The Misbegotten King (29 page)

“But why? Are these factions within your families?”

“Nah.” The Kahn shook his head vehemently. “We do not crucify women or kiddens. It is the sacred death. We only crucify people
we respect. Like you, Prince. We would crucify you.”

Roderic swallowed hard. “I’m honored. How do you know it’s your own men?”

“I’ve seen it happen.” He pressed his lips together. “I went with my men—though I knew even then they weren’t mine anymore—on
a recon, to check out what was up ahead. And we came to what was left of Mamma-Doc’s family. And I saw the men doing it—nailing
the women to the crosses and standing them up. I ordered them to stop it—ordered my men to take them down. And they refused.
I saw my Mamma-Doc on her cross, and I had to fight ten of my own men to get to her. It’s a slow death, you know, and she
was still alive. I cut her down, and took her away, and before she died, she told me to come to you.”

“What do you want from me?”

“I told you. Help.”

“What kind of help?”

“The Ridenau must be stopped. If he falls, my people will be my own again.”

Roderic shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “How do I know this isn’t a trap? Or that you’ve been sent here by Amanander with
this story—”

The Kahn moved in his chair, a vaguely threatening gesture which Roderic understood was born of frustration. “You have to
listen to me. The men don’t die. They don’t need food and they don’t need drink. They walk with dead men’s eyes. Wide open.
I have lived among them. They walk till their legs rot and they can walk no more.” His expression was one of disgust. He rose
to his feet and paced to the window, where the first gray light of dawn lightened the sky.

“I haven’t much to offer you, Prince, but what I can do to help you, I will. Someone must stop this, and stop it now.”

“Can you tell us how to kill them?”

“Cut off their heads. It’s the only way.”

Roderic was silent, wondering what Brand would have said to this, and what Phineas would say. He shifted in his chair. “I
will speak to my advisors in the morning.”

“You should know that over forty hundreds of my men have answered the Ridenau’s call. I have risked much to come to you. You
will not answer me?”

Roderic frowned. “I said I would take the matter under advisement. I will consider your request, as I consider all the appeals
for aid to my court.”

“Then you consider this, Prince. For centuries my people have roamed the Loma deserts and the Arkan Plains, and we go where
we want, and do what we please. When we have to act, we act, and when we have
to wait we wait. And we know the difference between the two. But you—you sit like spiders spinning webs. Don’t waste too much
time. The enemy will come for you whether you listen to me or not.” His shadow loomed on the walls.

Roderic stood up. He went to the door and called for the guards. When they had come in, he said: “Take our guest to the barracks
and find him lodging there.”

“Under guard, Lord Prince?”

Roderic hesitated. “See to his needs: give him whatever he wants, except a weapon.”

The Kahn laughed as he was led away. “Believe me, Prince, if I wanted one, you and all your men could not stop me.”

There was a reason, Brand thought, as he squinted in the hot glare of the noon sun, that younger men went on campaign and
older men stayed home. His back itched and his boots were full of sand. The light reflected off the pale yellow grit, and
in the far distance, the walls of the garrison of Dlas seemed to shimmer.

“There it is, Captain!” One of those younger men, a man at least thirty years his junior, raised an arm and pointed. The scouts
had headed out at dawn, and now, seeing the walls of Dlas rising out of the desert, he understood why they had not returned.
The march through Tennessy and into Loma had been fairly uneventful. They had surprised a few odd packs of Harleyriders here
and there, but nothing of the scope the regiments fleeing back to Ithan had described.

There had been one village, where the women and
children had been crucified. Brand had paused a long time there, thinking. He had never seen a woman crucified. Nor a child,
for that matter. The old Harley legends made it a sacred death, one reserved only for warriors and enemies worthy of their
mettle. In all his years of campaigning in Arkan and in Loma, he had never seen the Harleys crucify even an enemy woman. He
would have lingered there longer, but his men were impatient to be off and away from such a sight. But the image of those
tortured faces was burned into his brain, and he thought it would be a long time before he was able to forget.

Now, he turned and smiled at the junior officer, one of the newer ones promoted during the course of the last two years. So
many men had been lost in this war, he thought, too many. He tightened his mouth in a grim line and refused to think about
Jaboa.

A small dust cloud in the distance disgorged two riders. He nodded. “Looks like Barran has sent a welcome out to meet us.”

The smile died on his lips as he saw the state of the men on horseback. Their hair was lopped off in clumsy fashion, their
faces were unshaven, and more than a few days growth of beard roughened their chins. Their uniforms were stained and reeked
of sweat. Brand noticed his men exchanging glances. In the field, it was understood that proper grooming was not easy to achieve.
But at the garrisons, even the outpost garrisons, it was expected that discipline would be maintained. He frowned. He would
have to speak to Barran.

The soldiers galloped up to greet him, and Brand turned away at the ripe odor emanating from their bodies.
Even the horses looked as though they hadn’t been brushed in days. What in the name of the One, he wondered, was wrong with
his son?

But their salutes were crisp enough, and their voices properly subdued. “Your son, Captain Barran, sends you his greetings
and begs us to take you to him with all haste, sir.”

Brand coughed. “Lead on, then, soldier.” He gestured for the men to ride ahead.

Within the garrison walls, the guards stood at ramrod attention and the dusty courtyard was neat and bare. Brand noted with
satisfaction that at least something was maintained with military precision. He slid off his saddle and threw the reins in
the direction of a waiting groom. At least, the man appeared to be a groom. They were all so unkempt, so stained and shabby,
it was hard to tell. He waved away the guards who would have guided him. “I know the way.”

He walked eagerly into the garrison. He knew the garrison at Dlas from all his years spent fighting here. And it looked as
though nothing had changed, except perhaps the discipline among the men. Well. He would have a word with Barran about that,
and then everything would be fine.

A slight buzzing sound seemed to come from behind the closed door of Barran’s office, and as Brand touched the knob, he was
struck by a faint, sweetish smell. The smell grew stronger as he opened the door. It struck him full in the face as he gagged
at the sight before his eyes.

Barran, or what was left of him, had been nailed to the open windowframe. Flies crawled over his rotting, bloated
body. Brand grasped the doorknob as his knees buckled. He looked back over his shoulder, ready to demand an answer from the
slack-faced sergeant who sat behind the desk, when he heard his men begin to scream. And then there was no more time to wonder
what had happened.

T
here was no moon on the night Jama came for them. The dark was as thick as the shrouds which draped the trees, as black as
the moonless sky. On the walls, the torches cast flickering shadows. He hissed her name in the middle of that moonless night,
and Annandale was instantly awake. She sat up, clutching the ragged blanket to her chest, her hair tumbling lank and heavy
about her shoulders.

In the darkness came the jangled sound of keys fumbling in the locks on the barred door, and across the room she heard Vere
leap to his feet.

“Lady, Lord Vere.” Jama spoke so softly she had to strain to hear him over Alexander’s labored breathing.

“I’m here,” she called softly. In the murky gloom, she saw Vere stand, a gray ghost, and swiftly cross the room. The door
swung open with a creak of ancient hinges, and in the silence, it sounded like a scream. Annandale jumped.

Jama stepped past Vere, and in his arms he carried a large bundle. “I have uniforms here—please, put them on over your clothes.”

Vere caught Jama’s arm. “What is your plan?”

“The guards are changing in two turns of the glass, Lord Vere. When the gates are open to let the guards in and out, we will
slip in amongst them. There’s a wagon waiting in the grove of trees past the bend in the road. Hopefully the night is so dark
no one will notice six extra men.”

In the darkness, Annandale heard Vere’s quick intake of breath. “It’s a long shot, Jama-taw.”

“It’s the only one we have.” He handed Vere several pieces of clothing. “Here. Put these things on.”

Annandale took the cloak and leather tunic he offered her, shrugging it on over her clothes. It reeked of old sweat, but it
was not the smell which turned her stomach. A miasma clung to it, as though the last person to wear the garments had died
while wearing them. Which, she thought, pressing her lips together, was exactly what had happened.

She helped Vere pull the tunic over Alexander’s head and helped him stand. He leaned weakly against the wall, waving them
away. In the darkness, the two of them fumbled to wrap a cloak around Abelard.

Vere motioned her aside and picked Abelard up, lifting him as easily as he might a child. Annandale winced to see how frail
the King had become. She hastened to Alexander’s side, and beckoned to Jama. He wrapped an arm around Alexander’s waist and
turned his head to look around at Vere. “Come,” he whispered. “We must go swift and silent.”

Only Alexander’s steps dragged across the ancient floor. From the depths of his robe, Jama pulled out a slender cylinder.
There was a soft click and a small beam
pierced the thick night. He smiled around Alexander’s bulk at Annandale. “Cold fire,” he whispered.

“Yes,” answered Vere. “Explain the miracle to her when we are safe outside the walls.” He gave a soft snort of derision.

Jama subsided into hurt silence. Annandale clutched Alexander closer. She could hear the heavy beating of his heart, the wheeze
as his lungs struggled to breathe. She gripped his back harder, fighting the seductive urge to heal. She had no time now.
Later, she promised herself. Later, when they were beyond the walls and safely on the way to Ithan—then, then she would give
into the demanding call of the healing.

The corridor was long and straight, and they were forced to go so slowly, it seemed the corridor would never end. Finally,
Jama gestured with the lamp. “This way.”

Annandale looked up. A thick cobweb hung in the air. With a deep shudder, she tightened her arm around Alexander and helped
him up the steps. The door swung open with a painful creak, and she jumped. Slowly, she and Jama managed to haul Alexander
to the top of the steps. Vere followed with relative ease. Annandale turned to look back and saw, with disbelief, the King
open his eyes and stare at the star-studded sky.

“Vere.” His voice was less than a whisper, not much more than a sigh.

“Dad?” Vere looked down at the man in his arms in disbelief.

“Be—” The King’s voice ended in a choke.

Jama made a kind of strangled noise, and Alexander
drew in a deep breath. As Annandale turned back, she gasped as her eyes met Amanander’s.

“Good evening. A pleasant night, indeed.” His eyes glittered in the starlight and his voice was colder than the basement dungeon.

Jama gazed at Amanander, his face blanched white with shock.

“If you thought the prisoners needed an airing, Jama, you had but to suggest it,” Amanander continued. He stared at Jama the
way a spider might at a smaller insect.

“What in the name of One do you think you’re doing with us, Amanander?” Vere asked through tight lips. Annandale looked at
him over her shoulder. He shifted the King’s long frame as easily as he might a child’s and met Amanander’s cold stare with
one of his own.

Amanander slid his gaze over each of them in turn and Annandale quivered, feeling as though something foul had brushed against
her bare skin. “My plans don’t concern you, Vere.” There was no hint of taunting malice in that voice, and it was the lack
of it that made Annandale shudder once more. “But, Jama, it’s as well you brought the King from below. It’s time to send him
home.”

Vere tightened his grip on the fragile King. “Home? What are you talking about?”

“I’m sending him back to Roderic,” Amanander answered. “He’s served his purpose here. And I want Roderic to understand just
exactly what I am capable of, dear brother. Because the next one I send back will be you. Or maybe even you, my dear.” His
dark eyes flickered with an inhuman light as they glanced over Annandale. “Pity we’re brother and sister.”