The Deadwalk (3 page)

Larz snorted. “Stories to entertain old women and frighten small children. No
more.”

“What makes you so sure?”

The captain fidgeted with his gauntlets.

“If the tale of the Amber turned out to be true,” Rau prompted using his
father's argument to cover his doubts, “why not the Sword and the mythical
princess?”

“That is a question for men greater than I,” Larz said.

“Perhaps.” Rau stared into the darkness.

“You don't believe in the warrior-princess,” the captain asked anxiously. “Do
you, Sir?”

“Of course not.” His certainty sounded forced, even to his own ears.

For a moment neither made any further attempts at conversation.

“Well,” Larz said at length, “I must see to the men.” He laughed with forced
cheerfulness. “We don't want them tearing up our city in their zeal.”

“Good night to you, Captain.”

This melancholy mood was not going to pass, Rau thought bitterly. Behind him
the crowd of dignitaries was thinning. The ice-sculptures on the banquet table
had melted into silver puddles, and the lavish spread looked as though it had
been plundered as thoroughly as Kanarek. Empty goblets cluttered every flat
surface. A few had even been thrust into the hands of marble statues and wedged
between the branches of the potted topiary. Exhausted servants desperately tried
to keep the carnage to a minimum and failed.

Rau turned back into the humid air. Despite the heavy perfume of honeysuckle,
it was as if even the sky pressed down upon him in displeasure.

But I have made us great. Our praises will be sung for hundreds of years. He
wondered absently why that thought did nothing to lift his mood.

The memory of Kanarek's King staring lifelessly at him in defiance had taken
root in his mind and refused to leave.

The man was dead, he told himself sternly. All expression died with him. It
was his imagination, nothing more. He stared into the night as the sound of
merry-making faded.

For a moment his vision misted and he had a sudden image of a silver-haired
woman staring down at him with piercing gray eyes. The vision was gone as
swiftly as it came. There was nothing before him but a flash of gray against the
black sky. Dawn.

Rau contemplated the empty goblet. He turned to go back into the now quiet
hall.

Suddenly, he whirled and tossed the wineglass high into the sky.

Caught in the light of the lanterns, it flickered, then crashed to the
cobblestone like a falling star.

“How can an old piece of stone possibly make a dead body walk?” The image did
nothing to ease Riordan's nerves. The outdoors were bigger than she could
possibly have imagined. Deprived of the keep's protective walls, she felt
exposed. Each snap of a twig made her jump. Each time the wind whispered, she
caught herself scanning the trees for danger.

“I've never seen the Amber work,” Nhaille said, “but if the rest of the
prophecy has come true, we must prepare ourselves for that possibility as
well.”

“Why would someone make a weapon like that?” It had never occurred to her to
wonder why. Wondering would have been an admission of belief.

She was believing now, as fast as she could, trying to make up for nineteen
years of denial. Her mind raced ahead, conjuring every dismal scenario
imaginable. Strayhorn's swaying gait only served to augment the turmoil in her
gut. Terror became nausea. Each passing second made the possibility of vomiting
an inevitability. Riordan grit her teeth. Vomiting was out of the question. She
would not be sick in front of Nhaille and humiliate them both.

Nhaille scanned the horizon. “We can only guess what went on in Shraal minds.
It is written they were not entirely sane. Shraal confined themselves to their
opal cities, refusing to intermarry with the people of the plains. Inbreeding
produced insanity, overcrowding.”

“This whole thing is lunacy,” Riordan ground out through clenched teeth.

“You'll get no argument from me there.” Nhaille tightened the strap of his
spiked helmet. Turning his head, he swept his gaze across the black silhouette
of the hills, searching for signs of pursuit. So far there'd been none. Hael was
certain of their victory.

Riordan glanced enviously at Nhaille and tried not to fidget. Armor seemed to
suit him nearly as well as his own skin.

I should be so lucky.

Her helmet's leather strap dug into the tender skin behind her ears. Armor
chafed everywhere it touched. She hated being encased in leather and mail,
longed for the freedom of a simple tunic and breeches. Even Strayhorn whinnied
irritably and tossed his head trying to throw off the spiked face plate.

“Once the Shraal realized their weapons could be used against them, why
didn't they destroy them?”

“The machinery of war had already been set in motion. Perhaps they didn't
know how.”

“They made them.”

“The knowledge may have been lost.”

“A fine legacy to leave for me--” Riordan stopped suddenly. Her own words
echoed through her head over and over again. “For me to clean up,” she whispered
finally.

Until now she'd been wandering around in a horrified daze, packing,
organizing, trying to cram as much history as possible into her already
overburdened brain. In one giant landslide the full impact of her task came
crashing down upon her.

“Gods, Nhaille, I can't fix this mess. It's impossible!”

He rode in close and squeezed her armored shoulder. “Easy, Riordan. For now
all we must do is make it across the desert alive.”

“We have to stay alive long enough to find the Sword,” she supplied.

“Right.”

“What if we don't find it?” Gods, what if we do?

“According to the prophecy, we will.”

Fear twisted within her, swiftly becoming anger. “And what if the prophecy is
wrong? Has no one thought of that?”

“It has been right so far.”

Riordan threw up her hands in frustration. Strayhorn, feeling the sudden
slack on the reins, snorted nervously. Losing stride momentarily, he fell back
into step with Nhaille's Stormback. “Fine, assuming that's right. Has nobody
considered that maybe it can't be done?”

“It can be done,” Nhaille insisted. “Hael had no difficulty turning the Amber
upon us.”

“Hael has an army! We have nothing, except a moldy old map!”

“For now,” Nhaille said, maddeningly sure of himself.

Riordan reined Strayhorn in sharply. He protested vehemently, throwing up his
head. “Suppose we find this mythical Sword of Zal-Azaar. Hells, suppose we do
manage to assemble an army -- I'll even go as far as to believe that I'm capable
of breaking through Haelian ranks, cleaving off the Prince's head and sending
his soul to damnation in the Seventh Hell.”

Nhaille waited quietly for her to continue.

“What then? What if I can't control it? What if I can't use it at all?”

The question hung between them.

“And even,” Riordan added quietly, “if somehow by the will of the Gods I'm
able to do all the prophecy says I will. That will not rebuild Kanarek. It won't
bring my family back.”

“No.” He peered into the shadows. “Defeating Hael is but the beginning of the
task.”

“Great.” Riordan urged Strayhorn forward. “Just as long as we both realize
what we're trying to do is impossible.”

Nhaille nodded noncommittally, thinking that was the end of the
conversation.

“By the Gods, Nhaille, I can't do any of this!”

The night echoed her words back at her.

“Keep your voice down! You'll do none of it if you lead the Haelian army
straight to us. You'll be dead and Kanarek will be lost forever. I do wish for a
moment you'd remember what's at stake here.”

“I am acutely aware of what's at stake here. And that is why I am utterly
terrified.”

“You don't have to do this alone, Riordan,” Nhaille said quietly. “I will be
with you.”

It was meant to comfort her, however, despite his forced bravado, in the
darkness Nhaille didn't sound any more sure of himself than she did.

They rode in silence for several moments while the urge to scream built
inside her. But hollering, as Nhaille pointed out, would be suicide.

“Did it ever occur to anyone that perhaps I just don't have it in me?”
Riordan whispered finally. “What if I'm not capable of coldbloodedly chopping
off someone's head?”

“Chopping off mine didn't seem to bother you.”

“I was trying to beat you, not kill you, Nhaille. I just wanted to see the
look on your face when I won.”

“I'd never have given you the satisfaction.”

His pitiful attempt at humor did little to calm her. Riordan frowned and
swallowed hard on the bile rising to her throat. “How am I going to beat Hael if
I can't even beat you?”

“Hael won't have The Sword of Zal-Azaar at their disposal.”

“Hael has the Amber.”

“They are not the same, Riordan.”

“No, but they're equal in their potential for destruction.”

“Not exactly.”

“The Sword is stronger?” She couldn't remember that fact written anywhere. At
least, it hadn't been in the book Nhaille kept beneath the marker in the
cellar.

“The Amber is an older, cruder weapon.” Nhaille paused, gathering his
thoughts. “Early Shraal possessed the magic to reignite the parts of the brain
that control walking, fighting. The Shraal ancestors of Hael declared war on the
kingdom of Bayorek. The Amber was cruel in its efficiency. For a time it seemed
Hael would win as the conquered territories found their own armies turned
against them.”

“So they created the Sword,” Riordan supplied.

Nhaille nodded. “It turned out Bayorek had their own Shraal sorcerers in the
House of Khun. Faced with a weapon that could make the dead walk, they created
another that left no bodies when it killed. Your Shraal ancestors created the
Sword of Zal-Azaar.”

“My ancestors were responsible for that abomination!” There seemed to be no
end to the night's cruel revelations.

“That abomination, as you call it, may well be Kanarek's only hope.”

Chastened, Riordan considered his point.

“War became stalemate,” Nhaille continued. “Each faction tried to rule the
world. It never occurred to them that it would be their own world they
destroyed.”

“That's why the plains of Kor-Koraan are barren to this day,” Riordan said.
That part was written in the book Nhaille kept hidden in the cellar.

“The wars of Bayorek lasted for generations.”

“Why did my family keep the map of the Sword's resting place?”

“Shraal blood still runs strong in the line of Khun. Your mother's
legacy.”

“This curse comes from my mother?”

“Only those of Shraal blood can use Shraal Sorcery. The Shraal abandoned the
ruined city of Bayorek and built a new city, Kanarek. Though they swore
themselves to peace, the house of Khun kept the map to the Sword's resting
place. In case Hael should rise up against them again.”

“I wish I'd never seen it.”

Nhaille shot her an impatient look. “One has only to look at you, Riordan, to
see the resemblance between you and your Shraal ancestors.”

“I guess they had no more choice than we do,” Riordan said. “They were being
annihilated.”

“They were desperate, Riordan.”

She stared into the darkness. “How can you be so sure there is Shraal blood
in my veins? What if the resemblance is only skin deep?”

“It could very well be. But there has not been a child with your coloring
born for generations. After the fall of Bayorek, those who were left of the
Shraal intermarried with the darker races of the plains.”

“I didn't get my coloring from my mother, then?” She always assumed she
had.

“No,” Nhaille said simply, then nothing more.

“And prophecy spoke of a fair-haired child. Is that what made my father
believe?”

“Even your father came about his belief reluctantly. The alternative was
oblivion.”

“Kanarek was too much to risk, so he sacrificed me,” Riordan said
bitterly.

“He chose to save you, Riordan. Had you been in Kanarek, you'd now be
dead.”

They rode in silence, hiding their thoughts under cover of darkness. Secrets
hung heavily between them, all those personal matters Nhaille would never
discuss with her. Curiosity tugged at her nonetheless. If she was to fight and
likely die for Kanarek, then she wanted to know exactly what she fought for.

“Before we cross the desert,” Riordan said suddenly. “There is something I
must do.” She didn't notice the imperiousness of her tone, but it brought
Nhaille's head up sharply.

“And what is that, Your Majesty?”

His use of her title escaped her notice. “I want to see Kanarek.”

Shock silenced him for a second, then he thundered, “Out of the
question.”

“Nhaille--”

“Riordan, that would be ludicrous. You might as well nail yourself to the
city gates and wait for Doan-Rau to hammer a stake of amber through your right
eye.”

His brutal scenario drew a gasp from her. Taking that as acquiescence,
Nhaille fell silent. But as in one of their duels, Riordan refused to give up so
easily. “I still want to see Kanarek, Nhaille.”

“I won't hear of it.”

“I insist!”

In the darkness, she watched his eyes widen in surprise and anger.

“You may be my liege, Your Majesty.” His voice hinted at the menace he was
capable of. “But I have been entrusted with your safety, and I must refuse.”

So much for my first order.

“You don't understand,” Riordan said softly. Reasoning with Nhaille in such a
mood was a delicate task. “I have never seen my home. I would like to see it
now, what's left of it, in case...” She couldn't say it.

“In case of what?”

“So that if I don't come back, at least I will have laid eyes once upon my
home.”

Nhaille swore under his breath.

“Is that so much to ask? Especially since I have had so little of what I
wanted in life.”

“No,” Nhaille said quietly. “It's not too much to ask. But for your own
safety I must refuse.”

That much admitted, he'd give her no more. Riordan read her defeat in his
expression and refused to acknowledge it. She looked him levelly in the eye.
“Hear me Nhaille. I will go to Kanarek. With or without you.”

#

Damn! There were times when he dearly wanted to throttle her. Would have,
except that she had his heart wrapped around her little finger. He could never
let her know that. Nhaille sighed deeply, most of the time she didn't even
realize it. Going to Kanarek was folly. But he couldn't let her ride into the
city alone, oblivious to the dangers she faced.

How could he deny her that first and perhaps last look at her home?
Especially considering the task before her. He glanced over at her, her face set
in that grim line that so reminded him of her father.

Only a brave man would cross her in such a mood, he thought with a brief
smile. But he knew the ferocious expression merely hid the terror inside her. He
watched the emotions flash across her face. Anger, terror, and finally cold
acceptance.

She was holding up surprisingly well. Duty was a concept she understood--he'd
made certain of that. For nineteen years, he'd worried that when the moment
came, she'd crumble beneath the enormity of the task thrust upon her.

This stoic silence was not what he expected. Though he could see the horror
lingering beneath her calm veneer, she choked it down, covering it in a layer of
stiff formality eerily reminiscent of his friend and King. He would almost have
preferred her tears, her rage against the weight of this crushing
obligation.

And I thought I knew you, Riordan.

The Riordan who rode beside him was a stranger. A strangely alluring and
beautiful stranger. He longed for the child he'd known, so he could hold her in
his arms and promise he'd make it all right.

A blatant lie. Taking the woman beside him into his arms brought its own
uncomfortable imaginings. And no way in the Seven Heavens would it be all right.
Not unless he could stop the passage of time, reach back through the ages,
unmake the Sword and Riordan unborn. The very best he could hope for was a
speedy death for them both. Wielding the Sword had its own dark pitfalls--that
he had yet to share with Riordan.

Forgive me, he thought desperately, for the ways I've misled you.

In a matter of hours, the child he'd raised had grown into a woman before his
eyes. The walls were up around her. He may never be invited inside.