doing? Her mind cried out in horror. She wrenched her muscles
against the Sword's will, succeeding only in moving the blade a fraction of an
inch. Nhaille is my dearest friend. I'd give my life for him.

The corners of Nhaille's mouth tightened. She read the fear in his face, but
he held his ground.

“You can't, Riordan. It's too soon.” He cast a furtive glance at Rau. “You've
not been prepared. If you allow the Sword to take his life, you could lose
yourself. The Sword would possess you totally.”

Is that what she'd experienced in the vision? Would that horrible feeling of
posession and violation be her fate if she took Rau's life?

Rau snorted in disbelief. “You Kanarekii are truly a pathetic lot. It will be
no loss if your strain dies out.”

Fury undoing her, Riordan sprang.

“No!” Nhaille leapt between them. He parried the Sword, preventing Riordan
impaling Rau on the crystal blade. His next swing deflected Rau's blade aimed
for Riordan's throat.

Nhaille's interference only served to drive her anger to untapped heights.
She swung, at Rau and met the resistance of Nhaille's sword. He swore, the only
evidence the vicious blow hurt him.

No! This isn't right. But she found she wanted Nhaille's blood with a passion
that shook her to her very core. And Rau wanted the Sword with a passion that
matched hers. He cut low, trying to get around the Captain's defenses.

Nhaille returned the blow. Swords met, hilt to hilt. Panting with exertion,
the two men glared at each other over their blades.

Riordan lunged between them, knocking their swords apart with one sure stroke
of the crystal blade. They sprang away like startled cats, en garde against each
other and the crazed demon with the Sword.

Facing them both, its tip wavered with indecision.

“Riordan, listen to me. You can't do this!”

She turned slowly toward Nhaille's voice. The Sword fastened its attention on
his soul.

Yes! the Sword screamed within her mind. Having been denied, it was anxious
for anyone's blood. With a cold pang of fear, she suspected even hers would
suffice.

Against the smooth crystal floor, her bare foot shot forward. Gods, no.
Anything but this. It can't end this way after all Nhaille and I have
sacrificed. But her feet had developed a will of their own, as had her sword arm
that even now was flexing to drive the Sword of Zal-Azaar's point through
Nhaille's chest.

Rau laughed maniacally. “Oh yes! Kill him, Riordan! What an ending it'll make
to the Ballad of Kanarek. The valiant Captain struck down by his own Queen.” He
chuckled again at his own cleverness. “I couldn't ask for better had I done the
job myself.”

Riordan froze, the slender blade poised just inches before Nhaille's chest.
There has to be a way to master it, to impose my desire upon the Sword and use
it's unholy desires for my own purposes.

“Don't hesitate, Your Majesty,” Rau taunted. “Kill him. And join me. Together
we will rule the coast!”

“No!” Her shout of defiance shook the chamber.

She whirled, throwing herself at Rau. Too late, he floundered for his sword.
With one swipe of the crystal blade, she knocked it from his hand. It clattered
to the floor inches beyond reach.

The Sword roared through her mind, deafening her to reason, to Nhaille's
desperate shouts. She slammed her knee into Rau's stomach. He doubled up. She
slid the Sword under his chin.

Rau froze. He glared at her over the crystal Sword, sucking in a painful
breath. “Well, Your Majesty, it would seem you've found your courage.”

“And what would you know about courage, Haelian coward?”

His jaw tightened. He moved to thrust her away from him. But with the Sword's
heightened senses, she saw through that maneuver. Riordan flung herself against
him, leaning on Rau with all her strength. A trickle of fresh blood ran down the
side of his neck and into his collar.

“And how do you like the feel of a sword at your neck, Rau? Are you enjoying
this as much as I am? You see that's the problem with your strategy. If you win
only by subjugation and terror, there are too many people who'd be willing to
drive a sword through your back.”

“Fine for you to criticize,” he shot back. “It wasn't me who sat idly by
while others snatched my kingdom right out from under me.”

Riordan drove the Sword's blade harder against his neck. Rau gasped.

“And you still don't have the courage to finish it, do you, Riordan?” He
spoke her name softly, like a plea.

In her mind, the Sword shrieked to be appeased. She glared into his eyes.

“How little you know me, Rau,” Riordan said.

And leaned on the Sword for the killing stroke.

The blow came from nowhere. Knocked wide, she saw the silver streak of the
Sword flying over her head to crash with a ringing note to the stone floor.
Breath squeezed from her lungs. She felt the weight of Nhaille's body pressed
along the length of hers.

Suddenly there was a roaring silence in her mind where the Sword's insistent
shouts had been, and she was conscious only of Nhaille pinning her to the
ground. For a moment they lay that way. Her hands gripped his arms, unsure
whether she wanted to pull him closer or push him away. Embarrassed, he
scrambled off her.

Rau recovered first and dove after the Sword of Zal-Azaar.

Nhaille's sword slammed against his chest. “Don't move, Your Highness. Rest
assured, it will not bother my soul to kill you.”

The Prince's eyes shifted from Riordan huddled against the wall then back to
the Sword of Zal-Azaar.

“Don't even think of going for the Sword,” Nhaille said quietly.