The Deadwalk (2 page)

She challenged his stubbornness with her own. “Why isn't it possible? And
don't speak to me of prophecy. I'm tired of listening to it.”

“What do you know of prophecy,” he roared. He strode across the hall,
dragging her to a seat by the hearth. For several moments he glowered fiercely
at her, then sighed deeply.

“In the year before your birth, a seer dreamt of a war to rival the
cataclysmic wars of Bayorek. She envisioned our tallest towers reduced to dust,
the dead walking in the avenues of Kanarek.”

He paused to let the images sink in. Then, reading the skepticism in her gray
eyes, he continued.

“At first I did not believe. But the seer had also foretold of a light-haired
female child who would claim vengeance for Kanarek and rebuild our kingdom from
out of the ashes. Having sons already, I had no plans to beget any more heirs.
Shortly afterward, however, we discovered the Queen was with child. The moment I
laid eyes upon you, Riordan, I knew the vision to be true. Shraal blood runs
strongly within you. Features such as yours have not been visible among us for
many generations.” He paused, taking a deep breath.

“I cannot afford to risk my kingdom for your desires. I will not see Kanarek
reduced to ashes and forgotten.”

His tales of war and carnage did little to ease her dreams in the following
weeks. The lesson was clear. For Riordan there would be no comfort, and she'd
best mind Nhaille and learn all he bid her.

Finally given her leave, she sat in the shadows of her draped bed, attempting
to comfort herself when no one else would. That was when she heard them
talking.

“...yet a child in many ways...” The words echoed up the wooden staircase.
Nhaille's voice. “What if the prophecy turns out to be no more than the
ramblings of a madwoman? What if none of it comes to pass? What of Riordan's
future?”

“I have given much thought to the matter,” her father replied, then more
quietly, “There are times when I can think of nothing else. I have promised
myself that if nothing has come to pass by her twenty-first summer, then I will
call Riordan home to Kanarek.”

“In all this time,” Nhaille said, his voice low. “I have never doubted, never
asked...”

“Asked me what?”

“Do you truly believe?”

“I do.”

It was the stark fear in his voice that made an impression when the
sharply-delivered lecture had failed.

Her father's words reached out of memory to rebuke her even now. Riordan felt
the coil of dread wind tighter.

The spring snapped. Terror washed over her in heart-pounding waves. If the
prophecy had truly come to pass it meant only one thing. Her father, her older
brothers and their heirs were dead.

#

Where in the seven hells was the messenger? Nhaille peered down the twisting
path that wound its way through the hills. Surely one was coming.

Not necessarily, he told himself. He'd seen the black smoke billowing up over
the hills. There might not be anything left of the city.

The thought chilled his heart. For nineteen long years he dreamed of
returning home, his duty completed, his oath fulfilled. And on that glorious
day, his life would finally be his own.

Now if both the city and the dream were gone, like Riordan he would have no
home to go to. But unlike Riordan, he'd had his youth, the summer evenings spent
reveling and carousing.

Thoughts of pity served no one. He could do nothing about fate nor destiny.
He ought to be contemplating strategy. He should be doing anything but waiting
there in the darkness.

But before he could consider tactics, he had to know.

From the darkness came the jingle of a harness, followed by a low whistle.
Nhaille repeated the signal.

The sound of hooves against the dirt road moved toward him. Out of the
darkness, the shape of man and horse emerged.

Barely older than Riordan, he thought in dismay. A boy in a lieutenant's
uniform. Soot streaked the soldier's face. His ash-covered armor was missing
half its buckles. The Lieutenant looked as if he'd already been to war.

No, Nhaille had to remind himself sharply. The war has not yet begun.

“Captain.” The Lieutenant greeted him with the age old salute of the
Kanarekii army.

The unexpected formality caught Nhaille off-guard. Hastily he repeated the
motion. “Your report?”

The Lieutenant's report was written all over his face. Though he took refuge
in military formalities, the young man's eyes were wide with fear. If wasn't the
dreaded prophecy, Nhaille thought, it had to be something just as bad.

“Sir, I come to inform you--”

“That Kanarek has fallen,” Nhaille finished for him.

“Yes, Sir.”

“And the King?”

The soldier swallowed heavily. A shadow of terror swept across his face. His
mouth worked. No sound came out.

Gods help us!

“I understand,” Nhaille said at last.

“Your orders, Sir?”

“Assemble any survivors. Ride for Kholer. Await us there.”

Not a second to lose, Nhaille thought desperately. He had to get to Riordan.
He should never have left her alone.

“Spread the alarm,” he said, turning back. “Warn everyone you meet.”

He fled into the shadows, racing after Kanarek's only hope.

She was only a child.

Nhaille cursed bitterly, loathing himself already for what he was about to
do. Only nineteen, Riordan was not yet a woman, never mind a soldier.

He couldn't send her to war.

Yet, on the eve of her birth, that was exactly what he had promised his King
he would do. A promise he never thought he'd have to keep. But he couldn't
withdraw a promise made to the dead.

Arais-Khun-Caryn was dead. The knowledge sunk in slowly. The woman-child that
awaited him back at the house was now his Queen.

Though Riordan had the uncanny ability of conquering any task she put her
mind to, her current interest in the sword lay only in beating him. He couldn't
send her into battle. She wasn't ready.

Her grimace of pain and anger lingered in his mind. He hadn't meant to hurt
her. Gods knew he hadn't. The lesson was necessary, he reassured his guilty
conscience, no matter how cruel. She'd not readily forget the sting of his
sword. Had it truly been a duel, she'd be dead.

As it was, he'd won the match by little more than a hair. If not for her
lapse in concentration, that last impetuous lunge, she would have beaten
him.

Her technique was much improved. When it came to tactic alone, she could duel
with the best of them. So she had been listening after all. There were times
when he was certain every word he said flew through her head like wind through
the eaves. Still, she was far too impulsive, too easily goaded into rash moves.
Her volatile temper would be her undoing, he swore grimly.

Riordan had inherited her mother's honesty and her father's skill with the
sword. She also inherited a good share of the King's less desirable qualities,
namely his temper and stubbornness. And though it pained him to admit his King
and dear friend had such qualities, the duty of wresting them from the Princess
fell to him.

Be it with words or swords, he thought with a wry smile. Already she could
conquer him in an argument.

Once, in his youth, he'd lost his heart to such a feisty woman. In moments
when his thoughts escaped his tight rein, Riordan reminded him of her. He pushed
treasonous thoughts from his mind. The Princess was very beautiful, but it was
not his place to notice.

The King's daughter, he reflected miserably, would be his undoing, one way or
another.

#

Riordan leapt to her feet as Nhaille crossed the threshold. The look on his
face told her more than she wanted to know. “What is it? What's happened?”

He knelt before her and bowed his head. “Your Majesty, I--”

“Nhaille, no!” Riordan sank down beside him. “In the Name of The Seven
Heavens, don't call me that.” She tugged his shirt, urging him back to his feet.

Nhaille looked at her, his green eyes filled with pity. She liked that even
less.

“Riordan,” he said roughly. He gripping her shoulders. “Kanarek has
fallen.”

The information rattled around in her mind, refusing to take root and make
sense. Her heart was already pounding. She gasped a shaky breath. Not a
warrior's reactions, she told herself sternly.

Forcing calmness into her voice, she asked quietly, “My family?”

Nhaille shook his head.

It was all gone, she realized. The dreams of home. The older brothers she'd
longed to confide in, the nieces and nephews to bounce upon her knee. All gone
in one day that had begun just like any other.

Nhaille held her away from him, regarding her solemnly. “Your Majesty, I am
your servant.”

Your Majesty. The words sunk in slowly. Riordan-Khun-Caryn, Queen of Kanarek.
She stared up at him, eyes wide in terror.

“It's going to be all right,” he whispered pulling her against him.

But even as she buried her face against his shoulder, she knew he was lying.
Her tears ran in hot rivers down the side of his neck.

“Hush, Riordan,” he said quietly. “We have to go. We're already out of
time.”

In the kingdom of Hael a celebration was under way. Wine flowed in marble
fountains and streamers of black and red fluttered from the palace windows. The
city throbbed with the pulse of drums and the pounding of dancers' feet against
the cobblestone. Soldiers, still in armor, lounged on the battlements, sobriety
long forgotten, as everyone but the chefs and the servants were caught up in the
merriment. Looking down from the upper balcony the entire square swirled in a
kaleidoscope of color.

Within the castle the party was more subdued, as the wealthy and powerful
made at least a show of decorum. Ladies in beaded and sequined dresses swept by
on the arms of gentlemen nearly as brightly decorated. The obligatory speeches
were long over. The Minister of Trade had passed out quietly in the antechamber,
laid out beside the Minister of Taxes.

Nothing left to do but enjoy the victory, Prince Doan-Rau thought, making his
way smiling through the press of noblemen. He was dressed in black on this
celebratory eve, from his satin cloak, leather vest and high boots. Save for the
amber clasp upon his cloak, the jeweled hilt of his sword was the only splash of
color upon his person.

A glorious victory it was, he thought surveying the gathering. The one person
who had yet to commend him on his brilliant campaign was the King. Damned if
he'd let the night pass without congratulations from his father. Spying him in
the center of an animated debate with Gamaliel, the High Priest, Rau moved
toward him.

Against the Prince's sober black, King and Priest were a riot of color. The
King's long hair was a thatch of silver beneath his gold coronet. His father had
spared no expense in his attire for the evening. His purple cloak was of the
thickest velvet Rau had ever seen.

Must be sweltering in it! Rau suppressed a grin. Protocol was protocol. This
was the palace, after all.

Beside him, the wizened Gamaliel was nearly overwhelmed by his robes of
crimson. The brilliant hue only served to wash the color from his pallid face.
But his beady black eyes were ever watchful, absorbing every nuance in the vast
gathering around him.

For several moments Rau lingered on the outside of their circle, waiting
patiently for the King to take notice of him. He loathed palace protocol, rarely
adhered to it in private. But a victory celebration was not the time to flaunt
social conventions. He waited, knuckles white against the crystal chalice and
tried to keep an equally tight grip on his composure.

“Ah,” said the King, at last looking up. “Congratulations are most definitely
in order for a successful campaign.”

Rau bowed to his father.

“Well executed, Your Highness,” Gamaliel agreed with a deep bow of his
own.

Prince Rau raised his glass with much flourish. “To Kanarek.”

He took a sip of his wine and grinned at his own sarcasm. When he looked up,
however, his father's gaze held his own with disturbing seriousness.

“To the Shraal, ancestors of us all,” the King countered, raising his own
chalice, “who invented the magic that has seen us victorious.”

Rau glowered briefly in his direction, then swiftly hid the expression behind
the rim of his glass. Would he never earn the man's praise, he wondered, choking
back rising anger. All his life he'd watched as the adoration he so desperately
sought was bestowed upon his younger siblings. Surely his father could spare
some encouragement for his ambitious heir. Fishing for the compliment he craved,
Rau raised his glass again.

“Today Kanarek, tomorrow the coast.”

“Gods willing,” the High Priest amended swiftly, loathe to tempt fate.

With arrogance fueled by a good measure of wine, the Prince scoffed openly at
Gamaliel's warning. “Kanarek's King makes a fine soldier, don't you think?”

His father's glance flickered in warning from the wineglass back to Rau's
face. Rau read the warning in the look and promptly dismissed it. Draining his
glass, he motioned for a servant to refill it. “Not only do we have that wily
old fox under our command, we have the riches of an entire kingdom at our
disposal.” He shook his head in wonder at his own genius. “And our good friend,
the King of Kanarek, is poised to be nemesis of his own kind.…” He gulped down
yet another glass of wine and beamed openly at his father. Surely this time the
approval would be forthcoming. “You have to admit, it is a brilliant plot.”

“Hush!” The High Priest glanced furtively over his shoulder at the crowd.

“The valley is not yet won,” the King said. “Surprise was our ally in the
conquest of Kanarek. By now the others will be warned.”

“The valley will soon be ours,” Rau insisted. Even to his own ears, he
sounded like a petulant child. What was it about his father that reduced him to
an awkward boy long after he'd proved his manhood in battle?

“Let us hope so.”

“Even if they took to the hills with every kitchen knife and pitchfork they
possess, we will defeat them easily. And then they'll find themselves drafted
into our army of the dead!”

“No battle is ever easy,” the King admonished. “Never forget Hael will have
to reign over this vast kingdom once it is established.”

“That worry is for another day,” Rau dismissed his father's worries with
false bravado. Not what he wanted to hear on the eve of his victory. Apparently,
the parental admiration he'd sought was not forthcoming. He searched the crowd
for his peers. Alas, no one under fifty was to be found so close to the
King.

He looked back to see a meaningful glance pass between King and Priest.

“Do not forget the legend of the warrior-princess.”

Rau gaped at his father. The fear in the old man's voice made him shiver
despite the heat.

“Surely you don't believe that nonsense of prophecy and another heir?” Rau
threw up his hands in frustration, remembering too late the crystal chalice that
went sailing off into the gathering. Wincing, he watched as it crashed in a rain
of crystal shards amongst a band of revelers.

Taking the gesture for a celebration of his conquest, the crowd
applauded.

Having no option but to continue the charade, he bowed to his admirers. A
black-robed servant appeared at his elbow with another glass. Behind him, he
could feel the watchful eyes of the King and his most trusted advisor boring
into his back. He swallowed his embarrassment and turned to face them. “The
House of Caryn now reside among the leagues of the dead,” he whispered harshly
into the silence. “I know, I counted them myself.”

“It is a foolish man who tempts fate,” Gamaliel warned. “Do you not think it
strange that you razed the city of Kanarek and came away with neither the Sword
nor the map to its hiding place?”

The comment brought a sobering scowl to Rau's face. “The Sword of Zal-Azaar
is as much legend as the story of the warrior-princess.”

“Is it?” the old man asked. “Have you never wondered what happens to the
souls that once inhabited the bodies of your dead warriors? Have you never
wondered why the legends spoke of two weapons?”

“Their souls mean nothing to me as long as their bodies do my bidding.”

Giving the Crown Prince a long disapproving glance, Gamaliel shambled off,
only to stop in the shadows several feet away. “The Sword of Zal-Azaar was made
to counter the jewel that lies at the center of your strategy,” he said quietly.
“And if you were wise, you'd not mock its name.”

Uttering a deep sigh, Rau watched the old priest depart. “Honestly father, I
don't know why you retain him.”

“He is an old and trusted friend.”

“Well it's time you found another. Gamaliel grows feeble in his old age.”

His feeling of euphoria was rapidly deteriorating into one of despondency. He
wanted nothing more than to be gone from the obligations of court and free to
celebrate his victory in a fashion more deserving of the months of work that had
led up to this day. But his father was still staring at him with that same
disapproving, worried look on his face. And he'd not yet given him leave.

His deepening frown finally drew the King's pity. As if realizing he'd not
given his son a word of praise, he asked suddenly, “Have you no friends of your
own to share our victory with? No special lady?”

“For my consort,” Rau scoffed, “Only the mythical princess of Kanarek will
do.”

His father shot him a cold look. “Watch what you wish for.”

“You don't really think she exists?”

“Foolish is the man who underestimates his opponent,” the King said.
“Remember that, son.”

Rau's eyes narrowed and he finished his wine in a single gulp. Spying a
familiar figure in the crowd, he said quickly, “Ah, there is Captain Larz. By
your leave, sir?”

Without waiting for his reply, Rau dove into the crowd.

He bypassed Captain Larz with no more than a nod, deciding suddenly that in
his present mood, his own company was preferable. Smiling and nodding, enduring
a multitude of congratulatory slaps on the back, he made his way to the balcony
on the far side of the Great Hall.

Mercifully, it was unoccupied. He slumped against the cool marble. The night
was unseasonably warm, the heavy satin cloak with its amber clasp was annoyingly
hot. Long, brown hair clung to the back of his neck in sweaty curls. Belatedly,
he regretted not tying it back in its customary braid.

Tossing the cloak over the marble railing, he debated shedding the leather
vest laced tight across his broad chest. He couldn't run the risk of being
caught on the balcony of the great hall clad in nothing but a linen shirt and
breeches, he decided. That was for another sort of celebration all together.

It should have been the finest night of his life. He had planned to wander
through the King's ball, collecting comments and drinking wine until the world
retreated behind a haze of drunken euphoria. And then he had planned to take his
pick of the banquet of women decorated in multi-colored silk. Perhaps two or
three, he reflected grimly. But instead he'd gone searching for his father's
approval, and therein lost the stomach for the rest of it.

Months of work had gone into this venture. Years in fact, if he counted the
portion of his youth lost pouring over the dusty old scrolls in the chapel. It
was there he'd first come across the old rhyme about the Sword and the
Amber.

The desert is a shade of night

Of blue shadow and bone white light

Across the arid desert sea

The crystal mountains call to me

There within a tomb of stone

Lies a blade that owns my soul

Now I believe I've glimpsed Hell's fires

Let the desert be my funeral pyre

The haunting poem stayed with him as he passed from youth into manhood. And
one day a disgruntled prince had looked out over the confines of his father's
kingdom and decided to turn a boy's dreams into a man's reality.

All those months, baking under the merciless desert sun, searching by every
map ever set to parchment for the Amber's tomb. Endless scorching days and
freezing nights spent in the saddle, while the vicious winds drove sand into
every layer of clothing and every crease of skin.

And yet, he had been victorious. He had conquered Kanarek. Rau glanced back
into the room that still pulsed with color and laughter, finally sighting his
father's purple cloak.

“I did this for you,” he told the King's unsuspecting back.

Still, a line from the rhyme nagged at the edges of his mind, one he hadn't
shared with his father.

Let their kingdoms fall before me

And I shall be her rightful Queen.

The Shraal had it wrong, Rau thought. He would be the rightful King. He would
rein over the entire coast.

A shadow moved between Rau and the light. He tensed momentarily, going for
the sword slung low across his hips. But the shadow smiled and moved into the
beam of light shining through the doorway.

“Your Highness.”

“Captain Larz.”

“At your service.”

Rau burst into raucous laughter. “That you are, Captain. Won't you join
me?”

“A glorious night,” Larz offered, eyeing his commander nervously.

“That it is.” Turning away to hide the extent of his drunkenness, Rau leaned
his forearms on the railing and stared down into the square. One of the soldiers
had tumbled into the fountain. A group of giggling young ladies were trying
unsuccessfully to pull him out. Larz, following the Prince's gaze, recognized
his man in the fountain and shifted uncertainly.

“They fought hard for our victory,” he said at last.

The women's laughter drifted upward to the balcony, followed by a loud splash
as the drunken soldier slipped once again from the ladies' grasp.

“A hard campaign,” Rau agreed, and almost chuckled at the concerned look on
Larz's face. “They deserve their night of merriment.”

Larz relaxed visibly. “And you, Your High--”

The Prince dismissed the title with a wave of his hand. Though they shared a
camaraderie in battle, in the palace Larz was a model of decorum. “Rau,” he
insisted. “We are alone.”

“Yes, Sir.” Larz glanced at the soldier who, now sobered by the cold of the
fountain, was clambering to his feet under his own power. “I'd have thought to
find you out among them.”

Rau sighed. “At court we must keep up appearances. Rest assured, I'll have my
celebration later.”

“When we take Kholer.”

“The night we take Kholer, I shall run nude through that fountain,” Rau said.
“Regardless of what my father thinks.”

Unsure whether to smile, Larz merely nodded.

“There will be weeks of hard battle between here and Kholer.”

“Our army grows with each village,” the captain said and shuddered visibly.
In an attempt to cover the reflex, he tipped his goblet high.

Rau looked down into his own and found it empty. He glanced up at Larz. “The
legend of Zal-Azaar, do you believe it, Captain?”