The Deadwalk (15 page)

“You be careful,” she ordered. “Stand back. I don't want you close to me
while the Sword is drawn.”

He obeyed without argument.

She could hear it now, lumbering toward her. Something large. Far too big to
be a rabbit or a fox. Smaller than a bear. Man-sized. Branches parted. She
caught a glimpse of a tattered, filthy shirt.

And then she smelled it. The unmistakable taint of rotting flesh. It stepped
into the clearing.

One of Rau's army. One of her countrymen possibly, or even a citizen of the
equally ill-fated city of Kholer. Trailing ribbons of torn cloth and rotting
flesh, the dead thing lumbered onward.

Suddenly, she understood. It's lifeforce was practically extinguished. Its
aura was almost too pale to stand out against the darkness. It was the shard of
amber that blazed with the illusion of life.

Lost, she realized suddenly. Unlike those on the battlefield, it seemed to
wander aimlessly. Whatever had happened in the valley, contact had been broken.
For a moment, she could only stare at the pathetic thing, the first she'd seen
at close range. Sighting her, it staggered in her direction, reaching out toward
the dim memory of human companionship.

Riordan swung the Sword into position.

Instantly, the ancient blade recognized its kin. The speck of amber flared
brightly against the darkness. As if drawn by an invisible magnet, she leapt
across the clearing in a single step. The zombie lurched toward her, impossible
now to stop the rush of attraction.

She swung. The Sword sliced through the shadows, meeting the meager
resistance of swollen rotting flesh. The dead warrior crumpled like a puppet
with its strings cut. A flash of amber blinded her momentarily to all but its
glare. Like a puddle the soldier's remnants rushed up the crystal blade and
vanished.

Belatedly, she slammed down the barriers. Dying thoughts poured into her
brain. Sluggish memories of its lost life, images of smoke, horrid cries of
slaughter echoed through her mind. Riordan choked them back.

Like a whirlpool, they pulled at her, threatening to drag her down into deep
waters. She fought her way through the vortex of muddled thoughts, emerging
suddenly into clarity. And then in her mind, she felt one last thought of
gratitude and peace.

Light blazed up around her. The Sword, having not received the meal it
expected, hungered for more.

With a strangled cry, Riordan thrust the blade into the soft grass and
stepped back. Shaking her head, she tried to clear her mind of the dead
warrior's thoughts: overwhelming grief, the desperate longing for final
peace.

“Gods Nhaille, they know!”

He approached cautiously, waiting a few paces behind her.

“They know,” she repeated in utter horror. Dying thoughts still swirled in a
tiny walled-off portion of her mind. “Even in death they know what's been done
to them.”

“It's all right,” he said softly. “If we are victorious no one will ever
suffer their fate again.”

“I felt it in my mind.” She left the Sword and rested her head against him,
feeling the warmth of his arms come up around her. “I know what it's like. It's
horrible beyond belief.”

His arms tightened, pressing her close, but Nhaille said nothing.

“When I was small,” she said, to no one in particular. “I was afraid of
dying. Even when I knew what lay before me, death was still my greatest fear.
Never did I think I would be afraid of not dying.”

“You will be victorious, Riordan. You must believe that.”

“Yes,” she whispered. “I have to be.” Riordan looked at the dark splashes
that stained the grass. “That is the alternative.”

She was silent a moment, content to lean against him, drawing back her
strength. “Nhaille?”

He looked down into her face.

“If something goes wrong. If I am not the victor. If it looks like I'm about
to fall prey to Doan-Rau, there is a thing I would ask of you.”

Nhaille stiffened, drawing in a ragged breath. He paused, suspecting a
difficult request was coming, then said, “Ask, Your Majesty.”

“Take the Sword and cut me down. Death no longer frightens me. Make certain I
don't suffer that poor soul's fate.”

She watched the color drain from his face. “Do not ask that of me, Your
Majesty,” he whispered.

Riordan refused his plea. “Nhaille, it has to be you. There is no one else I
trust.” She seized a handful of his shirt, pulling him close. “Do not leave me
to suffer my father's fate, I beg of you!”

He pulled gently from her grasp. Silence lengthened as he stood staring down
at her. “You have my word,” he said at last. His hand covered hers. “Come, you
must get some rest before sunrise.”

Riordan sheathed the Sword and began to walk with him back to camp. The
flicker of a thought caught flame. She turned it over in her mind, examining it
from each possible angle.

She realized suddenly she'd stopped walking and that Nhaille was looking back
at her in concern.

“The Sword...” she muttered, as much to herself as to Nhaille.

He waited for her to continue.

“When the Sword destroyed the body, it also destroyed the Amber.”

She watched realization creep across his face, dawning suddenly into hope.
Riordan seized his arm.

“That's it,” she said shaking him vigorously. “The piece of the puzzle the
Shraal were never able to understand.”

“If the Sword and the Amber were made to counter each other...” Nhaille
began.

“It stands to reason that if the Sword can destroy the Amber.” Her voice rose
in excitement, she forced herself to whisper, “And if exposed to a large enough
piece of it, the Amber might destroy the Sword.”

“They're attracted to each other,” Nhaille supplied, “because they cancel
each other out.”

“That's it. The one vital step the Shraal left out of the process.”

“They did the opposite. They separated the two.”

“But burying them in the mountain didn't stop us from digging them up.”

“We need to bring them together.”

Nhaille considered this turn of strategy solemnly. “I think you're right.”

Riordan sucked in a long breath. “At last I know what I have to do.” She
gazed through the trees, seeing in her mind the valley beyond. “First I must
defeat Hael. Then I must destroy both the Sword and the Amber so they can never
be used against us.”

#

They lay side by side, the Sword between them. A discreet distance away, a
Kanarekii soldier stood guard. Riordan watched the slow climb of the stars
across the sky. Dawn was scant hours away, exhaustion weighed heavily in every
bone. And still she couldn't sleep. Plans formed, were discarded and reformed in
her mind. Try as she may, she couldn't staunch the flow of them. She glanced at
Nhaille to find him very much awake and lost in the labyrinth of his own
thoughts.

“You should sleep, Riordan.”

“I can't.”

“Try harder.”

“My mind won't stop working.”

He sighed and turned toward her. “Neither will mine.”

She moved the Sword within arm's reach past their heads and snuggled in
close.

“Nhaille, I--”

He caught her meaning immediately and glanced nervously in the guard's
direction. “Riordan, the guard.”

“To hells with the guard. Who is he going to tell? Our few remaining
countrymen?”

“It's not right.”

“So you keep saying.”

He gazed back at her, his expression already softening as he weakened.

“Surely by now, it has all ceased to matter. Our false modesties, our
ridiculous proprieties, our foolish gossip, what use are they now?”

In the shadows she saw the ghost of a smile drift across his face. “Your
Majesty, you argue just like your father.”

“Meaning you often lost.”

“I don't believe I ever won.”

“You're about to lose again.”

He did smile then, and she caught a rare glimpse of the real Nhaille that lay
beneath the iron facade of duty and obligation. He shook his head. “Between the
two of you--”

She smothered his words with her mouth. Smothered her fears in his warmth, in
the one thing between them that was simple, good and natural.

Afterward, in the last hour before the dawn, they nuzzled close together,
heedless of the guard, the Sword ready at her fingertips.

And slept.

Wet grass crunched underfoot. Black shapes of men moved silently through the
trees. The hot breath of horses came in puffs of steam. In minutes the pale
light of dawn would stream above the hills. Men worked quickly, silently,
stowing gear, breaking camp. The remnants of the Kanarekii army crept toward the
forest's edge on the peak of the hill.

Dismounting, Riordan walked to the edge of the summit and stared down at what
was left of Kholer. Even under the cover of darkness, the damage looked
extensive. She made out the smoldering ruins of the high town, the charred and
crumbling hulks of homes and markets, the dark slopes of Haelian tents. Haelian
soldiers moved furtively among the ruins, about to wake the city to one last
nightmare.

“By nightfall, Kholer will be liberated,” Nhaille said from behind her.

She walked a few paces away from the edge of the summit and dragged in a
breath of frigid air. “For our own sakes, and that of Kholer, let us hope so.”

Right now it took all her concentration to calm the cold fear in the pit of
her stomach, the terror of death, and Gods knew, things worse than death.

“Dawn is fast approaching,” she said and swung up into Strayhorn's saddle.
“Sound the battle horn.”

The trumpet blast shattered the dawn.

The Sword of Zal-Azaar sailed from its sheath, catching the sun's first rays
in a rainbow arc. Nhaille caught her eye, and Riordan nodded in receipt of the
confidence he wished her way.

“This is it!” she shouted back.

“Laalan, God of War, be with us,” he answered.

On her signal, the Kanarekii army streamed down the hillside.

Riordan put the spurs to Strayhorn. The trained warhorse responded. Plunging
down the hill, he lowered his head, the metal horn of his armor poised to take
down anything that stood in his path. Ground disappeared beneath Strayhorn's
hooves as he dodged boulders, skirted the stumps of trees.

Hooves pounded the ground like thunder. She caught a glimpse of Nhaille on
Stormback beside her. Nhaille's cousin, Penden, brought up the rear, even now
organizing counter moves and emergency measures. Strayhorn's gait jarred every
bone in her body. But fueled by the Sword's lust for blood, the downward plunge
intoxicated her.

Beneath them in the valley, Haelian soldiers scrambled for their mounts. Like
so many ants they scurried to form ranks, to herd the army of the dead into
lines before them.

Prodded by Haelian warriors in black leather, the dead climbed sluggishly to
their feet. Riordan urged her army onward, hoping to scatter their ranks before
they had a chance to form, hoping against all odds to get a clear shot at Rau
before protective lines of the dead and his own army closed around him.

As the world flew by in a dizzying rush, she caught a glimpse of Rau's red
plume, bobbing along the ranks of the dead. Like a storm gathering, the last
survivors of Kanarek raced toward them.

Ranks of the dead formed, then scattered. The dead milled about in confusion.
Rau seemed to be having difficulty bringing his army under his control. Shouts
from the Haelian ranks carried above the din in an attempt to bring order.

Lines of dead soldiers disintegrated again. The Kanarekii army reached the
foot of the hill and barreled across flat land.

Only to meet a rigid line of dead warriors.

Apparently, Rau once again had control of the dead. Riordan urged her army
onward. For the first time she gave the Sword free rein. Her control dropped
away, letting its desire for blood soar.

She dashed into the ranks of the dead army, swinging the Sword of Zal-Azaar
in a wide arc. Caught in the expanse of her swing dead warriors tumbled. An
avalanche of souls rushed into her mind.

Riordan gasped under the onslaught, losing for a moment her control of the
Sword. Dozens of dying thoughts poured into her mind. Agony seared her as she
felt the multitude of anguished thoughts. She screamed, swung again. Unable to
stop the flow of souls, she opened her mind, pushing her own consciousness back
into a tiny parcel in her brain.

Around her she heard the cries of the Kanarekii army attempting to hack its
way through the fray. Riordan widened the arc of her swing, racing Strayhorn
back and forth in an attempt to carve a wider breach in Hael's defense. Beyond
the dead, she could see lines of Haelian soldiers forming. She cut a path toward
them, toward Doan-Rau and the Amber.

Suddenly there were no more dead before her. She lunged through the last of
their ranks.

To meet a wall of Haelian soldiers in black armor. Quickly she slammed the
walls of restraint around the Sword's will. The Sword roared a challenge in her
mind.

Riordan reined Strayhorn in abruptly. Behind her the Kanarekii army followed
suit. She heard a similar order shouted behind Haelian lines. Soldiers parted to
let through a plumed rider. Riordan faced her enemy.

“I give you one last chance, Prince Doan-Rau.” Her voice cut cleanly through
the still morning air. “Surrender the Amber, or be destroyed.”

The Prince's laughter echoed through the hills. Around him, Haelian soldiers
shifted nervously. His Captain's eyes widened at the sight of the crystal blade.
He opened his mouth to say something, but Rau broke away from the band of
Haelians that closed to protect him.

“Sir?” Captain Larz reached out a hand to restrain him. Shaking off his arm,
Rau moved toward Riordan.

Azure eyes as deep as the sky glared out at her, as impenetrable as the
smooth crystal of the Sword. “Our little Kanarekii myth seems to have developed
some flair, if nothing else.”

“Surrender Rau.” Riordan moved Strayhorn closer and rested the Sword's point
inches from his breast. Soldiers rushed in to guard their prince. In her mind,
the Sword shrieked for her to take his life, but she deafened herself to its
cries. Time enough for that later. She didn't want Rau's foul thoughts pressing
against her mind. Not unless there was no other way out. Sitting astride their
mounts put their eyes on the same level. Riordan glared at him and decided she
liked that meager advantage. “Now or later,” she said, rational against his
hysterical laughter. “The choice is yours.”

“She has inherited her father's capacity for bluster,” Rau said acidly.

Larz realized his mouth was hanging open and shut it quickly.

“Hasn't she, Larz?”

Faced with answering the question, Larz nodded noncommittally. "Your
Highness, I really

think--"

Rau waved his concerns from the air. With a swipe of his hand, he knocked the
Sword from his chest. “Her father's capacity for noise and blunder and you see
Larz, also his reticence for killing.”

In challenge, the Prince raised the stake of Amber. A power stone, shaped
like a dagger, potent enough to enslave an entire army.

But even the power stones drew their energy from the Amber Orb, itself. Where
is the Master Stone? Riordan wondered. If not with them in Kholer, where? But
Rau robbed her of time to ponder that thought.

“Surrender, Your Majesty?” Rau laughed again at his own wit. “It is your
kingdom that lies in ruin. Soon Kanarek and Kholer will be merely a dim
memory.”

The Sword's voice became an insistent scream in her mind. Deprived of Rau's
soul once, it recognized its withheld prize and demanded to be appeased. The
Amber in Rau's hand tempted it, luring it closer, until it took the sum of her
strength to stop the blade from impaling Rau on its tip. A last resort, she
thought and tightened her grip.

“Have it your way, Doan-Rau.” With confidence far beyond what she felt,
Riordan backed Strayhorn away. “But you're wrong, Your Highness.”

Blue eyes glared back at her from the shadows beneath his visor. “About
what?”

“About my inability to kill. I'm merely saving you as a last choice morsel.
You will surrender my good Prince. It won't be Kanarek that fades from memory,
it will be Hael. Along with the name Doan-Rau.”

Rau's face crumpled, his expression turned from disbelief to ugly rage. His
fist gripped the power stone. She watched as his face contorted in
concentration.

Fury poured from the Amber into each dead mind. Through her connection to the
Sword, Riordan felt it, recoiled from it. It tore through her as if glass ran in
her veins. She slammed her mind shut against his onslaught and sent her own down
through the Sword.

The remnants of the army of the dead snapped to attention. Haelian warriors
raised their swords. Kanarekii soldiers poured in behind her.

Mental chains fell away. Riordan set the Sword's bloodlust free. Strayhorn
reared up on his hind legs and bolted toward the tide of decaying bodies
lurching their way.

The Sword desperately wanted the human bodies around it that throbbed with
life. She dragged its interest away, bolting through their ranks, taking out an
entire row of the dead with one sweeping arc of the Sword.

She hacked them down like so many trees, and tried not to think about how
vastly outnumbered they were, even with the Sword.

Disjointed thoughts flooded into her mind. Horrifying visions from beyond the
grave. She slammed the floodgates shut and raised the Sword for another
blow.

Then she realized her mistake.

Each Kanarekii soldier the Haelians killed became another footman in the army
of the dead. Her reach was limited to the Sword's length. And the Sword could
only cut down and dispose of so many bodies. Haelian soldiers drove stakes of
Amber through the eyes of the fallen Kanarekii and turned their converts against
their countrymen.

It was the Haelian army she had to wipe out. Outnumbered as the Kanarekii
were, they had to thin the ranks, get to the Amber and destroy it. After that
the dead would be granted their rightful rest and cease to be a threat.

She wheeled about, sighting Nhaille's spiked helmet mere paces away. He
followed, trusting in her strategy, in the Sword's desperate hunger.

Beyond the ragged line of hewing dead bodies, she saw the red plume of Rau's
helmet bobbing with each stroke of his sword. Strayhorn dashed forward, butting
Haelian warhorses with the spike on his faceplate.

Haelian soldiers saw her coming. Swords barred her path.

Riordan looked at the blades preventing her path like a fence of knives.
Stormback's hooves pounded the earth as Nhaille hacked his way toward her.

She raised the Sword. Eyes widened beneath Haelian helms. Innocent youths,
drafted into Rau's services. Innocent lives about to be lost to his insanity.
Where will it stop, she wondered, hesitating for a fraction of a second.

I have no choice. Unless I put an end to it, the killing will never stop.

Tearing her gaze from the youthful eyes that looked back at her, Riordan
raised the Sword and swung.

Dying screams echoed in her mind. Terror, memories of loved ones fell into
the tearing vortex in her mind. The Sword, never appeased, clamored for more.

Unlike the sluggish souls of the reanimated dead, this was her first taste of
pure human blood. Souls ripped through the Sword's consciousness jagged as
glass. Sickened, she toppled backward, catching herself inches before she
slipped from the saddle.

A flash of steel beside her. Metal grated against metal. Nhaille deflected
the blade aimed for her throat.

No time, Riordan thought with another desperate swing. No time to debate who
was right or wrong. In war there were only sides. Nothing about killing was
right.

Soldiers fell as Nhaille and the Kanarekii cleared a path around her. Haelian
replacements surged in from all sides. Repulsed, she caught a glimpse of Haelian
soldiers rushing to add their own fallen comrades to the numbers of the dead
army.

Soldiers, mere seconds dead, rose to raise their own swords again. Dead eyes,
devoid now of all thought but mindless killing, defied her.

“No!” Her scream cut across the battlefield. Riordan swung widely, taking out
an entire line of the newly dead. Disjointed memories blew like a storm through
her mind. This time she reveled in it, the utter horror driving her on. She
swung again, losing herself to all but the motion in her arm, the sweeping arc
of the Sword's devastation.

Bloated, decaying bodies disappeared into the Sword. Haelian soldiers
followed their fate. Kanarekii soldiers formed a barrier with their bodies,
protecting her as she surged forward, clearing a path toward the Haelian Prince
at the center of the fray. Bodies tumbled into a heap to be vacuumed into
oblivion by the Sword's magic.

Then there was only the Haelian Captain, Larz, between them. Rau looked up,
suddenly appalled.

Swiftly, he covered his fear and faced her with his customary smirk. “Well
done, Your Majesty. What a fine addition you'll make to my army.”

His blade sang through the air. Riordan brought the Sword up in a desperate
parry.

Steel met crystal. She riposted quickly. Stone and metal crashed again.

“The only army you'll command,” she grunted with another swing, “will be one
in Al-Gomar.”

“So kill me,” Rau taunted. “And I'll live in your mind, forever.”

Riordan deflected the sword aimed for her heart. The thought of carrying
Rau's madness inside her chilled her.

Even now the voices of the dead clamored for attention in her mind,
strengthening the Sword's ardor for more killing.

“You won't find my mind such a hospitable place,” she growled.

He parried her upward stroke. Behind her, Nhaille and Larz stared coldly at
each other over crossed swords. She heard the clash of metal, hoped vehemently
Nhaille was winning.

Rau backed his warhorse away. For a second she was certain he'd flee. Then he
rushed her.

Ground spiraled toward her. The earth reached up and dealt her a full-body
slap. Nhaille's shout of warning came too late. Riordan managed to get the Sword
out from under her and twisted, rolling away from the trampling hooves of Rau's
stallion. Suddenly riderless, Strayhorn reared up, stamping the ground
nervously.