The Deadwalk (4 page)

It was amazing how quickly the imperial tone had crept into her voice, her
mannerisms, as if she'd grown up in the palace with its protocol and
courtiers.

Surely this couldn't be the same Riordan who could barely make it through a
meal without fidgeting--who sat statue-still upon her horse, staring into the
darkness, her face closed upon her thoughts. Nhaille's frown deepened.

He didn't want to go to Kanarek. It would tear his heart in two to look upon
the ruin of his city. He pictured Riordan staring out over the ruin of her
kingdom with that calm expression quietly accepting it all.

And that would truly break his heart.

Folly in the extreme to venture anywhere near Kanarek. They ought to be half
way across the plains of Kor-Koraan by now. But Riordan needed to look upon the
demolition of her city with her own eyes, to know for certain all that was
written in the prophecy was true. He couldn't deny her this one last mercy. Not
when she'd been denied so much else.

She was her father's daughter after all. He'd never been able to refuse his
King, either.

Damn, he thought. And damn again.

#

Muffled sounds seemed to come from far away. Shouted orders, the dull slap of
boots against cobblestone. Bevan stirred.

Neurons fired intermittently. Sporadic thoughts flashed into his
consciousness. Danger, terror, pain. In some lost chamber of his mind he
remembered the concepts but feeling deteriorated into a dull haze.

Get up!

The voice echoed inside his mind. He tried to ignore it, content to linger in
this cottony-filled world of nothingness. But it nagged at him, urging him to
follow its insistent command.

He ran his swollen tongue over cracked lips, trying to rid himself of the
sour taste of rot. Clotted blood filled his mouth. Flakes of drying blood
covered the side of his face and encrusted the collar of his shirt. I'm dying,
he thought in one brief, lucid flash. No, his mind calmly replied, I'm dead.

Get up! A boot collided with his side. The blow lifted his shoulder off the
ground. He felt the impact but not the expected pain. A low moan issued from his
flattened lungs. Bevan opened his eyes.

Half the world was dark, the rest blurry and out of focus as if the entire
landscape was under water. He blinked, out of reflex, it did nothing to clear
the clouds in his vision.

The order became desire. Deadened limbs sluggishly complied.

Walk.

Bevan lurched forward. Walking. His body remembered, obeyed. Brief snatches
of memory told him he wasn't always this shambling slave. For an instant he felt
the overwhelming loss of that life, but the voice in his head drowned out the
rest of his thoughts.

The odor of decay rose up around him, impossible to ignore, even through his
numbed senses. Swiveling his head to see through that one, clouded eye, he made
out the tattered shapes of his former countrymen, staggering in rough formation.
Like a plague, they poured past the city gates and out into the unsuspecting
countryside.

The sight triggered the spark of an image. Fire. Shouting. Danger. Something
important he ought to remember.

But in the end the thought eluded him. He marched with the others through the
city gates and into the searing afternoon sun.

#

The indigo sky gradually gave way to turquoise, darkness to amber light.
Riordan ran a hand across gritty eyes and wished wholeheartedly for the familiar
comfort of her bed. It would be a long time before she slept in a bed again, she
thought regretfully. Longer still before she would rest without nightmares
haunting her sleep.

Lack of sleep didn't seem to bother Nhaille any more than the chafing armor.
She glanced over at him, seemingly impervious to any of the discomfort she was
suffering and secretly hated him. She had no doubt he could sleep quite
peacefully upright in the saddle.

Exhaustion dulled the terror, combining everything into one great discomfort.
That made it all bearable, Riordan thought, steadfastly refusing to consider
anything beyond getting through the next few hours.

Green hills gave way to flat grassy plains. Farming land. They rode past
quiet cottages that sat among fields of grain. Lands that paid tribute to
Kanarek. Her father's territory.

No, my territory. Riordan pushed the thought from her mind.

It will only be my land, if I win it back from Hael.

If I survive, she corrected.

“Not far now,” Nhaille said. He studied her briefly and frowned.

“I'm okay,” she said quickly.

The frown deepened.

“I have to see it, Nhaille. I have to know.”

He nodded and turned away. Rounding the last bend, he gestured to the city
that had once dominated the skyline.

“Look then, there it is.”

Riordan straightened in the saddle and beheld what remained of her
kingdom.

The sun festered on the horizon like an ugly sore, bleeding and running with
the black clouds of the dismal morning. Soot hung heavily in the air, blanketing
everything from the smoldering ruins to the charred remnants of farmers' fields.
Riordan turned her horse in a slow circle, taking in everything that lay in the
radius of her vision.

In the fields, the scorched remains of wheat and corn thrust their barren
stalks toward an unforgiving sky. The charred corpses of sheep and oxen lay
among the ransacked fields. Yet the leagues of bodies that should have lain in
gutter and square were conspicuously absent.

Where once towering marble gates had marked the entrance to Kanarek, a heap
of rubble now made passage impossible. Beyond the wreckage of the avenue a
massive bonfire still burned. Within its smoldering embers, Riordan could make
out the burning form of a massive carved throne.

My father's. She tried to picture the imposing figure of the King and failed.
In a panic, she tried again, but her father's face flickered in her mind's eye
then disappeared.

Did you truly ever think it would come to this? But he wasn't there to answer
her question.

An eerie quiet settled over the once bustling metropolis, broken only by the
crackle of the flames and the low whine of the sickly breeze.

No dying cries were carried on the wind. No rats scurried through the
untended fields. Nothing broke the stillness save for the snap of a twig
succumbing to the flames.

“Riordan,” Nhaille said gently, breaking into her thoughts. “We can't stay
here, it isn't safe.”

She nodded, afraid to speak, afraid to twitch so much as a muscle lest the
scream inside her work its way free.

A shadow swept over the hills toward them, followed by the sure thunder of
hooves. Nhaille's head came up at the sound. Danger flashed in his eyes followed
swiftly by what she took to be the accusation that it was her orders that had
brought them here. The instinct for self-preservation took over. Turning
Strayhorn sharply, she bolted for cover in a thatch of nearby trees.

Stormback followed closely on Strayhorn's heels. They reached cover just as
the first of the riders crested the hill. Nhaille maneuvered his mount in
closely beside her. Riordan chewed the corner of her lip and waited.

A battalion of plumed Haelian riders plunged over the hill, trampling all
that lay in their path. Every muscle in her body clenched, fighting the urge to
rush from cover and take as many heads as she could lay across the path of her
sword.

That may win you a few Haelian scalps, but it won't bring back Kanarek.
Nhaille's right. Our only hope is the Sword.

The riders disappeared in a cloud of dust. Riordan gathered the reins.
Nhaille's hand shot out, holding her in place.

And then she heard it.

Sound reached into her memory, dragging her back in time. To the summer day
much like this one, when she'd come between a goat and the butcher's knife.
She'd thrown off his aim and the animal had screamed in agony until Riordan had
been dragged from the barn and the butcher allowed to finish the job. That dying
scream was merely one note among the chorus she heard now.

Like an invisible fog, a choking stench nearly made Riordan cough out loud. A
cloud of flies swarmed lazily over the hill.

The flat wailing crested the hill. Riordan opened her eyes, realizing
suddenly they'd been screwed tightly closed.

You knew this moment was coming. Open your eyes and look.

Resolutely, she turned her head to face the nightmare that awaited her.

At first glance, she couldn't see anything amiss. But as the bedraggled
soldier lurched down the slope of the hill, she noted the awkward movements, the
flat staring eye.

Sunlight flashed upon the stake of amber impaled through his right eye into
the brain. Riordan forced herself to look beyond this first horrid spectacle.
Behind the first soldier crept the rest of Kanarek's dead.

The pressure of Nhaille's hand intensified, warning her against sudden noise
or movement. She dragged in a shaky breath, refusing to look away from what
remained of her subjects.

They came in pairs of two or three, staggering on in loose formation. Shop
keepers still wearing their tattered aprons, stone masons, smiths, women,
mutilated children bearing kitchen knives.

Clouded eyes stared out from blood-streaked faces. Tatters of clothing
fluttered in the breeze like dirty laundry. Some rode on emaciated horses,
others lumbered after them on foot.

Then in the center, Riordan saw a blaze of light.

Nhaille's hand covered her mouth as the gasp burst from her lips. She bit her
lip, tasting blood. And still she could not tear her attention from the figure
who rode past her, separated by only a space of grass and the insubstantial
barrier of trees.

Even in death he sat straight upon his cadaverous mount. His shining black
hair was caked with dust and the ruddy stains of drying blood. The wounds on his
body were hidden by his cloak, but the skeletal hands that gripped the reins
were streaked with dirt. On his head, like some tasteless joke, sat his gold
diadem.

As though he somehow sensed her presence, his head turned slowly in her
direction. Riordan whimpered low in her throat. Nailed through her father's once
jet black eye was a stake of amber.

Hot tears blurred her vision, threatening to spill onto her cheeks. Riordan
fought the overwhelming impulse to surrender to grief. If she cried, all would
be lost.

Scalding tears cooled. The rapid thump of her heart stilled. The urge to cry
froze within her, turning her blood to ice.

With forced calmness, she watched until the last cadaver disappeared over the
summit of the next hill. Nhaille dropped his hand from her mouth. Riordan licked
blood from the corner of her lip.

“They will pay for this.” Her words were the barest whisper. “I'll not rest
until Hael lies in rubble and the head of its heir sits on a stake before the
city gates.”

“Riordan--”

A harsh shout cut off the last of Nhaille's sentence. As one they whirled, to
find two Haelian riders galloping up the hill toward them.

“They've seen us!” Nhaille hissed.

She saw the flash of his sword, found her own in her hand. Having no other
choice, they plummeted down the slope toward the soldiers.

Grinding her spurs into Strayhorn's flank, she raced past Nhaille. The eyes
of the first Haelian widened in shock as he caught a glimpse of the crazed woman
careening down the hill toward him.

For a fleeting moment he debated standing his ground. Thinking better of it,
he turned tail and fled. Riordan urged Strayhorn relentlessly onward. The
warhorse obeyed, bearing down on the hapless soldier like Jaador, God of
Retribution himself.

Nhaille's shouts echoed in her ears. Her impulsiveness could get them both
killed. She knew it well, but couldn't think past the blinding wave of fury
inside. With the sum of her strength she swung. The effort nearly unseated her,
but she felt her sword strike bone.

Impact reverberated up her arm, jarring her from wrist to shoulder. She swung
again, ignoring her helmet as it slid from her head, freeing her mane of of
silver hair.

As if from a distance she watched in cold horror as her sword clove the
Haelian's head from his shoulders. His plumed helmet sailed into the morning
sun, coming to rest part way down the hill.

Still bearing the body of its headless rider, the Haelian's warhorse raced
off on its previous course. His partner stared at the headless horseman and
bolted for the cover of a nearby patch of forest. Riordan chased after him.

Ground flew by beneath Strayhorn's hooves as he followed the narrow, twisting
path. But the Haelian soldier had the lead and he vanished under the cover of
the trees. A fence of green obscured her view. Within seconds she realized she'd
lost him.

A gloved hand seized the reins. She gasped staring up at Nhaille suddenly
beside her.

“It's too late, Riordan.” Nhaille looked nervously around them. “They've seen
us now. We have no choice but to ride for the desert and hope we make it to the
crystal mountains in time.”

Riordan dragged in a breath, waiting for the shudders of hysteria she was
sure would follow. In dazed confusion she stared down at her bloody sword,
seeing it, yet feeling nothing.

Nothing but the cold darkness inside.

A night spent drinking did not a pleasant morning make. Rau silently rebuked
himself for the previous evening's folly.

Rough terrain tortured his headache. Each bump felt like a knife to his
skull. The brilliant sun overhead lanced through his sensitive eyes.

Though his linen shirt lay damp with sweat, he shivered in spite of his
leather vest and heavy cloak. He almost considered calling an early camp. After
last night's merriment, the men would be suffering as surely as he and would
welcome a few extra hours rest.

But his father's words whispered like ghosts in his ears. Kholer would not
lie in wait for him to conquer. Gamaliel's taunts of a warrior-princess had
followed him even into his dreams. Doubt took root in his mind.

So he rallied his army days earlier than he'd first intended. Hael couldn't
run the risk of stragglers from Kanarek forewarning Kholer. Surprise was their
ally. Sweeping out of the west, he'd level their fair city and add the
casualties to the ranks of his army of cadavers.

After Kholer there was the Golar. Following Golar, the rest of the coast.

Once he held the coast neither the fabled Sword of Zal-Azaar, nor the lost
Kanarekii heir would be able to wrest it from him. He'd stamp his mark upon the
entire landscape, blackening all that had been built there, obliterating all
that stood against him.

His father would be forced to recognize Doan-Rau as his heir, instead of his
younger brother, Tanin.

When the fires of his conquest had smoldered into ash, then he would rebuild,
erect proud monuments to his name. By then the stragglers would be ready to bow
to him. Those who didn't would soon find themselves among the legions of the
dead. Manpower was the least of his worries. His standard would be flown in
every hamlet along the coast. One day perhaps even across the plains of
Kor-Koraan.

A mad and brilliant scheme, Rau thought. The Amber offered an ingenious
savings in labor and time. Shraal be praised, there was no longer any need to
burn the battlefields. Merely round up the dead, induce the magic of locomotion
using the Amber, then ride them out. Shraal sorcery would spur them on until the
process of decomposition rendered them immobile. What remained would be left to
rot in the midday sun, an offering to the vultures.

Shraal mysteries had haunted Rau's imagination since his youth. Evidence of
Shraal blood weighed strong within him, plain for anyone with discerning eyes to
see. Still, his father would deny him his heritage.

Precious little now remained of the proud kingdom that had stretched over
most of the mapped territory. Shraal would have faded from memory completely had
it not been for him. Rau fingered the amber clasp on his cloak. Despite his dark
hair and rugged features, he had a Shraal's soul. He would raise the great
kingdom of Bayorek from the ashes and rule as its king. Such was the dream he
was shaping into reality.

Shouts broke into his reverie. Rau lurched to his senses. Soldiers, who
should have been riding in tight formation behind him, now searched the rear for
the source of the commotion. Sensing his sudden regard, they snapped to
attention. Larz, he noted, had gone to investigate.

“Take the lead,” he barked at the standard bearer, who nodded nervously and
took Rau's spot. The last thing he needed on a morning such as this was trouble.

Further down the line of soldiers, he noticed a break in the ranks. Rau put
the spurs to his horse. Dissension would not be tolerated. If the men needed
extra incentive, that could certainly be arranged.

Soldiers scattered as he reined into their midst, anxious to fade back into
anonymity within the ranks. In the center of the commotion, Larz held one of the
men at the tip of his sword. But the look of repulsion on the Captain's face was
directed at the ranks of the dead who milled behind them aimlessly, awaiting new
orders. Rau swore.

Dismounting, he bore down on the hapless soldier like a bull intent on
skewering his foe.

Larz whirled to face him, quickly smothering the look. “Your Highness?”

The Captain seemed genuinely embarrassed to see him. Though the young soldier
looked up at him in utter terror, there was defiance in his eyes as well.

“What seems to be the problem, Captain?”

Larz shifted his weight uneasily. “The problem has been dealt with, Sir. No
need to trouble yourself.”

Rau's eyes narrowed suspiciously. Before he could speak, the soldier shook
himself from Larz's grasp. Dismayed, the Captain lunged after him, but Rau held
up his hand.

“I refuse to ride with the likes of them!” With a wide sweep of his arm, the
soldier indicated the army of cadavers.

Horrified by his man's insurrection, Larz reached out a hand to haul him back
under his control. Rau stepped between them, his movement lithe as a panther.
The Captain read the warning in Rau's stance and paled.

“Your Highness--”

“Silence, Captain. I believe the soldier has a complaint to register.”

Falsely encouraged, the man continued. “The stench, Sir, it's too much to
bear. The men have nightmares. No one should have to endure this!”

Rau smiled down at him. Larz shut his eyes and prayed.

“I take it you'd like a transfer,” Rau said.

The soldier smiled back. “Yes, Sir!”

Amber flashed in the midday sun.

Much too late, the soldier saw the downward stroke of Rau's arm. He tried to
bolt from the path of the amber missile headed for him. Rau reached out, seizing
the soldier by the scruff of the neck. With one lighting strike, he drove the
amber deep into his brain.

The soldier crumpled to the ground, the stake protruding from his eye like
the horn of some twisted unicorn.

“A transfer you shall have,” Rau snarled, wiping the blood from his hands.

He glowered up at the ring of soldiers standing in open-mouthed shock. “And
so shall anyone else who wants one.”

With covert glances of horror in Rau's direction, the army melded back into
formation and went about its business.

Rau grasped Larz by the arm and pulled him after him. “Captain, if you
please.”

Larz swallowed hard. With a furtive glance in the direction of the fallen
soldier, he swung up on his horse and followed Rau along the staggering line of
the dead army.

#

Could they not see the beauty in it? Rau wondered as he inspected the ranks
of his cadavers with Larz at his side. Could they not fathom the cruel yet
wonderful irony of the fallen, rising up to conquer their own cities and then
condemning their neighbors to the same fate?

They had no vision. Not his father, not the council, not even his loyal
friend, Larz, though he'd never admit to it. Rau had seen the look of terror and
repulsion on the Captain's face. He sensed the hateful looks his men shot at his
back. No matter. His demonstrations had their purpose. Others must understand
the true glory of the amber.

His fingers stroked the jewel at his neck. For a moment memory sucked him
back down into those dark winding caverns that led to the Amber's tomb...

The stench of sweat and fear had hung heavily in the narrow corridor. They
hammered incessantly against the crystal barrier, sleeping in shifts. Three
nights and four days passed. Men eyed each other nervously and wondered when
they'd go mad in the confines of the narrow space.

Crystal shattered. The wall collapsed beneath them. Shoving men aside, Rau
tumbled through the maw of jagged rock. He had to be the first to lay eyes upon
the Amber. No one must touch it but he.

The entire cave vibrated with its own pure tone. He reached out a tentative
hand.

All sound ceased. Even the soldiers around him paused in their breathing. For
the first time since he'd embarked upon his quest, he'd doubted.

In its nest of crystal, the Amber waited. Rau crept closer, afraid for a
moment to touch it lest he be struck dead.

Men formed a fence behind him. Nothing to do but go on. The air around him
crackled as his fingers met its cool surface. In that moment, Doan-Rau, Prince
of Hael thought he had won for himself the ancient throne of Bayorek. It was
destined to be.

Still his father had not believed. His entourage of aged advisors scoffed
even as he rode up to the gates, bearing his great prize. They'd not believe him
still, if old Wincott hadn't died.

Destiny again. Why else would the old counselor have perished on the eve of
his return?

A demonstration, they demanded. A spectacle he swore they'd have.

With the whole of his father's counsel room waiting in hushed anticipation,
Rau chipped off a sliver of Amber and slid it into Wincott's right eye.

At Rau's command, as his father's most trusted advisors watched in
open-mouthed astonishment, Wincott's body rose stiffly from its pallet. Only one
more spectacle was needed to secure their devotion.

The thing that had been Wincott waited blank faced for its orders. Rau
motioned for Larz to hand the cadaver his sword.

Larz stared back at him in uncomprehending silence. Then, sure he hadn't
misunderstood, the Captain drew his sword. With a last pleading look in Rau's
direction, he handed the sword to Wincott. The corpse took it. Rau scanned the
soldiers that lined the walls of the audience chamber.

“That man over there,” he said indicating one with the tip of a black-gloved
finger. “Kill him.”

The soldier shrank back in horror. He would have bolted from the chamber, had
Larz not restrained him.

On Rau's order, the cadaver advanced upon the hapless soldier, sword raised
for the killing blow. In horrified fascination the soldier watched the cadaver
move toward him.

It would have killed him, Rau thought with a smile. Not his intention, of
course. He'd waited until the sword was a hair's breath from the soldier's
breast, then called the order to halt.

Wincott froze. The soldier fainted. In that glorious moment, Rau won the
support of his father's advisors.

Ah yes, Rau thought grimly. These demonstrations were indeed necessary.

So why was there a chill running between his shoulder blades in spite of the
warmth of his cloak and the blazing sun? Why did an old man's superstitions
haunt his dreams, piercing even his most drunken stupor?

Rau and Larz circled back, taking their places at the head of the army. The
brief dissension now effectively subdued, the long line of soldiers and horses
flowed easily across the landscape. Featureless flatlands gave way to the gentle
swell of hills and lush vegetation. Rau was grateful for the occasional shade of
trees after miles of scrubby brush.

But though the terrain was easier going, the nagging sense of doubt would not
allow him to relax. Fragments of his father's mocking words echoed in his mind.
Could there really be some long-hidden Caryn heir even now plotting his
demise?

“Fairy tales,” Rau muttered with a cynical laugh.

If Kanarek had such a weapon, why had old Arais-Khun-Caryn not used it in the
hour of his most desperate need? Last night's vision was nothing more than a
drunken hallucination. The House of Caryn were noted for their dark hair and
darker eyes. The blonde phantom was merely an embodiment of his drunken desire
for female company, a symptom of the strain of a lengthy campaign.

The memory of those slate-gray eyes boring into his made him shudder. If
destiny offered the warrior-princess as one last test, he would have to destroy
her. Nothing would stand between Rau and his great legacy.

Rau jolted to his senses. Beside him, Larz waited patiently, as if for an
answer.

“Captain?”

Larz cleared his throat. “I was asking, Sir, if we should not call a break
once we've entered the forest.”

Rau bit back the caustic reply on his lips, determined that if he must
stoically suffer beneath the searing sun, so must the army. But the Captain's
suggestion made sense. He was desperately in need of a moment's rest and some
strong tea to revive him. “A half-hour's rest,” he agreed. “Once we're within
the shelter of the forest.”

There was much to be said for having a camouflage of trees to conceal an
army. No wonder the wars of Bayorek had been such a disaster. The exposed plains
of Kor-Koraan left the Shraal armies without cover. Like trying to hide an army
among so many grains of sand, Rau thought, congratulating himself on his
superior strategy.

The Shraal, for all their greatness, had merely marched out upon the plains
and slaughtered each other.

Shraal, he thought, blinking back another glimpse of the Kanarekii phantom
who'd somehow taken root in his subconscious. She did so resemble temple
drawings of the Shraal with her ghostly hair and light eyes. His intuition never
led him astray. These persistent visions meant something.

Or were they merely the effects of too much drink? Rau shook his head to
clear the cobwebs from his mind.

“Certainly you could use the rest yourself, Your Highness?” Larz inquired
quietly. Only Larz would suggest such a thing. No one but Larz would dare.

“Indeed.” Rau cast an inquiring gaze at his captain. “You seem to fare well
enough for one who was up even later than I.”

“I have fared better,” Larz admitted. With a second glance Rau noted the
shadows beneath the captain's eyes. Tiny lines creased the corners, wrinkles
that hadn't been there before.

The Prince nodded. “I see. So this break you kindly suggested on the men's
behalf was for your own benefit?”

“If Your Highness is at all merciful,” Larz said, “you'll grant me a break
before I slide from the saddle and humiliate us both.” Though the words were
spoken lightly enough, exhaustion darkened his face. The day's events, it
seemed, weighed heavily on Larz as well.

“Agreed then, a short rest and a pot of scalding tea. After that, Captain, I
will have no mercy until sundown.”